There’s such a lot of world to see

Kandy is well placed, pretty central in the country, so I decided to base myself there for a couple of days and take some day trips to outlying areas. And absolutely number one must see in my book, and the Lonely Planet, which is actually my book, was the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage.

Established in 1975 as a way to look after baby elephants orphaned or abandoned by their families, it has grown and grown and is now, I suppose, more like a sanctuary – the babies there these days have mostly been born there, although you do see some young elephants bearing the scars of troubled times – one has no foot on one leg because he stood on a landmine, another has one ear missing because a tiger took a fancy to it. It’s tough being an ellie.

I was going to battle my way there and back on the bus or train, but checking how to get there, all the instructions involved about half a page worth of “and change when you get to the little crossroads by the banana seller, then change bus again by the tree with the monkeys, then flag down any bus heading north”. Frankly, I was in a mood where I just couldn’t be bothered – missing India, and a bit unnerved about the bomb, so I decided to get a tuk tuk there. I got the guy (Indika) down to about half the price he started on, and we set off. He was pretty cool, apart from his tendency to keep saying to me “and later tonight, we will go to the mountains and drink beer?” Me: “Umm, not so much, no”. He took it like a man, though.

It took about an hour to get there, up and down some winding roads, but finally we got there, just as it was opening, which was good as then I could get my full day’s worth. Indika stayed with me – I’d sort of assumed he would stay with the tuk tuk – but instead he became my unofficial guide for the whole thing. He knew the names of the elephants – either that or he was just lying to me, which is a possibility as well.

I took about a gazillion photos in the first 3 minutes of being in there, like paparrazi round Chantelle and Preston (and please, people, call yourselves friends? How come I had to find out from Dave that they were engaged? Look alive, folks!). One of the workers started beckoning me forward, but nobody would go, until he caught my eye. I was the only one brave slash stupid enough to step forward and stroke an elephant like it was a little puppy. He took my photo (the worker, not the elephant – although THAT I would pay good money to see), and then sidled up to me in a spy-like manner but, instead of saying “the red squirrel flies at dawn”, he muttered, “tip, you give me tip”. You know what comes next… I exclaimed “TIP?” in a loud enough voice so the boss heard, and walked off, laughing and shaking my head.

Apart from the mercenary workers, though, the orphanage was just ace. We saw them being fed (I have a feeling this was more for the benefit of the tourists, but what the heck, they were the cutest things ever), and then they walk through the village to the river for their bath. Much playing and rolling about in mud ensued. The elephants seemed to enjoy the river, as well.

I eventually tore myself away, and headed back to Kandy, with a stolen baby elephant stashed in my bag.

I arrived in Kandy on Tuesday evening, tired after a long but very scenic route cross-country.  The views here are just spectacular – think Switzerland, but with tropical plants, and that’s about as close a description as I can manage.  When I post my pictures, you’ll see that they’re ALL of the countryside – about every 10 seconds you see another gorgeous view that you just have to capture on camera.

I got a room in a quiet but nice guesthouse south of Kandy lake, up a verrrrrry steep road that made my thighs ache just to think about.  It was quite late so I had some dinner at the guesthouse, chatting to the only other guest – an English girl called Sarah.  She’d been there for a few days already so was helping me decide what to do in my few days there.

I set off early the next morning, after a huge breakfast, down into the town.  Kandy is based around a lovely man-made lake, and was one of the main bases of the British when they were here.  If memory serves me right (and it very often doesn’t, so don’t go quoting this in an exam or anything), I think Mountbatten was based there during the war, even though all his troops were in Trincomalee.  He had good taste – it’s a pleasant little town to look at, all hills and trees and monkeys.

The main tourist site in Kandy is the Temple of the Tooth, where one of Buddha’s teeth is kept.  Or maybe it isn’t.  You see, there’s a bit of discussion gone on in the past as to whether it really is or isn’t there.  The Buddhists sometimes say it is, and sometimes say it is kept somewhere else for safekeeping.  Then the Portugese Catholics, in real spoilsport mode, it has to be said, claimed they stole it and burned it some time ago.  Whichever story is true, the Temple of the Tooth is revered as one of the most sacred Buddhist sites.

