The Final Fortnight

So we headed to Vipasanna Organic Farm. To journey from Rishikesh was rammed onto a local bus full of ‘orange men’. Unfortunately in true Max and Claire style we had no idea where to get off, and as we began passing signs for Dehra Dun, and the town we were driving through came and went, we realized we may have actually missed our stop. However, an orange man saved us! He stopped the bus for us, and helping us off with our bags, asked us where we were trying to get to. We explained the name of the farm and showed him the telephone number we had for it, and he used his mobile phone to call and get us directions. Then he found us a rickshaw, organized the price for us, and sent us on our way. India truly is a magical place, one minute you want to hide from everyone in sight, the next you want to hug them.

Driving into Dehra Dun it was clear that it was an affluent neighbourhood we would be staying in. Huge walled gardens lined the road and massive houses stood set back from the road. When we pulled up at our stop, I was surprised at where we were. I had been expecting a rural scene, with orchards, fields, maybe a donkey…But this farm seemed to be set within a walled garden in the suburbs, if you could call it a farm at all! When our host came out to meet us, he took our bags and past his snarling dogs to show us around the grounds of his property. His name was Anam, and he lived in the huge house alone. The place was in pretty poor condition from outside, and the gardens and orchard were completely overgrown. In the grounds there was another smaller house where his sister lived with her little boy, Amkit. It was a tiny place, with a curtain pulled across the front door, and a humble kitchen inside where Anam took us for chai and to discuss what our stay would entail. He told us that there was not a great deal that needed doing, and if we wanted to just relax, that was fine by him. It all seemed too good to be true, and I wandered what the catch was. Finally he took us for a tour of the main house, and I was astounded.

I had never seen such a grand house before. Huge clean corridors of marbled floor joined up a gigantic dining room with a yoga hall, Anam’s bedroom, a varanda overlooking the garden complete with hammocks…there was a library, a couple of spare bedrooms, a computer room, and a beautiful rustic kitchen. In the main part of the property was a huge double room complete with ensuite bathroom that was for me and Max. We had a huge double bed and our own fan, shutters to shut for privacy and clean bedding with empty drawers to fill with all our things. It was so nice to finally be able to unpack properly and make ourselves at home somewhere. For so long we had just been stopping for a few nights here and there, and it had been so hot in Punjab, now we could finally shower!

Anam explained that he was a firm believer in Osho’s teachings, and although he was adamant he would not force any on us, he gave us some cassettes to listen to if the mood took us. Little Amkit took an instant liking to us and on that first evening took us on a tour of the neighborhood, singing Michael Jackson and showing us his dance routines. The local area seemed to be made up of hue houses and private schools, but after a fifteen minute walk we emerged onto a busy intersection crammed with shops, fruit and food stands. He told us that these were the best veggie burgers in India, and for 10rs each he couldn’t ave been more right. They were incredible! And we stood at the roadside next to heaps of litter with some locals, eating our burgers that came wrapped in a huge leaf. After that, we visited some shops and bought some of our own ingredients so that Max and I could, f or the first time in months, cook for ourselves. The notion of it thrilled me to the core, and I couldn’t wait to get back in the kitchen. That night, however, we spent at the Didi’s little house with Amkit, enjoying one of her thali’s before he performed a magic show for us.

The next day we tried to write a list of work we could do on the house, but Anam was adamant we did not need to lift a finger. It was strange, I felt obliged to do something, and I didn’t want to just be hanging around his house. Nevertheless, he seemed to be happy for us to stay, providing we obliged him in some Osho and yoga, which was fine by me. He gave us a Vespa too, so that we would zip around Dehra Dun in the daytime doing grocery shopping, going for ice cream and exploring the neighborhood. It was so nice to finally have the freedom of transportation and we spent a lot of time enjoying having the freeodom to cook too...Max taught me to make Dal Makhany, his signature dish, and I taught him to make banoffee pie. We spent a relaxing week chilling in our cozy little living room, reading in the library, doing yoga in the studio, and relaxing and reading to each other in our comfy double bed. Our escapades in Dehra Dun were always an adventure. The Vespa broke down at least once a day and every time it did we would make a new friend or end up in a new and unusual place. One day we went to a music shop and I bought a sitar. I figured that since we only had one more journey to make from Dehra Dun to Delhi it wouldn’t be too much hassle to carry.

However, towards the end of the week, with only a short while left in India, we felt we should use our last few days together more wisely. As nice as it was lying around all day I felt as if it would be better for to see some of India before it was time to go home. We contemplated trekking to Gangotri, but with all the flooding and rains up north, we didn’t want to risk getting stuck there and me missing my flight home. Max didn't want to stay in the same place after I had left either, so he booked a flight to Goa leaving from Delhi on the same day. With only a handful of days left to spend together we decided to hit Rishikesh up one last time. It was time to visit the orange men.

We had a fun journey out of Dehra Dun. Now in tow with my sitar, we struggled to cram ourselves into a rickshaw, and once we had reached the bus stand found it ten times harder to squash into the back of a jeep. A jeep full of orange men no less! Now the streets that we tore down were heaving with thousands of pilgrims, all of them singing, dancing, with huge speaker stacks mounted on lorries blasting out hindi pop. It seemed as if the whole of India was making its way to Rishikesh, and I was glad we were too. Only this time we decided to try and find a place away from the busy main drag.

Dragging my sitar along in the baking head we spent a grueling hour trying to find a place with rooms going spare. It seemed impossible, there were so many pilgrims. After trying at a whole host of places on the south side of the river, and being only offered ridiculous prices, we were close to giving up and heading back to Shri Sant Sewa. But then I had a flash of inspiration, and we dragged ourselves and the sitar down to the river bank and up along the shady path to the Rasta Café. This was the hidden little beach where we had had our full moon party at Rishikesh the first time round, and I remembered that it had had rooms. When we turned up, the Ji told us it would not be possible, but after pleading with him for a while, he saw we were desperate. He let us have a place at the end of a little concrete row of rooms. It was a bit of a dive, just a concrete box with a broken toilet, but the view was perfect. A panoramic view of the Ganga curving around Laxmanjuhla on the opposite shore. We were away from the crowds, and the river whipped u[ a cool breeze. After half an our throwing fabric and prayer flags up in the room, we had turned it into a cozy little haven, and our Rasta Café beach hut became our beloved home for our final days in India.

WE spent loads of time on our own little private beach, playing hackysack, swimming in the ganga (which was much more calm now), and exploring the lovely surrounding banks...It was so idyllic, there was always a lovely cooling breeze down by the water and after a day playing and relaxing by the water we would walk up the bank to cross the bridge, making our way through the heaving crowds of music and chanting, to explore the shops, meet up with friends and relax in the peaceful retreat of Freedom café.

These last few days in Rishikesh were probably my happiest memory of all of India. And the final day we spent there was easily the memory that sticks out the most. We had planned to get up early and spend our last day at the Beatles Ashram. Max still hadn’t been, and I knew how much he would love it. However, we woke up late, and suddenly the weather had turned appalling: rain was thundering down and it didn’t seem as if it would ever stop. As we walked into laxmanjhula the orange men were being particularly annoying. As we went into a shop, a crowd of them literally just followed me in to watch me, and in the end I completely lost it and chased them off hitting them with my umberella. We trudged through the rain with our trousers sopping and ducked into an internet café to try and organize our transport back to Delhi. It was here that we got told that all of the coaches were booked, and all of the buses would be full. We would have to try to take a taxi, and it would cost us 3000rs. Everything ws going wrong. We satin there for hours still soaked from the rain, and tried to organize a plan, it was hopeless. There was no way we could get back to Delhi in time for our flights without spending an absolute fortune, and we had no other choices left. We just had completely overlooked the fact that the Shiva festival would disrupt all the buses.

