Greetings readers,
In what may have been a long two years of fruitless junk and just downright drab in your inbox, you'd be glad to know another new suit case has been opened and a series of Chronicles awaits to be unpacked in that rotting inbox of yours. For those who did not receive the Paris Chronicles, let me speedily update you. In my semester abroad, my real true travel experience up until now, I garnered a few impressions, observations and incidents and tried to construct a travel log worthy of reading and less worthy of southern scrolling. I documented my stay in Paris, my wanderings around France and my run-ins with other European countries and cultures. As clash-prone the French and Americans are , I urged my chronicles to map out an accurate cross-cultural crash course—but in such effort, I crossed over to a literary terrain well explored by Americans alike. Tonight, I can honestly say, the second volume of my chronicles introduces an area of the world less traveled by the average American, let alone, the average individual. A place-- I am just as rapidly beginning to believe the praise as I am the criticism. So early into my understanding of this foreign land, these people, and their way of life, I impart only nascent impression in this email. My time here remains undetermined but most of all, uninhibited. I hope to seek occupation and I hope to cover cosmic ground—and in the process, keep all of you suffocating in suspense. So without a moment of further delay, I want to welcome the old, the new, the interested and the not-so-interested to the India Chronicles 2008…
Dorothy: [has just arrived in Oz, looking around and awed at the beauty and splendor] Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas any more. Dorothy: [after a pause] We must be over the rainbow! [a bubble appears in the sky and gets closer and closer. It finally lands, then turns into Glinda the Good Witch wearing a spectacular white dress and crown, holding a wand] Dorothy: [to Toto] Now I... I know we're not in Kansas!
My toto is named Jean Claude and he is a Bichon Frise. He is one of my three roommates and he has been with me since I first arrived. He, who has followed my sister from Geneva to Delhi has made the Euro-Indo transition seemingly smoothly, but he certainly takes time to show a little empathy for a lost American like myself. His patience, loyalty and soft fur has provided me the reassuring comfort that Toto once provided Dorothy when she realized she had landed in a different world.
Indeed, I had arrived into this new world with a thundering bang—5 bangs to be exact. In my first hour in Delhi, news struck that a series of five bombs had rattled the busy marketplaces—killing 30 and injuring 100 plus. Voyaging to a new land, like India, where culture-shock would paralyze the spine of a Chameleon, the imposing threat of terrorism, I suppose, is an added bonus. We've been heavily advised to avoid the crowded areas until after the festival season—ending towards late October but I, and the other 14 million don't so such a good job of that.
As the second most populated city in India, New Delhi appears to be the marvelous bedlam I had imagined. From the moment we pulled out of the airport parking lot, our driver fused into the whizzing traffic without fret. I was in disbelief and I still am with the approach to driving. Rickshaws, cars, SUV's, motorcycles, motor scooters, bicycles, pedestrians and cows all share the same road—moving forward like schools of salmon upstream. The sound of the horn is one flowing sound that echoes across the city—as honking one's horn is much more thoughtful and a compulsory gesture than any groan of frustration. In America, where beeeeeep is so often complimented with a middle finger, you'd be amazed to see such static facial expressions while an Indian man squashes down his horn. I've seen families of 4 squeeze together on small, rusting motor-scooters, I've seen little boys petal bicycles bursting in the back with concrete bricks but most extraordinarily, I see 5,000 recipes for disaster a day, but not one accident. The point of contact between two cars is so close, yet somehow, so far.
I am also fascinated how the more reckless and dangerous the driving is here, the less concern there is for safety belts or helmets. Just as the hotter the climate is, the more Indians see reason to wear as much clothing as possible. (As soon as my sister saw my suitcase piled high with shorts, she alerted me that men do not wear shorts in India. I have respected the custom so far, but I've seen a half dozen Indians in the last few days who too, are trying to show off some more leg that I may soon join them).
Many of the poor beggars engage in a practice of roadside vending. When you break at a stop light, malnourished, dirt-covered children approach your window either selling knotted balloons, oversized cowboy hats, or an issue of Maxim magazine. However, a few days back, a little bare-foot boy knocked on the backdoor window holding a brand new ball-point pen. Gee, I wondered. Here is a young fellow who has the idea of what the average consumer might want. Rolling down my window, I handed him ten rupees and he handed me the pen. I still use the pen and with it, I've brainstormed a list of more useful items a hungry child could display while he asks for money. In fact, I've recently purchased a few packages of Pens and sterile wipes to distribute to the panhandlers. Begging is not going away anytime soon, so why not empower the desperate with items that hold a bit more utility and practicality. I'll be sure to keep all of you updated on how my first social entrepreneurial project pans out—especially Dr. Levinson.