After wandering through the many, many, many bag and body searches – of which I was glad, considering the bomb in Colombo the previous day, and a bomb had exploded here some years ago – I got to the entrance and paid the tourist-only entrance fee.  I considered claiming I was a Buddhist on pilgrimage, not just a common or garden tourist, but this somehow seemed to go against the whole principle of Buddhism.  I got a free self-guide on MP3, though, but I had to leave something as security.  As my passport is with the Chinese Embassy in Colombo, I had the choice between leaving my current switch card, or leaving one that expired about 4 years ago, that I carry as a deterrent for muggers.  Well, not an actual deterrent per se, I don’t think that waving this would dispel them like BatFink’s cape or anything, it’s more of a stunt card so if anyone nicks my purse, they will see that and scarper, leaving my real card untouched elsewhere on my person.  If any would-be muggers are reading this, please disregard and forget the last sentence.  Anyway, the upshot is I left my old card.  Stop looking at me in disgust, I know it’s a Buddhist temple and all, but come on!  I steal t-shirts from festivals, toiletries from posh hotels, of course I left my old card.

I skipped most of the MP3 tracks, as most of it was atmospheric music, and the rest was a guy sounding not unlike Jackie Chan talking me through the sacred sight.  Which was unexpected, to say the least.  And plus, I was dying to get to see the tooth.  In my mind, I imagined a huge tooth (like my brother Michael’s wisdom tooth apparently was), lying on a velvet pillow.

I had to get in line and wait for about 30 minutes before I even got close to the tooth.  And let me say right now, Sri Lankan Buddhists have taken tips from Italian Catholics on how to wait in a queue.  When I was in Lourdes some time ago, we occasionally worked as marshalls on big processions like the Blessed Sacrament.  Those little innocent-looking Italian grandmammas were the worst crowds to control.  On one occasion, two of them knelt down as the procession went past, then tried to walk forward on their knees to get under.  No chance, grandmamma.  Same story in Kandy.  People push you from all sides, all the while keeping their eyes heavenwards and their hands clasped in prayer.  I worked in tandem with the lady next to me to keep the crowds back.  Good to know that all the years spent digging Italian OAPs in the ribs haven’t gone to waste.  So all this was building up to something spectacular.

And, well, I guess I was a little underwhelmed.  OK, a lot.  No velvet pillow, no huge tooth – in fact no tooth at all.  Just a gold little box where the tooth is apparently kept.  Or maybe not (see above…).  The two mean, muscled monks either side who would have looked more at home on Venice Beach than in a temple, pushed me on quickly when they realised I had no offering to make, so I hurriedly nodded my head in what I hoped was at least vaguely a respectful gesture, and went on my way.  I reluctantly handed back my MP3 player (even I couldn’t bring myself to steal from a temple), and headed back out.

After this, I made the short walk up a hill at the back of the temple to the British Garrison Cemetery.  Most of the graves here are from the 19th century, from the Brits who headed out here to claim this precious island in the name of old Blighty.  If the evidence from the cemetary is to be believed, most of them didn’t live long enough to enjoy the views here.  Most died very young indeed, mainly from malaria, but some from fun things like sunstroke and wild elephants.  The caretaker here was a real gem, knowledgeable and funny and interesting.  I had the place to myself, and it was a treat.  There’s no entrance fee which makes a nice change, but they ask for donations – I was more than happy to oblige.

That night, Sarah and I headed out to see a display of Kandyan dancing.  This was very ornate, many drums and masks and things like that, and was pretty interesting, not least the ending, when there was firewalking.  Needing a bit of refreshment after that, we headed to the imaginatively titled ‘Pub’ (I wonder how long it took them to come up with that name) where we sat on the balcony in wicker chairs, watching the world go by, and sinking a few Arrack cockails (made from the potent local booze, only drinkable if you add lime and passionfruit juice, which we did in abundance).

I arrived in a very warm and tropical Colombo at lunchtime on Monday 24th April, eyes all red and blurry from my emotional farewell to India.  I’d managed to meet my friend Dave at the airport (he was out at the same time as me, staying in what must surely be the poshest hotel in the whole world ever.  True to form, not only did I go and use the swimming pool, I used his bath, his hairdryer, ate his biscuits and nicked all the freebies I could lay my hands on, including the hotel stationery.  Well, you never know!).  I handed over to him the last few bits I wanted to send home, including the marvellous portrait drawn by Vipin.  If there’s a way to scan it and put it online, I will.  When Dave and I met, though, it was like a scene from a communist regime – apparently in India (or Bangalore at least), once you’ve checked in, you can’t leave the airport, and there’s a line past which only passengers with a ticket can go.  So Dave couldn’t come in, and I couldn’t go out.  We met AT the line, I handed my bag over, started crying, and we hugged across the divide.  Imagine an old war film, throw in a Selfridges carrier bag and a dozen curious Indians, and you will have the scene.