After spending a horrific amount of the day organizing that, my head was pounding and the rain had washed all my spirits away. I went to check my emails and had a few partilcularly depressing ones from back home, saying there would be nobody to meet me at the airport etc, and it finally hit me that in just a few days all of this would seem like a distant memory. I felt like siht. The rain, the orange men, the thought of home…our last full day together had been ruined, and we dragged ourselves to freedom cafe and plonked ourselves down. I felt morose.

As we sat there, suddenly it started to seem real that this was the end of the road. We had 2 days left together, two days left in India, and then it would be over. I sort of always thought I would come home to a hero’s welcome, but instead nobody would be meeting me. I would just be dragging myself back to an empty house, tail between my legs, back to a cold empty room and the person I used to be. I missed Yvan, I missed Freya, I even missed Myke. And soon I would be missing Max too. I felt desperate when I thought about all the people I had met and all the adventures we had had, I couldn’t believe it was finally the end. On Max's mp3 speakers, High and Dry by Radiohead came on, the song that we had been singing on our first day out together to the Tibetan museum. I couldn’t help it. I put my head in my hands and cried. I felt like nothing could ever cheer me up.

But this is what makes Max so magical. We talked, and he comforted, and I smoked, and we looked at each other, and suddenly things didn’t seem so bad anymore. He has this way of making me laugh nobody else can match. Somehow, suddenly, the rain had lessened, and suddenly, in fact, it seemed to have stopped. The sun came out. He looked at me with a big smile on his face and said, "Let’s go to the Beatles ashram." And suddenly "Can't buy me love” came on. I grabbed his hand and said, “Let’s do it,” and before I knew it we were dancing out of freedom café, skipping up the street singing along at the top of our voices. I didn’t care about the orange men now, nothing mattered, it was sunny and it was our last day together and nothing was going to dampen our spirits. As we walked through the crowds to the Beatles ashram everything was beautiful. The sun was shining and everything sparkled from the morning rain...we sang as we danced around to the Beatles blasting out of Max's speakers, and we skipped through clouds of butterflies, down the green country lanes, and by the time we had found our way to the ruins of the Beatles ashram I wished there was a record button I could press in my mind. I didn't want this memory to ever fade.

Max was just as in awe of the Beatles ashram as I had been the first time I had gone there. We strolled through the dappled sunlight open mouthed, exploring every inch of the beautiful crazy ruin. We went to the huge empty yoga hall and put on "all you need is love" saluting the fanfare, then dancing around like mad. We super glued our passport photos to the wall where thousands of people had written who they love. I stood in front of that wall for a long time with the Beatles playing in the background and Max dancing around me, thinking of how lovely it was so many people had been stood in this spot that had been in love. As dusk approached we climbed to the top of the tallest building, and as we emerged on the roof were greeted with the sight of thousands of dragonflies hanging motionless in front of the most epic view of Rishikesh. The sun was setting in the distance, and the mountains were clear and wet in the evening light. Then we lay on our back on the roof, cloud watching, laughing, and singing along with each other. It was such a happy moment I didn’t want it to end.

When we walked home at dusk, fireflies blinked along the path and we went for one last meal at Pyramid Café. Late at night, we went back to our cottage and lay on the beach watching shooting stars, the lights of the town reflecting on the ganga, the mountains buzzing with life, whilst we quietly enjoyed our last night in this magical country, sipping cold beers from the ganga, wondering where we would go from here.

In the morning it was finally time to pack up our things and go. It was finally the end of the road.

We took a taxi to Delhi with 2 french friends we had made. The journey took us through hot dusty countryside, past endless lorries loaded with dancing orange men and soundsystems. We stopped for lunch in a fly filled roadside dhaba and i miss them so much you wouldnt believe, then Max and I sat in the back giggling like children the entire way back. For some reason our driver had to bribe the police to let our taxi into Delhi, but we never found out why.

In Delhi we made our way through hours and hours of traffic, staring open mouthed at the ‘preparations’ for the Commonwealth Games. After much beeping, pollution, swerving, swearing, our driver got us safely to the guesthouse where Max first stayed on his arrival to India. It was more of a luxury apartment than anything, and in a very nice part of Delhi. I was expecting Delhi to be horrendous but maybe we were just lucky enough to be in a nice neighborhood. In the evening we strolled through lovely long wooded avenues, explored the surrounding blocks, went to a heaving night market and bought lots of figs and spices. Finally we went out for our last meal together, and one of the tastiest ones of the whole trip. It was quite a blissful night all in all. Wandering around the streets nobody staring for the first time in weeks. It was such a nice feeling. I just sort of numb at the prospect of going home. I didn’t want to, I wanted to stay in India with max forever…but I had sort of accepted that was the way things had to be. It felt like the end of something so big I couldn’t comprehend it.

In the morning we woke up bright and early to go to the airport, and the goodbyes that followed were, in true Max and Claire style, a bit of a spontaneous, but this time heartbreaking, adventure. To cut a long story short, our flights departed from different airports, but we only realized this as we pulled in to mine. The long goodbyes we had hoped for became short goodbyes in front of crowds of Indians, and as he leapt back into the taxi to leave, I felt like my heart might break as he disappeared into the distance. Suddenly I was stood alone, for the first time, totally alone, in India. My sitar and bags wobbling on my trolley and I tried to wipe the tear s away, walking as if in a dream to check in for my flight.

The next few hours passed as a sort of vacant stare. I sat in a chain coffee shop and felt numb as I read an English paper. I sobbed into my coffee when I remembered I was going home to a tory country, and I read a smarmy column written by David Cameron. I had forgotten such a world existed.

I tried to somehow condense my thoughts into a diary entry but all I felt was confused. So sad and so lost and so terrified I was actually trembling, terrified about going home. I wanted to stay. The airport was so clean and bright and so many white faces went about their way without staring at me, I already missed the staring. I felt like it was the end of the world, I really can’t describe how wrong it felt to be sat there, counting the minutes, trying to breathe the last of India into my throbbing heart.

I had reached the end of the road. Seen so many places, met so many people, and this plane was taking it all away from me, sending me packing back home to the life I ran away from, the person I used to be. Reading that newspaper.. reading the petty quarrels that the British media concerned itself with, the racist undertones of so many of the now tory influenced headlines. The whingy British attitude…The things people seemed to be finding important over there, the adverts, the warnings, the words and the language my eyes hadn’t seen in months....it was all coming back to me and I remembered what I was going home to. It was the biggest reality check of my life.

I left India. I flew home. Although somehow it didn’t feel like home anymore. The flight was uneventful. AndIi came out the other side with a splitting headache, an achy neck, a dazed and confused mind and nerves that were completely shot. I felt like I didn’t know what the hell was going as I came off that plane and into Heathrow Airport. Now I know what the dread phrase ‘terminal illness’ really means.

The first thing I saw was a row of white faces in uniform which just looked completely unreal. The next thing that hit me was that it was absolutely bloody freezing. Shivering and bumping my way through the crowd I felt like a rabbit in headlights. A huge sign hung over the entrance with big black letters that shouted "ABUSE AGAINST OUR STAFF WILL NOT BE TOLERATED." I couldn't believe it. I was just off the plane, I hadn’t even done anything yet, and already I was being made to feel like a criminal.

