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.