Sri Lanka is pretty much India-lite, so I managed to negotiate a decent taxi rate into Colombo town, sniffled my way past the St Jude shops on the road, and headed for a few places before I managed to get a shared room at the YWCA, of all places.  It wasn’t ready yet, so I headed out to see a bit of Colombo.  It doesn’t really have that many sights, but is ok, as far as capital cities go.  I think if you haven’t been to India, it would seem loud, noisy, and polluted, but compared to most places over there, it’s pleasant enough.  There are still quite a few signs of the old colonial times, which always give me a slight twinge of guilt for some reason. 

Among my many favourite books, there is one called ‘Coming Home’ by Rosamunde Pilcher, which has one section set in Sri Lanka (or Ceylon, as it was then).  I was always intrigued by the descriptions of Galle Road, Galle Face Green, and the Galle Face Hotel, so I was pleased in a way that my hostel was just off Galle Road – but also disappointed that it just seems to be a jumble of badly-aging modern buildings.  Galle Face Green was lovely though, a big stretch of grass in front of the sea shore, surrounded by old Dutch cannons.  I treated myself to a lemonade in the Galle Face Hotel (it’s desperate times when a lemonade counts as a treat, but at 110 rupees a pop – about 60p, nigh on criminal over here, it sure is a treat).  This was lovely, but again in a slightly guilt-inducing-colonial way.  Looking round, it was quite clear that all the guests were foreign, and the only Sri Lankans there were staff.

I took the opportunity to call the Chinese Embassy in Colombo.  China is my next stop, and I have to sort my visa out before I go there.  I’d got the number from tourist information, and managed to get through to the right place.  I told the guy on the phone my plans, but started to panic slightly when he was talking about a form that I needed to get sent from China.  I asked could I download it from the internet?  Absolutely not, no, it must be posted from China.  But why don’t you have any there at the Embassy?  Because it’s a special form, it must be endorsed by your friend in China.  “But I don’t have any friends in China”, I whined in a loud voice, marking myself out to the other people in the bar as some kind of Chinese Billy No Mates.  “Well, in that case, I don’t think you will be able to go to China on May 7th”.

All my plans started crumbling in my brain, and the only words I could get out were the very eloquent, “but, but, but, WHY?”.

Turns out the guy had assumed (mainly because I hadn’t told him otherwise) that I was Sri Lankan.  As soon as he found out I was British, he started gushing, “Oh, but of course you can come.  No problem at all.  I can rush the application through for you if you want.”  It was another display of double standards – no doubt there are political reasons for it, but it still made me cringe a bit.  Coming to different parts of the world, you soon realise just how many doors a white face and a British passport can open.

I sauntered back to the hostel, and met my room-mate, a lovely girl from Eastbourne called Tina.  She was just over in Sri Lanka a short time, in order to renew her Indian visa.  We were both homesick for India, so were good company for each other (but just about awful for anyone else to listen to, I bet!).  We got on great, and headed out the next morning for some breakfast.

I had to head to the Chinese Embassy to be fawned over, and then get the train to Kandy, so we said our goodbyes and headed out in different directions.  Luckily, the Chinese place in Colombo was much nicer than my last experience, in the Birmingham branch of the Indian consulate, and there were just a couple of people waiting.  I filled in my form, attached my photo (a massively old one, taken about 8 years ago – I’m not vain, just thrifty), and waited.  About five minutes later, when I was served, the man immediately said to me “You phoned up yesterday”.  “Yes”, I replied, slightly startled at his apparently psychic ability.  “How did you know that was me?”  He just laughed, and nodded at the rest of the people in the waiting room – a lot of brown Sri Lankan faces looked back at me.  Maybe not so psychic after all, then.

I need to go back to collect my visa next week, and he kept my passport.  I was on the way out, when I remembered I should have a copy, so I doubled back and asked him for one.  “Don’t worry”, he replied, “I don’t think you will need it.  I don’t think you will be arrested”.  Erm, well, I’ll try not to.