As I waited for my baggage to come out I was shocked to realize I could understand all the conversations going on around me. I could head them all, and I didn’t want to. Everyone was tutting, sighing, whinging, whining, and I just wanted to block it all out. What the hell were these people complaining about? I just felt bombarded. As I trekked with my stuff through the airport I felt completely overwhelmed. All the signs, in English, all the voices, in English, the voice on the tannai telling me what to do…adverts everywhere telling me what to buy and what to think...I just felt bombarded by words. Already I could feel myself not caring when I saw a white face, not wanting to go and start up a conversation like would have done a few hours ago. Why did it have to change? Why couldn’t people always be that friendly?

I was equally overwhelmed to find my Mum and Dad waiting for me at the arrivals lounge. I was expecting to trek across London with all of my stuff to get a train back to Bristol alone, but they were there, and I didn’t even know what to say. As we drove from the airport onto the wide, clean, flat, quiet motorway and I looked out of the window at the bleak English countryside, I just broke down and cried. I tried to explain to my Mum and Dad that I was just so tired, and so confused, and I just didn’t know how to feel. Nothing felt real, India was suddenly so far away. I just felt like the world had ended, and I didn’t know what to do.

The culture shock, as you can tell, hit me harder than I expected. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. My Mum suggested we go for some food somewhere, anywhere I wanted, but all I wanted was a thali. For days it was all I could think of to eat. I didn’t want to go back to English food. Processed, coloured, preserved, over cooked food, so rich and so complex, all I wanted was lentils, rice, mint tea. I wanted to sit with Max and eat a mangoes. Even now that’s all I’m eating.

Seeing Matt was one of the biggest spin outs so far. We broke up when I went away because I wanted to find myself, but I felt as though I had changed so much while I was away he could never understand me now. I thought I knew exactly how I felt until we saw each other, and through the tears and dramas that ensued over my returning few days we came to the conclusion that we should stay apart. So on top of the most hideous jetlag, I had the break up to deal with, my soon to be induced birthday hangover, the culture shock, and of course, I was brutally ill from Delhi. It was too much.It took me a week to get to a point where I even knew what to think, and now the dust is starting to settle I think I will be able to start piecing some sort of a life back together. It’s strange, but it feels as though today is the first day of a whole new chapter of it.

And to that end I will be starting a new blog, for the new me. I'll post the link up on here, and you can see for yourself. It's been emotional guys, and thank you all for keeping up to date with my adventures. I can't believe how much I’ve actually written, and now I might even post some pictures up too. If you want to check them out, head to my facebook page...they can be found on my photo albums...it’s taking me ages though so you’ll have to be patient.

So, for now, I bid you adieu. I may come to some conclusions about what I’ve learnt from my travels sometime soon, but for the moment it’s all still sinking in. All I can say is India changed my life. It gave me wings to fly on and I’ll be continuing on until the day I’m gone.

For now, Om shanti, and Namste Ji.

xxxxxxxxxx

From Punjab with love

So, I managed to spend a great deal of time away from a computer. Actually, there were times when I was very much near a computer, but the truth is, the last few weeks were such a whirlwing I wouldn’t have been able to get it down if I had wanted to. Now, as I write this I am lying on my bed in England, and I can’t begin to describe what it feels like. So I’m going to bring you up to speed fith the last few weeks. It’s all I can do to keep my head in one piece.

So Max and I left the Golden Temple of Amritsar. We fought our way across Amritsar in a whole host of rickshaws until we finally found our coach to Chandigarh. As we began to travel across Punjab the heat grew even more (if possible) intense. At one pointn in the journey our bus stopped at this weird sort of service station cum oasis. It was so strange, like a service station but with the floor beautifully tiled and clean, with a luscious buffet under umberellas, curry, fruit and cold drinks in big troughs of ice…there were huge fans stood on stilts that not only blew gusts across the whole thing but sprayed fine mists of water through the breeze, too. The toilets were like stepping into a hotel foyer or something, with mirrors, lights, boxes of tissues….it was…surreal. I still have no idea what the whole story was behind it, because as I sat in the shade and started eating a mango, watching everyone milling around with their thali’s, the next thing I knew the bus was driving off without us and Max was still in the toilet! Unbeknownst to me, someone in there had offered him chai (I told you it was surreal) and he was sat chatting to some Indian men. As the bus drove off I ran after it, but then realized I couldn’t leave without Max anyway, so I had to watch as it went, mango in each hand, open mouthed. What the hell were we going to do now? When Max finally emerged I grabbed him and we ran. Luckily for us the bus had been caught in traffic a little way down the road and we managed to jump back on, now covered in mango juice. A funny incident that could have resulted in disaster. I love India.

It then took about 6 hours to arrive in Chandigarh. We had heard tales about the ridiculously priced hotels and guesthouses here, which seemed to range from 600 to 1500 rupees. So, we had tried to organize a place to stay through couch surfing. At the last minute the offer had fallen through, so we were not well aware we would have to try our hardest to find a place to stay, We didn’t want to get stuck in Chandigarh so our first port of call was to sort out a bed, get some rest and see the rock garden in the morning. I read in a guide book that the bus station had a dormitory for 300rs a night, and that seemed to be as good as it was going to get.

Driving into Chandigarh was very strange. It was an experiment carried out in town planning, and was now known to be ‘the’ place for rich and affluent Indians to live. The whole city was laid out in ‘sectors’, square blocks of housing, and as we begwn to drive through the suburbs it looked as though we were arriving in an American town. It was so surreal. All the houses looked…suburban I suppose is the only word. They all had little yards and gardens and the roads were wide and lined with trees. It was still undeniably Indian and the odd heap of litter or wandering stray dog reminded me of that, but there was also a distinctly western feel. When we pulled up in a huge dusty bus car park, a mob of rickshaw drivers began following us, trying to take our bags as we heaved them towards the bus station. The staring in Punjab is like nothing I've experienced anywhere else in India, and as we staggered into the bustling bus terminal and flopped down on a bit of concrete, ALL eyes were on us. It was so hot, it was pretty unbearable. We sat with the guide, sweat dripping from our hair as we tried to find a guesthouse to call. Max missioned off to find a phone box to try some of the numbers and I sat with our bags trying to avoid the stares of the gathering crowds around me. When he came back, he had had no luck. None of the numbers seemed to work and we considered just turning up at one, but they all seemed to be out of town and even if we managed to find a rickshaw that gave us a fair price, the hotel might not, or it might have no rooms at all.

In desperation, we decided to consider the bus station dormitory, ut I was hesitant. The queue leading up to it was a long que of staring Indian men, and I felt like I had had enough of that for one week. But what other choice did we have? The sun was low in the sky. The bus station seemed to be along a concrete stretch of town where no living thing could possibly find an inhabitable spot, so we were left with our only choice. We asked the Ji if he had a private room, and he explained there was one ‘spare room’, for 600rs. He took us up some terrifying looking concrete stairs to what was literally,(and I mean literally) a polystyrene box, with no windows, no fan,, and a hard bed reaching to every wall. Now we were really desperate. There was still the sign to the ambiguous sounding ‘dorms’, but with all our other otions exhausted, and us exhausted to boot, we just needed somewhere, anywhere to lie down now. With a heavy heart we dragged ourselves up the stairs to see what the dorms had to offer. Incredibly, they weren't all that bad. There was hardly anybody in them and bunks were divided into sort of boxed off areas....the guy who ran the place was a crazy looking toothless teenager who couldn’t speak English and it took us a seriously long time to communicate what we needed from him. Finally, Max and I found a couple of stained and rickety bunks by a fan in the window, and they were sort of surrounded by wooden boards. We barricaded ourselves in and managed to build a little fortress of privacy. This flea bitten, ambiguously stained mdf box, in the middle of a bus terminal, was to be our home for the next few days. But, we really did make the best of it. We ended up having a really good time! Jumping from our top bunk, over the top of the box onto the other top bunks, and basically acting like children at a sleepover for the entire time. In our den! It was such a relief to finally be able to just 'not be seen'...to not be stared at and to be able to just sit still. The fan from the window that pointed a bit of cool air into our den was shared with another bunk on the other side of the box...after a while as the place bean to fill up with more Indians, a small battle commenced between us and our neighbor, pointing the fan back and forth every thirty seconds. After we braved the bus station to have a giggle and eat a curry (washed down with some amazing ‘Appy Fizz’, nonetheless), we spent the entire night playing this game with him.