While we're on the topic of the lower class, I want to cite a passage in the India Times the morning after the terrorist attacks that struck me with unfamiliar bluntness. As you will see, these same children that I discuss above as impoverished and misguided receive what I consider to be brutal treatment in the Indian media.
"Located at the bottom of the urban social pyramid, rag pickers are the smelly boys in tattered clothes whom everyone quickly passes by. Even street dogs, sub-consciously aware of their lowly status and often confusing them for thieves, chase them in shabby bylanes."
This article goes on to say how one of these "rag-pickers" notified the police about the location of a bomb and emerged as a hero, but can you imagine the New York Times describing one of America's unprivileged as so depraved, he or she would be subject to the discrimination of a stray dog. Eeeks.
Where disparity, malnourishment and overpopulation throttles a roaring engine—Delhites tender strong convictions to modernize (At least as what the Western standard considers to be modernized). The citizens incorporate a wide range of Westernized products, pastimes, and procedures into their daily life. The gimmies like McDonalds, Subway, Western Union, but I've seen baseball games (not cricket, I am sure!) multicolored I-pods, fitness centers (I belong to one), night clubs, lustrous lingerie boutiques, wireless internet cafes and advertisements of half naked Indian women. Those that frequent the main marketplaces represent every walk of life in Indian society. The wealthy walk side by side the famished while the ever-growing middle class fills everywhere in between. Whereas in America and in Europe, defacto segregation plays a major role where one goes to shop, dine or just relax, New Delhi stands out as the greatest convergence of social class I have ever seen.
The landscape of the new city appears flat, green, methodical and manicured. When you emerge out of the commercial and populated areas, you're refreshed by trees, shrubbery and long narrow columns of grass. If I were to explain the vegetation, a tropical rainforest has shmoozed with the backwoods of Vermont. In my first few days, the heat certainly bolstered India's scorching reputation but in the last week, it has cooled down somewhat comfortably. Spending a summer in DC prepares one suitably for the climate in Delhi. Furthermore, as the capital of India, New Delhi resembles the same manufactured layout as Washington and subsequently, Paris to some extent. In Delhi's case, the British aesthetically designed the federal buildings in one concentrated area— complimented by the same manmade ponds and grassy gardens one would see at the National Mall. Like Washington, all roads converge at twirling circles and if you're not careful, you're spat out going the opposite direction on a one way. The India Gate, a very visible landmark in the center of the city stands as tantamount and proud as the Arc-De Triumph with a broad avenue running beneath it, seamless in its similarity to the L'avenue de Champs- Elysee in Paris.
The only thing developing in India that I notice on a daily basis is my laziness. We're not short of help in this house. Let's just say when you have two guards, a driver, a full time maid and a chef, one's attempt at earning keep is often thwarted by the duty of others. If I were to clean a dish, let alone bring a dirty dish into the kitchen, I am immediately reprimanded by our most soft-hearted chef, Teresa. If I tiptoe outside my bedroom and glance back, happy-go-lucky Lela is making my bed. To a restaurant, how about a day outing to a market or a party in the evening, my driver Vipan awaits still. With all the luxuries, my sister Gabrielle is a new-age ascetic—who acutely monitors electricity, cheese and alcohol. My Niece Sachi, 9, is a Canadian-Japanese- American who has lived everywhere but. Delhi, Geneva and back, she salutes an erasable flag. My sister's husband, born and raised in Canada, has called South-East Asia home for the last 14 years. His post at the World Bank has him orbiting around a half-dozen nations—some of these countries are honorees of Washington's "axis-of evil," others are only sketches on a map.
One of the most reoccuring attitudes in India from Indians and foreigns alike is that absolutely anything can happen here. Where cows unconditionally have the right of way and buses hold three times their compacity, a new day is a new way for the Indian people. Let me offer a small taste of what I like to refer to as the Indian debacle du jour...
The other night, my sister and I had to rescue our security guard, Ravi Ji, from a series of allegations held by a neighboring couple. That morning, Ravi Ji asked the man to remove his bike from our parking space. The man jeered at Ravi's request, and when Ravi repeated, the man impulsively struck a right fist into Ravi's cheek. Next thing led to another, and there were a dozen policemen and bystanders processing the sudden eruption of violence. In muddled up English and Hindi, we were told Ravi was headed to the hospital for treatment. Our condolences were only with Ravi's face until we received a call at dinner— Ravi ofcourse—in jail. The man who swung the punch and his wife had accused Ravi of a long history of offensive slurs. I accompanied an enraged Gabrielle and the guard on duty to the police station. Having not the foggiest clue what I got myself into going to an Indian jail, I sat in the backseat, thoroughly impressed with my sister's know-how and courage to zip along in Delhi traffic with a right sided steering wheel. We arrived at the station and Hindi emerged as the chosen language—I again, sat silently and obliviously. I sat because the most gracious Indian police officer invested more concern that I sit than he did arbitrating the dispute at hand. As the two sides pleaded their case—Gabrielle representing Ravi Ji (In Hindi, b.t.w., she speaks crystal clear Hindi—as I am told) I would stand--out of consideration to those that were standing. But again, the same police officer halted the deliberation and signaled that I sit back down—waving his hands back and forth below his waist. I sat and the Indian judicial process resumed. Once the parties quieted, the kindhearted policeman who made certain I was still comfortable, declared that in India, the two men must formally apologize to one another, followed by a handshake. This did not come easy, but in time, the two men suppressed their animosities and shook hands. The handshake concluded that Ravi Ji indeed may have said rude remarks to the couple, but there had not been any other testimonies to substantiate such a claim. Ravi Ji and the other man swapped positions--Ravi was set free, while the culprit spent his night in jail.