Back at the hostel, I collected my rucksack and was just about to head out for the train when one of the staff there accosted me.  “Are you leaving now?” “Yes”. “OK, you must wait”.  I asked was there a problem – I’d settled my bill that morning.

She told me, with a lovely big Sri Lankan grin on her face, that there had been a bomb, there in Colombo, just a short distance away.  Checking with a few other people (not that I didn’t believe her, but sometimes things can get lost in translation), I had the same response, always delivered with a smile.  Yes, yes, a bomb.  In Colombo.  People in hospital, and some are dead. 

I went into a strange mix of calm and panic.  The first thing I did was call Mum, in case she heard it on the news and knew I was in Colombo, to say I’m fine, have seen nothing of it, and I’m heading out of the city now.  I wondered for a few minutes whether to get my train, as sometimes (for example, recently in India), train stations have become targets for terrorists.  Logically, though, I knew the rebel factions fighting here were specifically against the government, and have never in the past deliberately targetted tourists.  So I headed out, onto the surprisingly normal streets of Colombo, albeit with a lot of army presence (and is it just me, or does everyone automatically feel guilty when you’re passing an army or police officer?  Like going through customs, even though I’m about as far removed from a smuggler as you can get), and headed to Colombo Fort Station.  I was a bit early, and I can tell you, a heaved a sigh of relief as the train for Kandy pulled in, and left, on time – with me on it.

I’m currently uploading all my photos, and they’ll be on my Flickr site soon (look right and you should see the link).

Meanwhile, here are some of my favourites, about the people I’ve been talking about.

This is a bad picture of me, but a nice one of my good friend Jude. He was pretty much my closest friend there, a wonderful young man who is so kind and caring and fun all at the same time.

When I left Bangalore, I cried so much, then just about stopped by the time I’d arrived in Sri Lanka.  However, on the ride into town, I passed a shop called St Jude, and started all over again at the thought of how much I miss him and my other friends there.

This is the lovely, ever-smiling Ravi.  He always shouts “Hi darling” when he sees me, God love him.

The philosophical Soosai, who, in any other world and lifetime, would surely be a model.

This is a group photo, with most of the Bangalore chaps on.

First of all, apologies to everyone for the lack of blogging over the last couple of weeks. My days fell into such a happy routine that would have been incredibly dull for you to read – “Woke up, had breakfast, gave a class, had lunch, chatted with the guys, had a nap, had dinner, played cards with Jude” – but not dull for me to live. I had the occasional moment when it struck me that I feel so incredibly relaxed and happy here.

So, my time in India has drawn to a close. Can’t believe it’s been six weeks already, during which time I have obviously become a master at summing up a country of one billion people in a few sweeping statements. So here you go, have a few more.

Not surprisingly, for a country of its size and population, India is a land of contrasts. From the jewel-coloured saris of Rajasthan, to the slums of Mumbai, to the high-tech empires of Bangalore, from the heat of the west coast to the cool hills where tea is grown, from the absolute poverty you see every minute of the day, to the society places of those who ‘have’. Contrasts everywhere, which make it a wonderful, fascinating, frustrating, country.

My first few days here, I found it difficult to relax, and I think this was a combination of my being so wary of being a lone female traveller, and (mostly) being in a place like Delhi. It’s a hard city to like, though I tried very much. As soon as I was away from there, I found myself relaxing more. This was probably a combination of being with friends (Michelle, Gary, and Brad in Rajasthan), and later, in Bangalore, being part of a community where people were very much on my side. I think I’ve realised how much I need people while I’ve been here.

And the people, on the whole, are so very, very friendly. Their hospitality is overwhelming, almost to the point of embarassment on my part sometimes, but so extremely generous on their part. Wherever you go, you are ordered to sit down and have a cup of tea, oh and won’t you just have a mound of biryani as well, and go on, have some biscuits. Imagine Mrs Doyle off Father Ted, multiplied by a billion.

The sound of India will always, in my mind, be the car horn. Wherever you are, it’s used all. The. Time. The first couple of nights I found it hard to sleep because of it – two days ago I was whizzing through the traffic in a kamikaze tuk-tuk, and realised with a shock that I’d managed to block the car horns out. Either that or I’ve gone deaf.