We woke up early the next morning to get the best out of our day in Chandigarh. We had spent the night discussing the organic farm and had realized that in fact we had a lot to organise. It was so hot. Just ridiculously hot, and the prospect of doing manual farm labour in the heat Delhi was suffering with was starting to make us worry. Would it really be much of an enjoyable experience? We decided to go to an internet cafe to try and organize a farm that would be further north. The journey to the internet cafe however, took us a ridiculously long time. Chandigarh is a seriously weird place. It’s supposedly the millionaires row of India, but it’s just so weird. The shops are all completely westernized and its sort of like walking through a quite crap English city It’s a bit like....Wolverhampton, or something. Anyway, we tried to walk to where we though an internet cafe was but our map seemed to be taking us on a wild goose chase. IT said that the bus station should be in terminal 18, but the more and more we walked to try and find the Internet café that was supposed to be in the next block down, more and more Rickshaw drivers began to follow us. It’s impossible to walk anywhere in this country if you’re white...Anyway, after a while walking in the baking heat we realized we had no idea where we were. We gave in and asked a rickshaw driver for help, and he told us that we weren’t in sector 18 at all. We had got off at the wrong bus stop. The bus stop we needed to be in tomorrow, and all the places we needed to be, were miles away. We were in sector 43.

We got a cycle rickshaw to take us to the right bus terminal, and we felt so sorry for the guy panting away in the heat paid him 50rs for it (the first tip I’ve given in India and it was so nice to see the smile on his face.) When we arrived at the REAL bus station (we had wondered why ours was so wierd and why there had been nowhere to stay nearby) we finally found the internet cafe.

On the WWOOF (that’s the World Wide Organization for Opportunities in Farming) website, we found a farm that was near Rishikesh! We looked at each other and were like, "Shall we...?" It sounded lovely. ‘Vipasanna House and Organic Farms.’ Just outside Haridwar in a place called Dehra Dun. Why not? I had loved Rishikesh so much and I knew Max would love it too. It would be so amazing to get back into the mountains, and our impromptu plans were going well so far…So, we emailed the owner, he e-mailed us back, and after a little correspondence it was organized. We were champions, champions of making impromptu plans.

Finally, after a spot of lunch in a packed café of rich business men and whirring fans, we executed our main plan for actually coming to Chandigarh in the first place. We visited the Rock Garden, or the ROCK (makes rock hand gesture) garden as we liked to call it. And trust me when I say it was incredible.

The story behind it is of a man who wandered the streets of Chandigarh for decades, collecting rubbish and junk. Everybody thought he was mad and left him to it, but little did they realize in an abandoned plot of land he was constructing his very own sculpture garden. The thing now covers 3 acres, and once the government got wind of it began funding him so that he could finish it.

As you enter, you buy a ticket through a tiny low down hole in the wall that you have to kneel at, and then as you enter through a strange stone tunnel, a plaque on the wall informs you that ‘this place is based on a series of recurring dreams I had as a child’. Amazing.

We wondered around in awe for hours. I was expecting a little garden, or numerous gardens, but in fact he had built a whole landscape ou of sandbags and junk, lined it with sculptures and characters made of old bangles and bottles, armies of little sculpted animals stood in rows along the walls, and strange waterfalls and rivers flowed through the huge gorges. It was like a maze, and every corner that you turned, the view that met you was of the most pefect asthetic beauty. Everything had been lined up to frame the next part, and twisting steps and tunnels took you from one part to the next, it was just amazing. What was less amazing was being trapped in there with so many snap-happy Indian boys, who relentlessly followed and taunted me. They would never act like that towards and Indian woman. It was so hot and we had run out of water, all I wanted to do was wonder around looking at all the amazing waterfalls and sculptures, but everywhere we went people were taking pictures or filming me. Finally, I snapped and stormed over to a huge group and shouted at them, telling them to respect my privacy the way I respect theirs, and to please, just leave me alone! I stormed off down a little alleyway and cried. I was tired of Punjab’s staring now.

Max and I had been skeptical about the Rock Garden with the amount of hassel we had had trying to get there. But we both agreed by the end of our visit that it had totally been worth it, it was just amazing. Towards the end, the whole thing had opened out into a huge psychedelic amphitheater, complete with huge mosaics, doves in cages, swings to play on and even a camel wandering around. It was so surreal.

Afterwards, Max and I took a rickshaw to the (correct) bus terminal and excitedly booked our tickets to Rishikesh, finding that there was a bus leaving that evening. In the office we bumped into some people from Manali who were also going there. Then we took a(nother) rickshaw back to our bus terminal box, where we....ehem..dismantled the box, took our bags, and managed to sneak away without the receptionist guy seeing. Took another rickshaw BACK to the real bus terminal, stashed our bags in the locker room and went to get some food before the journey. This was when we discovered what a 'Jal Jeera' is.

DONT EVER ORDER A JAL JEERA. It is a tall, highly indiscreet glass, full of beige water that tastes like brine, with green sediment floating in the bottom that tastes like curry, and popcorn floating on the top. I kid you not, this drink exists! People drink it! And they wouldn't let Max swap it for something else. I couldn’t stop laughing as I sipped my icey cold bottle of coke: that’s what you get for trying local cuisine.

After food, Jal Jeera, and exploring the strangely western shopping areas we headed to get our bus to Rishikesh. I bought some popcorn from a street vendor and we were away! Hanging out the window in the breeze. Finally leaving Punjab behind. Leaving behind the heat, the dust, the staring, the filming, the leering, the ridiculing and the pointing. We were heading back up into the hills and I couldn’t have been happier.

And of course, that meant we would soon be in Rishikesh! I was so excited. Max must have wondered what was wrong with me. But the notion of being back in the ashram, being back in freedom café! Ahh it filled me with glee. My time in Rishikesh was the happiest in all of India. The bus journey was a giggly and happy one and flew by, and before we knew it the wind was whipping through our hair and the stars hung silent in the sky. It was 2 o clock in the morning and we were riding a Vikshram through the jungle again, away from Haridwar, towards the sparkling lights of the Laxmanjhula suspension bridge.

In Rishikesh, we arrived to find the streets silent, but full of sleeping pilgrims. There was hundreds of them, sleeping in doorways, on the floor, all wearing orange. It seemed there was some sort of festival happening. We heaved our bags across the bridge and stood for a moment to take in the Ganga. It was a thundering torrent after the weeks of heavy rainfall preceding, and had swelled to a massive size. As we stood int eh middle of the bridge and felt the breeze the water whipped up the valley, I felt like crying. It was so good to be back.

We checked in to the Shri Sant Sewa Ashram (the place Freya, Theo, Barney, Miles and I had stayed before), and in the morning were woken by the sound of drums, shouting, cheering, horns, and about a few thousand pilgrims going crazy in the river. It turned out that this month was the month of Shiva's birthday, and an endless stream of pilgrims wearing orange were coming from all over the country to take water from the Ganga and offer it to Shiva. It was crazy, all of the pilgrims were men, and the streets were just HEAVING with them. They were all in 'festival mode' , and their behavior was despicable. On that first morning making our way to Freedom café, one man walked straight upto me and Max in the crowd and tried to kiss me! They seemed to think that because they were having a party away from home it was okay to act up, and it just walking down the street was so difficult.