I’ve heard it said that India is an assault on the senses, and I think this is as true a description as I could come up with. It’s an almost physical sensation. I don’t think it’s for everyone, and people who are more experienced at travelling than I say it’s about as tough as it gets, so in a way I’m glad I’ve survived it, and can tell the tale with a smile and a laugh, but I hope other places are as challenging and as fun as India and its people.

And the people… ah, the people. Suffice to say that, when I left the community in Bangalore this morning, I cried like a baby, and felt really heartbroken. It was like leaving home all over again (I’m filling up now, honestly, just remembering it). The brothers there are no longer brothers in name only, but have become my extended family, with all the joy and love that brings. If home is where the heart is, then India has become my ‘other’ home.

While my reception from the fathers and brothers here has been nothing short of wonderful, the welcome I got from our animal friends has been, shall we say, mixed?

We’re surrounded by animals here, from the ones kept as pets to the wild ones, of all sizes, in the area.  On arrival at Bangalore, I was immediately introduced to three cages with pets in – two white rats, which I’ve yet to be brave enough to hold, a parrot which took an instant dislike to me and squawks like a banshee whenever I pass, and a cage of budgies.  I’ve been tempted to free them like I did to my pet bird when I was a toddler, but have managed to resist so far.  Elsewhere in the grounds here at Bangalore there are dogs (kept chained and again, bark like anything when I go past), and some pigs which are kept for food.  One of them has just had piglets, which are completely adorable, but the brothers are encouraged not to get too friendly, which makes sense if one day they’ll be eating Babe Curry.

As my family know (mainly because if I suffer I have a complete inability to do it in silence, and have to inform everyone in the near vicinity), mosquitoes see me as a bit of a walking buffet, and will happily ignore everyone else to come and take a bite out of me.  This was proved for sure on my first Friday night here.  I’d been for a walk with the nuns round the area, and we’d arrived back just in time to sit in the garden to watch a wonderful, creative, thought-provoking stations of the cross passion play put on by a group of the brothers here.  Typical of me, this was the one occasion when I’d forgotten to put my trusty jungle-strength mossie repellant on.  I felt a couple of bites during the play, but managed to convince myself it was only a couple, and I can live with that.  How wrong I was.  The next day I woke up to find more than 50 bites on my legs alone, my arms were covered, all round my back – I could make out from the bites exactly where my clothes ended and I began.  They’d feasted plenty on me.  Perhaps I taste foreign and exotic to Indian mosquitoes?  True to form, no-one else had a single bite.

After a couple of weeks here, I went to the house that the order owns in Mangalore, over on the West coast.  It was fabulous getting to know the smaller community there as well, and have made some more firm friends.  As we approached, I was told about the community dog, whom they call Puppy even though she’s now getting on a bit.  “She barks a lot but don’t worry, she won’t bite you”. Hmm, I thought, I’ve heard that one before, usually as the dog is running off with a chunk out of my leg.  However, on this occasion it was, fortunately, true.  Puppy is a sweet old thing.  She has a permanent shake to her front leg where she had a bad injection, and a rather pitiful howl, but she is friendly and loyal, and puts up with teasing from the brothers.  I got a fit of the giggles one night, we were sitting outside for night prayers, when Puppy decided now was the time to come up and play with Manohar.  He was lovely and polite, and kept pushing her away gently, telling her to “come back later”.

Other animals we encountered in Mangalore were less friendly.  On the first night we were here, Fr Austin (an old friend, my parish priest from 15 years ago who was, by wonderful coincidence, here at the same time as me) was being walked back to his room by Samuel and Manohar.  After they’d left him there, the brothers were wandering back and saw a cobra in the path, ready to strike.  They were very calm and quick-thinking, got some stones and killed it.  Since then, I’ve been paranoid about walking outside at night, and always take a brave-looking brother with me wherever I go.  Like a bodyguard.  I was also very brave in Mangalore and went swimming in the salty, warm sea, despite my fear of sharks and spotting a jellyfish on the beach.  Yay for me!

The latest additions to the fold are two white rabbits, a gift from a convent in the hill station of Gudalur.  I have a feeling they may go the way of the pigs and end up in Bugs Bunny Curry, so I’m not getting too attached to them.  Watch this space!

Something that I’ve really noticed since I’ve been here is how interested the brothers (so I’m making the generalisation to mean Indian men – sweeping generalisations are my speciality!), are really interested and knowledgeable about what I wear (or rather, should be wearing!), and have a particular appreciation for beautiful things. 