During those first few days in Rishikesh I learned to very much hate 'the orange men' and every traveller we spoke to had the same feeling. The atmosphere had changed so much from the last time we had been there. Now you couldn’t mooch about the streets, men would follow you or take pictures or just leer at you. If Max and I tried to eat in a nice local place, men would just stand around our table taking pictures of me. One day, Max actually had to bang his plate on the table to get them to stop filming me.

Our sanctuary was the ever-welcoming Freedom Café, and I didn’t realize how much I had missed it. We also spent a lot of time in Pyramid Café drinking endless lemon nanna’s (I knew Max would fall in love with them), playing cards with our friends from Chandigarh, learning to juggle, reading, relaxing and generally being at peace with the world. Max and I perfected a juggling double act, and I started to teach him poi. When it rained, we would sit in Freedom eating amazing curry and sharing stories, watching the swollen river rising to within terrifying reach of the restaurant, then receding. When the rain stopped we would walk down to the ashram courtyard to play hackey sack. It was a happy few days, and after we felt rested and recovered from Punjab, we decided to move on the farm.

That’s all I can write at the moment. For now, I don’t have the energy to write any more. I’ve been back in England for 36 hours, and so far all I have done is feel confused and cry. Only a few days ago this was still my world, and now it feels like a surreal sort of dream. Just 3 days ago I was still there. I will post the final installment up soon, but I’m afraid at the moment jetlag and homesickness for India and Max has gotten the better of me.

From Dharamasala to Amritsar: Max and I embark on our own adventure

So this entry is sort of continued from the previous one.

It begins with Freya, Devon, Max and I travelling by minibus from Manali to Dharamsala. We drove through the mountains, through forests, fog, past army stations guarded by ghurkas, past fluttering Tibetan temples, past elephants that carried logs along the roadside. We drove higher and higer, until we reached the predominantlyTibetan settlement of Dharamsala and McCloed Ganj Dharamasala means ‘safe haven’, and when Tibetans escape China, it is usually the place they escape to. It was so different to Manali; the whole place was shrouded in fog, buddhist prayer flags fluttering in the trees and the streets filled with monks and tibetan people in traditional dress. The four of us decided to take a rickshaw to Bhagsu, a small town a few minutes from McCloed Ganj. We managed to find a guesthouse after heaving our bags around some very steep foggy streets for an hour. Freya and I found a cosy little place with a veranda overlooking the valley down a few winding alleyways and set back in a little garden. We unpacked and wrapped up warm in all the layers we could find. The sky was fairly clear now, but the Israeli travellers living next door to us told us it had been the first time they had seen blue sky for days. It really had been the perfect day to travel, then.

Freya and I headed out to find some food, and a little while later bumped into Max and Devon on the street. Max had one hand in the air, after hearing the story of a Baba who did it for 14, and still feeling as if we had quite a bit of energy after the journey, we headed out with Devon’s guitar to find a jam.

Bhagsu was very similar to Manali in the generic hippy shops and traveller cafes, and we soon found a travellers hang out where we made friends with Jaye, a girl from England and Stef, a cockney geezah who we soon renamed Teeth due to his ability to open bottles with his teeth. These guys were to become our Bhagsu crew and the rest of the week was a happy one.

We spent the days exploring the area, climbing high into the misty hills, exploring down into the bustling market town of McCloed Ganj. Traditionally dressed Tibetans filled the streets, monks wandered between bleating goats and when the rains finally returned, we would spend long afternoons huddled in Three of Life, a cost traveller café where we would drink mint tea and play scrabble, looking out at the rain. It was so nice to be cozy again.

Max and I discovered we had a similar love for writing and started spending lots of time together working on ideas for stories...One day, we decided to visit the Tibetan Museum, It was so moving. There was barely anything there. The Chinese have destroyed so much Tibetan culture and so many of their artifacts there was nothing left to show except for a few rusty shackles and singed pieces of beautifully scripted paper. I couldn't believe the human rights atrocities being carried out by the Chinese at this very moment and the extend to which the EU and the west are willing to ignore it to protect their own economy. I was moved to tears time and time again, and it was so hard to walk past the beggars that lined the streets outside. Most of them had no hands or feet, the result of frostbite from the journey here through the mountains. That day, Max and I also visited the Dalai Lamas residence, where we did a pilgrimage around the huge Buddhist Temple. By the afternoon we climbed to the top of a rooftop restaurant in the town nearby and tucked into some much-missed Momo’s: the very taste of Nepal. It was quite a novelty to eat lunch sat in a cloud.

Dharamsala is one of the wettest places in India, but it was so nice to be cost again and the gang of us spent lots of time cuddled up in jumpers in the open air veggie cafe, looking out at the rain, drinking cups of tea and playing scrabble. It was lovely. As the week went on we became so close. Devon and Max made me crease constantly, they are such a funny pair...They always knew when to crack out the guitar or break into some 'full power' dancing. One day me Devon and Max spent the day in McCleod Ganj in the nicest coffee shop, having a heated discussion about books and literature and the universe. I'm so glad we met them when we did. Moreover, Max had been discussing with me for a while his idea of going to work on an organic farm. From the start, I had been desperately excited about the notion of doing such a thing, but hadn’t wanted to tag along on his plan. One evening, as we all sat relaxing in front of a film in the German Bakery, I was reading to him from a book he had bought me called ‘The Alchemist’, and he turned to me and said, “Come with me.” Suddenly everything just seemed to fit, and after spending the night walking to the top of a mountain together and watching the sun rise over the valley, we made a pinkie swear that was the way it would be.

Our last couple of days together with Freya and Devon were the best by a long way. We had a party every night, keeping up half of our guesthouse, and stayed up for days on end mucking about, singing, dancing, playing the funniest games, exploring the hills and the valley and enjoying our group for the last time. It suddenly was the end of the road for me and Freya, and I just couldn’t believe we would be leaving one another. On the last night we were all together we went for a huge sit down nut roast at the Tree of Life. We stayed there late into the night jamming and singing to each other. When we all launched into a rousing rendition of ‘Don't look back in anger’ I felt like crying. That last night we stayed up all night playing games in me and Freya’s guesthouse, and in the morning Max and I finally got our bags together to leave.

As we sat eating breakfast I couldn’t even swallow. Max and Devon were hugging each other and telling each other how much they loved each other but Freya and I just sat in silence. We knew the way it was, and we didn’t need words any more. We had been sharing a bed for 10 weeks, and it was finally the end of the road. Devon and Max would be seeing each other in a few months, but for Freya and I, this could be the end for a very long time. She was staying on the road for a good two years after India, and I had uni…Suddenly I couldn’t bear it, and we hugged and hugged and cried and cried and finally it was time for me and Max to leave for our bus. As we walked off down the road tears were rolling down my cheeks and Freya shouted after me to “Always wear your boots when your digging!” Now, it was just the two of us, off on our own adventure, and after a week of fun, relaxing, hedonism and sing songs in Bhagsu, we were back on the road. First we were planning on heading to Amritsar near the Indian border and then to the Rock Garden in Chandigarh. Finally, then, we would head to our Organic Farm.

We took a local bus down from the mountains and away from the cooler weather. I had forgotten how hot the rest of India was, and I was glad I hadn’t bought too many warm clothes after all. As we descended, the landscape began to change dramatically. The mountains flattened out into arid bush, and the forests disappeared. Before we knew it, we were driving through dusty cities strewn with cows, litter, traffic washing strung between narrow rows of houses....scrubby grassland cut through with dusty highways, palm trees and desert, mud hut villages and children flying kites from the rooftops. The prayer flags disappeared and the landscapes were suddenly strewn with temples and shrines. The bus journey took us deep into the heart of Punjab, where sword wielding men with huge moustaches were the order of the day.

As we drove down the busy highway we passed a huge metal sign that was nearly rusted away, upon which peeling metal letters spelt out "WELCOME TO PUNJAB". It looked like something out of a horror movie and I suddenly missed the mountains. We were heading to a city called Pathankot, where we would be able to take a train, but as we neared the city, we realized we had no idea where to get off the bus. The bus driver looked at us blankly when we tried to explain, but in our panic, a nice Indian man told us he was going to the train station too and told us we could get off together. When we finally pulled in to a dusty car park of a military style train station, I swallowed hard. Struggling off the bus with our bags, I forgot how starey the rest of northern India is. EVERYONE was looking at us. But in particular me. They really don’t have any concept of subtlety, and as we dragged ourselves to the train station platform I could feel myself getting irritable already. It was so hot, I had forgotten how intense it could be, and we had barely slept the night before because of our guesthouse party. It was my first day of non-smoking in months and I was so hungry, had such a huge bag on my back, and ....well, I was just out of practice I suppose.

Max and I dropped ourselves down on a platform bench that wasn’t completely covered in flies and had 2 hours to wait for our train, it ended up being the most intense wait so far. Crowds of men were gathering around to gawp at me, at us, and at the fact that I was writing in a notepad. When I stared back or said ‘Namaste,’ they didn’t even acknowledge me, just stared even harder. It was so hard to know where to look. When hoardes of people are stood staring at you, laughing at you, from as close as about 2 foot away, and won’t even respond to your questions…what can you do? It took every ounce of patience not to lose my rag, and finally I lost it when a whol gang of boys began breathing down my neck, staring and laughing at my diary.

They really have NO respect for women. The men I shouted at would just come back a minute later guffawing and staring even more. Elderly men, respectable looking people (with ridiculous moustaches), even women, they all did it. It was like being in a zoo, and really, it was just the hardest 2 hour wait of my life.

The train journey was max's first train journey EVER. I couldn't believe it! And it was a pretty interesting one to be fair. We managed to find our seats and get the Indians to move put of them, and for the next 5 hours we hung our heads out of the window, watching the most incredible Punjabi countryside sweep past. The diversity in India is just unbelievable, and describing it won't do it justice. Just a day ago we were atop misty mountains looking out at the snowy peaks of the Himalayas and now we were here. Where temples sat atop lakes like mirrors, mud hut villages flickered past with paddy fields...the world flashed by, and the two of us spent a long time discussing our own little parts of it. Max told me all about San Francisco where he was born and I told him about Bristol, Worcester, my family...It was so weird to hear about America and I never realized quite how much I wanted to go there until now.

When we arrived in Amritsar we really were in India again. It felt like a million miles from Dharamsala...we took a rickshaw through the crazy congested streets, chock full of horses puling carts, people wielding swords, chai wallahs, rickshaw wallahs, everything you could ever dream of wallahs, litter, cows, noise, food, people, smoke.....The rickshaw dropped us a short way from the Golden Temple and the walk towards it was epic. Carrying our bags through crowds of pilgrims, the temple was huge and lit up against an electric pink and blue sunset...the turrets all around it boomed with Indian chanting and all around us people were touching their heads to the floor in prayer. I will remember that moment for a long time. The two of us just stood there awestruck, as thousands of people around us prayed. The serenade of prayer boomed out across the marbled floor, and the for the first time in a week, we watched the fierce sun begin to set.

The temple provides free beds and food to pilgrims because Sikhs are fantastic like that, so we made our way to the dorms and found ourselves a place for the night. The pilgrim dorms turned out to be so full we had to try and squeeze into a gap between the wall and a door, but finally we heard that for just 100rs a night you could actually pay for a room…with air conditioning! So Max went and organized it, although to begin with, they wouldn’t give him a room on the basis that he was white. The racism here is just unbelievable, and it’s quite an experience to be an ethnic minority for once. It’s an experience I think everyone should have, because when we finally managed to persuade them to let us stay we were SO grateful to flop down on our bed, after 15 hours on the road.

So, now I am in Amritsar. We have been here for a couple of days now, exploring the town, exploring the temple, eating for free in the huge temple dining halls...The Golden Temple is set floating in the middle of a lake, with white marble buildings surrounding it on every side. On entering, you wash your feet and cover your head, have a few photographs taken with some Indian families (this isn’t traditional, but seems to happen constantly). Its stunning, in the evening we wandered around the Temple in the fading heat of the day, watching the sky fade to dark as the lights of the temple began to reflect on the water. Sikhs bathe on the steps all around, and Max and I spent hours sitting on the cool marble floor, talking to other pilgrims, being questioned about our countries of origin. There is something fantastic about Sikhs that I can’t quite put my finger on, but the way they spoke to us always seemed to respectful and curious. Plus they all get a sword, and isn’t that just the coolest thing in the world?

The pilgrim dining hall is probably the most organized place I've been in India so far. It runs 24 hours a day, 365 days a year (even Christmas! Hoho) Firstly, you queue up with hundreds of pilgrims and get given a thali plate, then you file into this gigantic hall, where everybody sits along the floor in lines, holding their plates out in front of them. Men run along the lines pouring curry into everyone’s dishes at quite an unimaginable speed. You refill as many times as you want and eat until you are full, before the whole process starts over again, it’s incredible!

It has been such a funny trip so far, and Max and I make a pretty formidable team. Spending the col evenings walking around the temple laughing like lunatics we have been spending the daytimes walking about Amritsar. It’s a crazy place. Incredibly busy and incredibly Indian. The streets were so dusty and loud te other day that we had to retreat to a chain café we had spotted earlier. To begin with we had refused to go in such a commercialized place, but as soon as we stepped in the door the aid conditioning hit us and it was bliss. We settled down upstairs away from the staring and spent the whole afternoon working on my story together. It was strange to be sat in a place that felt so much like Starbucks when outside life was moving at the pace of an ancient city.

This morning we checked out of the pilgrim hostel, and now we are awaiting our coach to Chandigarh in an internet café. We heard that the hotels there are ridiculously expensive, so we are trying to organize a house to stay at through couch surfers. No luck thus far but here's hoping. So, next time I talk to you may be in a little while. After going to the sculpture garden tomorrow we will be making our way to Sirsa, the town nearest to the organic farm, and then trying to make our way there. I don't know what’s going to happen really, but I want to stay on the farm as long as possible. We will have to see what happens when we get there,

For weeks I've been procrastinating about how and when to come home. I really want to stay here longer but Matt's sister's wedding is no the 13th August. Apart from that though the only thing I have to come home for is Uni in October, should I really cut short one of the greatest experiences of my life just for a wedding? Much pondering needs to be done, and for the moment I assume there won't be any internet around for a while. We’re going to be living the good life, baby! Working hard on our organic farm every day and being paid with free food and a free bed. It's going to be amazing, and I can't wait. I really really can’t.

Old Manali

It’s been a mighty long time since I last wrong, and for that, I apologise. If truth be told I’m having so much fun and have met so many amazing people I’ve been having trouble putting pen to paper.