Because I’m going to be living out of a backpack for so long, I had to be really strict with myself about the clothes I brought with me.  So no Jimmy Choos or my beloved Gap jeans, just 2 pairs of shorts (one of which I can’t wear in India because they’re too short – even the knee-length ones get stared at) and 2 pairs of trousers, a couple of shirts, vests, and t-shirts.  And I’m sticking to fairly neutral colours so everything matches everything else – lots of greens, browns, white, and so on.

This, apparently, doesn’t cut the mustard here.  Indian women, it’s true, usually leave the house beautifully dressed – you see saris in every colour of the rainbow, from bright jewel colours to pale pastels, and they do love their jewellery.  Ankle chains that jangle when they walk, necklaces, bangles, earrings… anything that can be gilded, they gild.  I’d joined in to a certain extent by having a henna tattoo on my right palm and my right ankle when I was in Udaipur, and I’d also bought four beautiful bright pink shimmering bangles there.  The brothers appreciated these, although there was some discussion about whether pink was the right colour for me – some felt that, as a white person, I should be wearing black as this shows up more.  I’m soon learning that 10 Indians = 12 opinions!  My friend Ravi then started the tradition of giving me a flower for my hair – now, every day, a different brother picks one for me (again, after some discussion and contemplation about the right type and colour of flower to go with what I’m wearing).  Jude upped the ante as well by making me a long string of Jasmine flowers, joined together by thread, and pinned in the middle so it sat the length of my hair.  I kept getting the delicious smell of Jasmine all day long. 

The sisters who I have been helping told me they wanted me to wear a sari, but when I told them I’d already bought one in Jaipur and sent it home, they decided I should get a salwar kameez instead – this is the name for the long tunic and trousers worn by many Indian women.  So we had a shopping expedition.  First they bought me some earrings (clip-ons, I’m not brave enough to put holes in my ears – although, again, Jose offered to do it for me using a red-hot poker – I think he was joking), and a pack of stick-on bindis.  It’s strange, when I’ve seen Western women wearing these in the past I thought somehow it would be offensive to Indian culture – another sweeping generalisation on my part – but I have now learned that it is seen as a lovely sign of beauty, and basically, the more decoration, the better!

Next we went to the salwar kameez shop, where there was the regulation half-hour discussion about colour, size, fabric, shape, and so-on.  I ended up with the most beautiful dusky pink tunic, quite long – below my knees – with cream trousers.  The trousers are a bit odd to wear, I admit (I think they need heels to look really great), but the tunic is something I can wear again and again – with jeans when I get home, and until then with the trousers or (when I’m in a different country) with shorts underneath.

When I wore it the next day, the reactions were amazing – lots of open mouths, smiles, and comments that it looked beautiful.  Every person noticed what I was wearing, which I think might not have happened in any other country.  Since then, I have been given more bindis and hair clips as gifts and, funnily enough, the bindi that got the most compliments was the black one.  Maybe I’m more fair skinned than I realised!

There has also been plenty of interest in my henna tattoos.  Even strangers have come up to me and asked me about them.  When they started to fade, it was decided on my behalf that I should have some more done.  Apparently, when boys are younger here, they help their sisters with these tattoos, and so, naturally, there was much expertise and another group discussion!

Yesudas was the ring-leader, and he marched me over to the shop and bought some henna, and explained the whole process.  He then recruited Vipin, who is the most wonderfully talented artist, to be the tattooist.  A book off tattoo drawings was produced, and Jude picked the one that I now have on the back of my left hand – lots of swirls and flowers.  Vipin made his own design for the palm of my right hand.  So, while I sat and played one-handed cards with Jude, Vipin painted the henna onto my hands.  It looks really wonderful.  I’m glad I started listening to the experts. 

Each and every one of the brothers and fathers here in Bangalore is an absolute joy to be with.  Here is an introduction to just a few of them – I just wish I had time to tell you about all of them:

Ravi is 22, and comes from the neighbouring state of Tamil Nadu.  He’s a real giggler, and always has a huge smile on his face (except when he talks in his sleep and wakes up the whole community!).  He’s really conscientious, and is always coming to me for extra English practice.  Also, he was the first one to start off the now-tradition of a different brother giving me a flower for my hair every day.  They’re all disappointed that I cut my hair before I came away – in India, long hair is a sign of beauty.  I told them they’d have to make do with my face instead, and tried not to notice that they looked disappointed!