Well, the last time I wrote, I was in Pulga. Well, Pulga was incredible. It was like stepping back in time, and in a tiny hamlet where the forests whispered the changing weather and the sun over the mountains dictated the passing of the day, time suddenly came to life. I seemed to spend endless endless hours with my feet hanging from my bedroom window, paper on my lap, just staring out over the breathtaking valley and writing and writing. I would take long walks around the village, playing with children, sitting in dhabas drinking chai…I befriended some of the locals, an old Tibetan woman taught me to make fire…Freya and I befriended another Claire from Ireland and the three of us spent time wandering open-mouthed through the fairy forest. In the evenings we would relax with the other travellers among the cushions on the floor of our host family’s living area, playing with their baby, playing cards, listening to the forest outside come to life in the darkness. I could quite happily have stayed there to be honest. Something about the energy of that place was very unusual. I thought at the start it might be the altitude, because the whole time we were there I felt as though I was dizy, but in a good way, as if my head was just buzzing with all the sights of the place…And ideas came to me constantly, I started a new idea for a novel, and when I said to Freya how I felt she said she felt exactly the same. An old French man who had been hiking around the Pavarti Valley countless times told us, ‘that’s why they call it the fairy forest’. Apparently something about this place is magical, and I can definitely vouch for that. Watching the forest move as if it is alive, seeing the fireflies blinking around the waterfalls at night….In the middle of the forest is a sacred area of worship, and in it is the most ancient tree in the forest. The locals worship it, and one day some young people tried to cut it down. They were stopped by the locals, but over the course of the following weeks all of them were killed in mysterious accidents. Pulga definitely has the feeling of quiet legend about it.

I ended up staying for 5 nights in total, and by that point I finally felt it was time to get back on the road. Freya was keen to stay a little longer, So Irish Claire and myself decided to head back to Kasol together where we would wait another day for Freya. We managed to hitchhike our way back through the pavarti valley, and spent one last night at Tintin in Tibet – I promised the Didi we would come for one more night if she let us have a discount. That night, the world cup final saw the entire population of the village crowded into the local haunt, Bajus, and it was quite a spectacle to behold. The bar was so thick with chillum smoke and so full of Israelis I thought I was going to pass out, but we had fun nonetheless. The following morning we were reunited with Freya, and the three of us set off en route to Manali.

The journey was executed in style. We caught a public bus along some treacherous landslid roads to a dusty town called Bhunter, where we heaved our stuff past staring indians to enjoy a quick thali at the roadside. Then, we somehow managed to find the bus to Kullu, which we jumped on as it was driving away. It seems like we’re getting the hang of this! After arriving in Kullu we had to find another bus. This one was even more tricky. When we found it, it was so full there was nowhere to sit down. We couldn’t stay in Kullu, and hhad to be in Manali before nightfall, so we crammed our bags into the aisle and squished in on top of them. We endured about 2 hours of penetrating stares from the men around us and the drive to Manali began to take us into the night. I had no idea where we were, and was struggling to stay awake as the bus bumped me from side to side. Ever 5 minutes the conductor would climb over us for heaven knows what reason, and when I took my book out to write the entire bus seemed to turn around to watch how a woman was capable of using a pen. Hours later, we arrived and heaved our things onto the road battered and exhausted.

Manali was not what I had imagined: everyone had described it as a lovely mountain town, that years ago, had been just the same as Pulga. Now, we were stood in a concrete intersection with traffic beeping all around, and the neon signs flickered above a heaving night time market as rickshaw drivers followed us, plying their trade. Claire had been to Manali before, and knew the price from where we were now (this was apparently ‘new’ manali) to the old part of the town. Every rickshaw driver tried to take us as absolute idiots, trying to make us pay hundreds and hundreds over the real price. When we finally secured a deal, he said we had to take separate rickshaws because of our bags, so we told him we would walk in that case. Eventually a beeping sound behind us alerted us he had realized we were serious, and he begrudgingly packed us into his auto rickshaw and began driving us up the steep roads to the old town. As we drove through the darkness I began to feel a flutter of nervous joy in my stomach. We wound our way up darkened hills, and now, little tourist shops were appearing either side of us, travellers were wandering the streets laughing, joking, candle lit bars babbled at the roadside, and below us a dark and misty valley stretched out. This place looked fantastic.

When we were finally dropped in thbe centre of Old Manali, I couldn’t believe how different it felt. Everywhere we looked were tourists, cafes, traveller bars, shops, all twinkling in the darkness and babbling with happy laughter, music, and the smell of insense. Little hippy shops and cafes were glowing through the darkness, travellers wandered around the narrow winding streets and the whole town was sprawling over a steep hill, surrounded by mountains and orchards. Far from the real India, true, but a warming sight nonetheless. Now we had the task of finding a guesthouse in the evening. We carried our bags up the horrendously steep shills to various places, only to be turned away, and only when we reached breaking point did we manage to secure a double room at the Red Fox Guesthouse, where the three of us were happy to share a bed. We gratefully plonked down our bags and headed out to find food before everywhere closed.

Wondering though the cosy streets and down a winding path through an orchard, we found a travellers hang out called ‘Little Italy.’ I was overjoyed at the thought of some pizza or even a beer, but what we found was even better. We walked in, and who should be sat on the nearest pile of cushions, but Yvan, Myke and Miles! The gang was reunited again! I was so so happy to see Yvan, as I had missed him so much since leaving Rishikesh, and we spent the evening catching up, swapping stories and sipping some soothing cold beers.

The first few days we spent in Manali we were staying at Red Fox guest house. After being separated from Yvan for what felt like forever him and I spent the first few days just wandering around the shops, exploring the town and catching up. We soon made a network of friends around the place...We found Kirsty, our Australian friend from Pulga, Irish Clair's Australian friend Daniel, and even Lena from Bandipur! We started hanging out at a really nice coffeeshop called Dylans. They played awesome music and had Bob Dylan lyrics and pictures grafitti'd all over the walls. There was always interesting people to meet and the place served the most amazing still-warm-in-the-middle cookies I have ever eaten. One day Clair and I got talking to a really nice guy from Wales called Steffan. He told us about a guesthouse where he was staying, that we ought to check out. It was 350m along a narrow path that lead along the river, and Clair and I took a leaisurely stroll there, between orchards, boulders, and wee meadows of flowers, until we arrived at a little cottage. There was a huge garden complete with a sheep and a friendly dog, a big patio area where travellers were hanging out having a bbq, fruit trees, a fantastic view of the mountains, the crystal clear river just below and a couple of storeys of homely bedrooms, it was perfect!

Clair, Freya and I moved there the very next day and for the rest of our trip formed a tight group with all the other travellers staying there. One night the gang of us travelled to the village of Vashisht on the other side of the valley where we found a tiny independent cinema and watched an amazing documentary about Noam Chomsky. Another day we walked through the orchards and flowers to a beach hidden away from sight and where the water was sheltered enough to swim in. It was pretty much glacial though and when Freya jumped in her face was to die for. After a couple of days Steffan’s brother and sister flew in to visit from Wales, and for Finn's 18th birthday we had a big party at the cottage. We bought, and had killed, 5 chickens (although by ‘we’, I mean the boys. I couldn’t hace having anything to do with the matter but had some rainbow trout that were caught from the river.) We had a huge BBQ, and spent the whole night jamming out, playing cards, singing along with guitars and djembes and talking about life back home. It was bliss.

I have many many fond memories of Dylans, sitting around talking for hours over coffee with really interesting people. Spending every night in Raju's, a restaurant/bar where all the musically inclined travellers came to jam and drink. We met so many talented people, our Russian friend Loki who could play drum’n’bass on the digeridoo, our Nepali friend who was the craziest dancer, an old old man who came to Manali in the 60s…he tried came to stay 6 days, and he stayed for the rest of his life…Every night more and more people would gather until the whole place was packed with people and music. I spent a long lazy day sitting in my Indian friend Sana’s shop, talking with him about his life, his stories from childhood. He was known around Manali as ‘the feather man’, because he collected feathers, and he showed me through his collection. He had thousands of them, thousands! And we sat for hours making jewellery and putting dreadlocks in my hair, marveling at how different our lives were. The weather while we were in Manali was amazing too, and it was such a treat to be warm and dry. We ate trout from the river, incredible curries, we spent a few evenings in People cafe, where they give you crayons and paper and menus made out of pictures frames, Steffan and I travelled to new Manali to enjoy 40rs thalis at a good old fly-filled dhaba....I even got my hair dyed at a real Indian hairdressers. It was an interesting experience! To wash my hair out the Didi basically sat me in her bathroom on a plastic chair and gave me a bath! The result was a half ginger half blonde and a few red dreads looks, which she herself acknowledged was “not so good.” Ha! It was good to drink lemon nannas again, which we did in the Lazy Dog by the river. And then of course there was a LOT of Dylan’s cookies.

The only bad memory I have of Manali is the only really bad memory I have of the whole trip so far. And by bad, I just man slightly traumatic, even for Indian standards. It went a little bit like this:

It was Finn’s 18^th birthday, and I had gone into Manali to make a call home. On the way back towards our end of town, I stopped off at a shop and bought some bottles of beer for the forthcoming birthday party that evening, and as I did, noticed an Indian man there, watching me. He had been walking on the same street as me for a while but I didn’t really think too much of it. However, when I began to climb the steps up off the road and onto the rocky riverside path, I instantly clicked when he bagn to climb them too.I had an instant bad feeling.

I could tell he was on a pretend mobile phone call, so I slowed my pace to see if he would overtake. He didn't. My route to our guesthouse took me up into the hills, but first it stopped off at a couple of other places. At the first guesthouse, I went inside, deciding I would pretend this was my stop, I sat inside for a moment until the guesthouse owner came in from the garden and made a HUGE deal about the fact he had no rooms and showed me out. The guy was still there. So, I did some fake rummaging in my bag as I felt my heart begin to quicken, he was still watching me. In the end, I just thought, fine, I’m just going to go for it. Which in retrospect probably wasn’t the best move. At the time I remember thinking “I’m sure there is some explanation for this,” but obviously that was pretty stupid. I made my way down the path, through the orchards and as I sped up, I felt him following behind. I was pretty aware now that I was walking away from civilization. So, I stopped in my tracks and let him meet me. "Would you like to overtake me?" I asked, and gestured for him to walk in front, which he did. As he walked ahead I slowed my pace to let him get ahead, then sat down on the cliff edge and got my diary out. I thought if I wrote there for a minute he would get nicely ahead of me, but a second later I looked up and he was stood right there.

He sat down next to me on the cliff edge and asked how I was, what my name was, what I was doing, etc, and whether I was okay. I looked at him outright and said, “Are you following me?'

He didn’t know what to say to that. He mumbled something about Manali being unsafe and that he was the Manali police. I said "Bullshit. You’re not the Manali police. Why are you following me?”

He muttered on and on and I stood up and pointed down the path. "Where are you going?" I asked him. He said he didn’t know. I asked him again where he was going, “Where, excuse me- Where, do you actually want to be?” He just stared at me. “Because you are following me, and I do not want to walk with you. So please, If you go this way, I will go the other direction.” Now he was flustered, but I just said, “No. You go this way, I’ll go this way. Got it?”

He seemed to accept this solution, and I turned to leave. "Ma’am?" he asked as I walked away.

“What?!”

He held out his hand for me to shake.

“No.”

Then as I started to walk away, I heard him walking behind me. I turned around and said "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" Again, he held out his hand to shake. Sighing, I held out my hand and shook it, just in a bid to get rid of him. But then he started to kiss my hand.

“What are you-“ I tried to pull away, but he grabbed my arm and yanked me towards him.

“One kiss, one kiss…”

I tried to wriggle out of his grasp but he held on to me so tightly I could barely move. We were struggling on the edge of this sheer cliff above the crashing river, and for a moment I wandered if he was going to throw me in. I kicked him hard in the shin and ran.

As I raced down the path I could hear him behind me and in this moment of blind adrenaline I leapt up the hill to this tiny guesthouse, I banged on the door with all my might but I could see that it was locked from the outside, my heart was in my mouth. I turned around to face him and brandished one of the beer bottles from my bag. “IF YOU TAKE ONE MORE STEP TOWARDS ME, I WILL WRAP THIS BOTTLE ROUND YOUR FUCKING HEAD,” I screamed. “My husband is in here and when he comes out you are DEAD, do you hear me?” He looked completely shocked, and I had shouted so loud my voice had echoed. I screamed again, “CHELLOW!” And after a moment of hesitation, he just ran. He actually ran! I sat in the doorway of that house and sobbed, I had never been so scared, and when I felt like I could stand again, gingerly made my way along the final stretch of path to our guesthouse. I was shaking for a good hour afterwards. I had been so far from people and he had been such a big guy, I dread to think what might have happened if he hadn’t just scarpered. Indian men are crazy.

American men, on the other hand, are totally cool. I decided after a week or so it was time to get on the road again, and on my last day in Manali headed to Dylan’s for some writing and a coffee. I had felt for a while as if there was something I had been looking for, but hadn’t quite found, and after a little while, I noticed a guy walk in who kinda took my breath away. We kept catching each others’ eyes from across the café, and I really wanted to go and talk to him, but didn’t have the nerve. Finally, a gang of Indian guys came in and asked if they could sit in the area I was sat in. I stood up to move, and the only place left to sit was the seat opposite him, so I sat down next to Max. We got talking. It turned out he was planning on making the move to Dharamasala tomorrow as well, and we had a lot of similarities in our plans. He told me about an organic farm he was planning to go and work at, and after chatting for a couple of hours, we were completely psyched up and decided to travel to Dharamasala together. Freya came and found us, and I offered up the plan, she was well up for it. That night the whole gang of us went out for dinner and Max came along, as did his best friend Devon, another lovely guy from Calafornia who was making me crack up all through the meal. It was kind of sad. It was finally the last supper with Kirsty, Clair, Steffan and Yvan, Myke and Miles had gone off somewhere, and we were finally leaving Manali. After dinner Freya and I had a last pint with Yvan by the river, and it was suddenly the end of an era. The three of us had been traveling together for such a long time, we were like a family. I was going to miss Yvan so much, and when we said goodbye I cried and cried. When would we next see each other?

That’s the thing that breaks my heart about travelling. You meet people who, at home, you would remain friends with until you wither fell out or grew apart or for some reason weren’t friends any more. But in travelling, you meet people who you have the most amazing connection with, and grow as close as any of your best friends back home. But then, for no apparent reason, they just blink out of your life and you never see them again. It’s heartbreaking, really. And when Freya and I quietly packed our bags at the guesthouse that night I realsied one day I was going to have to say goodbye to her, too.

In the morning the entire community of Rockway Cottage saw us off, and we gave huge hugs to everyone. We trekked a final time along the river, and down through old Manali to sit in a café and wait until the morning Rickshaws got going. When they did, we took one to the coach park in New Manali, and we soon found our ride and threw our bags onto the roof. I had butterflies wandering if our American friends from the day before would turn up lik they said they would, but a few minutes later, who should arrive but them. With the four of us perched on the back seats, and a minibus full of rowdy Indian tourists, we set off for Dharamasala, and the journey there was a pleasant one. We had decided to take a day-time minibus, and for the first time, were travelling a journey in the day time. Although it meant not saving a nights price in a guesthouse, it was so nice to be able to see the view all the way, and as we climbed higher in the mountains it was a stunner. It took a minimal (for India) 8 hours altogether, and when we reached Dharamasala itself, it felt like another world altogether.