Jose is one of the older brothers here, and is currently nursing a broken arm.  He’s got the best imagination I’ve ever come across, and tells the most wonderful tall stories.  For the first five minutes I believed him, until the moment when he told me that his broken arm wasn’t from a fall, but was in fact from Anaconda flu, a new deadly disease that’s doing the rounds.  Other stories are that Scotland and Wales were originally part of India, but drifted across the sea to join with England.  I’ve told him that he’s like the boy who cried wolf, and I can never believe anything he tells me ever again!

Soosai is a philosopher, and always has a pearl of wisdom for me and for every situation.  He’s what you’d call a critical friend!  He sits down, opens his eyes wide and quotes Nitsche or Kant or Sartre, and makes you think a bit too much about your life.  He’s also ridiculously handsome, and has one of those chiselled faces you normally see in magazines or strutting down catwalks.  Because our names are similar, there have been a couple of comic mix-ups… one of the nuns called and told Father Xavier that she had promised to take Soosai to the convent (she meant me).  Father was puzzled as to when, or indeed why, Soosai had asked such a thing.

Jude is my good friend, my pal, and is just too cool for school.  You ask him if he’s had a good day, and he gives a great Gallic shrug, and says “Of course”.  I asked him how a sweet we had was made and he laughed and said “I don’t cook, I just eat”.  He’s also my sparring partner at cards… every night you can find us in the classroom, playing rummy or, if we’re joined by other people, Chase the Ace and Cheat (two games I taught them, thankyewverrymuch).  In his own quiet, cool way (he really should wear shades all the time, should Jude), he’s always there to make me smile and check I’m ok by giving an almost imperceptible nod.

Samuel is ace.  In fact they’re all ace.  Samuel and I now have a running joke, after he accidentally (he says) called me ‘aunty’ (we’re virtually the same age).  He has a heart of gold, and spent two of his precious free hours running around town with me, trying to sort my phone and my money out, and making sure I wasn’t ripped off.  He’s a bit of a hero as well, but more of that to come in another blog…

That’s the first instalment, hopefully by the time I leave I’ll get round all of them.  Photos to follow soon!

My first few days in Bangalore fell into a happy routine. I’d wake up either naturally at about 7 o’clock, or would be forced awake by the really loud music they play at the crack of dawn – it’s a wonderful tradition here that I’ve not seen anywhere else, I think I’m going to persuade my parish priest back in Leigh to take up this habit. Alarm clock, India style!

By the time I’m up and ready, the brothers and fathers here have just about finished their morning prayers, and so I’m greeted by many smiling faces and “Good Morning”s. So polite, so friendly, so wonderful. Breakfast then follows at 8 o’clock, it’s different every day so can be anything from omelettes to porridge. I’m waited on hand and foot, if any of the brothers see me taking my plate to wash it they near on rip it out of my hands to insist they do it for me. I feel like the most honoured guest.

After breakfast, at 9 o’clock, I have my first class of the day – either first or second years, a mix of ages, mostly in their early 20’s. The last few days I have been concentrating in particular on three brothers (Agustine, Ravi, and Anthony), who have got their exam coming up. As well as cramming essays and letters, which they will have to write, we’ve also been studying conversational English, and I’ve taught them some gems – it’s a real giggle to hear one of them say “I’m gasping for a nice cup of tea”, or, when I ask how they are feeling in the morning, for one of them to reply “Full of beans”.

I’m free until lunch, so take my time to read my book, listen to my music (they’re all fascinated by my ipod), or chat with whoever’s around and has finished their jobs – they have set duties, and all work really hard to keep their home a pleasant place to stay. A delicious lunch is then served – because it’s Lent at the moment we’re eating a lot of fish, usually with rice and vegetables from the garden, with fruit (again from the garden) to finish. It’s really good here, and lovely to eat as part of a community.

In the afternoons, I’ve been spending a couple of hours with some sisters who are studying at a local college. They’re ever so sweet, and have taken lots of pride in showing me round the area, and took me to the hostel where they stay during term time. I’ve found in general, Indian people are incredibly delighted to welcome you to their homes, and insist on you sitting down and having a cup of tea, and preferably some tiffin (a snack).

I’m free after about 4pm until evening prayers, just before dinner at 8pm. More of the same… plenty of good, tasty food, all served up for me. After our evening meal, it’s free time until I go to bed, and, although there’s a tv, I’m loving playing cards with some of the brothers, even though I hardly ever win.

It’s amazing how I feel right at home here.  The title of this post, incidentally, is a reference to the King and I – if you still don’t understand, google to find the link!

When I went to book my train ticket from Mumbai to Bangalore, I had planned to buy 3AC class.  This means an air-conditioned sleeper berth, with three tiers.  However, the guy at the counter told me this was full, and I either had my choice of non-AC sleeper (in with the multitudes), or 2AC sleeper – more expensive, AC, with two tiers per compartment.  I looked down at my bruises from the bus, and unhesitatingly booked a more expensive 2AC ticket.

Even though the train journey was 24 hours, I wasn’t concerned.  I’d experienced the train food to know that it was fairly decent (speaking as a European – see the entry on Agra if you don’t know what I’m talking about), I had a great big book to read, my ipod was fully charged, and I was looking forward to some peaceful ‘alone’ time.

I made it to the station unscathed by the rip-off taxi drivers, and was pleased to see my train waiting there on the platform.  Arming myself with lots of water, I found my carriage, and the porter told me immediately which seat I was in.  At first I was impressed by his psychic abilities, until I looked at the list of passengers that is pasted outside every carriage, and saw that I was the only westerner in my carriage, so it didn’t take too much deduction to work out who I was.

I had my lovely window seat in the compartment to myself for most of the journey, so I busied myself reading, listening to music and generally daydreaming.  Despite asking for an upper berth, the ticket man had booked me a lower berth and, at about 9pm, I realised that as there was no-one else there, I was just going to get in an upper berth and argue the toss when the other passengers got on.

Just as I was dropping off to sleep, the lights went on, the curtains were opened, and about 20 men came in; one of them sat down, and the others kept bowing in front of him, saying what an honour it was to be in his presence.  I lazily opened one eye, and asked if he wanted the upper berth but he kindly insisted I stay put.  Most of the men left the train before it pulled out of the station, bowing and scraping their way outside.  I was intrigued, I admit, but not enough to put me off my rest.

Eventually there were only two men left – the esteemed one, and another who seemed to jump to his every command.  The esteemed one got up to go to the loo, at which point the assistant jumped up, and said to me in a very high, excited voice, “He is the minister.  A minister.  He is a minister.”  “Oh”, I said, distinctly unimpressed (I have to admit, I was more impressed by the presence of Tessa Jowell at the cricket, and took great delight in explaining her recent difficulties to my Australian friends).  “The finance minister.  He is a minister”.  He started to grab random people who were wandering through the carriage, “That man is the finance minister”.  By now, he was starting to remind me of Sebastian off little Britain, the man whose love for the minister is so great it borders on obsession.  He got quite annoyed with me because I wouldn’t get out of bed but I figured, hey, he’s the minister, but is he as famous as I am in Jaipur?  I think not.

I managed to drop off to sleep ok, sung into dreamland by the music on my ipod.  I’m actually starting to think it’s a bit psychic.  When I’d first get on the bus in Udaipur (before I realised the true horror), we’d got out into the countryside and I was lying looking out of the window up at the sky, and it randomly played “Daytripper” followed by “Don’t fence me in”.  Now, after I discovered this man’s identity, the first song that came on was “Taxman”.  I had to stifle a giggle.

The next morning, he was very interested in me, in British politics, in my Lonely Planet book on India, and what I was doing in Bangalore.  I showed him the address of the place I was going to, the place that would be my home for the next month, and he didn’t recognise it, so gave me his card and wrote his personal mobile number on it, saying “If you have any trouble here, you must let me know immediately”.

Pulling into Bangalore station, I showed my expertise by negotiating a low rate for an autorickshaw to bring me out to the house.  It was the most lovely, reassuring feeling when, pulling up to the front door, one of the students here immediately checked that the amount I was paying the taxi driver was ok, and I wasn’t being ripped off.

It’s the most peaceful place I have been to in India, with beautiful gardens, restful rooms and, most importantly, the most friendly, welcoming people it’s possible to imagine.  That night, as they gave me a garland round my neck, showed me a display they’d made wishing me a “Hearty Welcome to India”, and sang me a welcome song, I found it hard to believe I’d been here less than a day; rarely have I felt so much at home, so soon.

I don’t think I’ll be needing that mobile number.