On the other hand, many Indians stay rather clear of the city's hussle and bussle. If truth be told, I've never seen so many humans just sitting, and not just sitting, but sitting so low, their legs seem to be missing. Sitting on the ground, sitting on walls, on bicycles or sitting beside dogs who sit for hours—primarily due to the fact they're unconscious. It seems for a lot of Indians as well, if they sit too long, they begin to fall asleep. 12pm or 12am, the sidewalks prove to be a terrific spectrum of snoozing, sprawling men.
Indians do much more than seek room and board on the sidewalks. They also come together and create small little economies that serve the needs of everyone on that block. Little external kitchens that grill, young girls and their mother's husk corn while others knit. But the most venerated professional on the block seems to be the barber—who spends his day shaving the wooly faces of his neighbors. Observing the popularity among the local folk time after time, I needed to discover what all this hype was about! So when I decided I needed a haircut, my sister and I approached the crowded dwelling where the barber sets up shop and requested a beginner's trial. Undoubtedly, I was his first westerner of the morning and very well likely, his career. As he began to cut, an audience of 20 to 25 puzzled Indians observed, as if a friendly octopus had just sat down for a quick trim. After delivering a picture-perfect haircut, he ended with a complete head message—all for one great price! 1 US dollar! As long as he still practices, I will forever roam the Subcontinent with a fresh dew!
Under the guise of my sister's son, I was able to join the family membership at the health center. I spend most mornings recovering the mental and physical health that once propelled me to run marathons. I am starting back slow but I have signed up for the New Delhi ½ marathon in early November. It is to be one of the world's premier half marathon events, attracting runners from all over.
We're busily brainstorming ideas for Christmas, but I have firm aspirations for my forthcoming travels. Starting tomorrow morning, where I will join a few other Americans to a land I know very little of except that its beauty is as breathtaking and its enchantment is without equal. Known as the Ladakh region of Kashmir, we will fly to Lak, a quaint Buddhist town tucked high in the skyscraping Himalayas. The plan is to spend three days acclimatizing and three days hiking higher into the mountains. You can be sure the next installment will be stuffed with my experiences there. Down the road, I plan to take a few weeks to see more of Southern India, including Bombay and the Goa region but at the fore is my adventure to sashay the shores of South East Asia. Beginning in Bangkok, I will rove south to see for myself where the bluest water truthfully meets the whitest sand—Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore or Indonesia? I am subburn just thinking about it!
There is so much more to tell but I need to break everyone in before I totally fill the page!
I want to thank everyone who attended my send off party in Gloucester and I kid you not, if you thought it had covered some reasonable ground, the teenage pregnancy scandal at GHS made headlines in the Delhi newspapers.
Please feel free to forward these emails to anyone who I may have left out or someone you know that may be interested in this part of the world. Please respond with questions, gossip and travel advice! I've even discovered that earth-shrinking gizmo called Skype (Richard Alec: India directory). I would love to hear from everybody! Without any hockey moms over here, it can get a little lonely.
So long for now,
Richard
In what may have been a long two years of fruitless junk and just downright drab in your inbox, you'd be glad to know another new suit case has been opened and a series of Chronicles awaits to be unpacked in that rotting inbox of yours. For those who did not receive the Paris Chronicles, let me speedily update you. In my semester abroad, my real true travel experience up until now, I garnered a few impressions, observations and incidents and tried to construct a travel log worthy of reading and less worthy of southern scrolling. I documented my stay in Paris, my wanderings around France and my run-ins with other European countries and cultures. As clash-prone the French and Americans are , I urged my chronicles to map out an accurate cross-cultural crash course—but in such effort, I crossed over to a literary terrain well explored by Americans alike. Tonight, I can honestly say, the second volume of my chronicles introduces an area of the world less traveled by the average American, let alone, the average individual. A place-- I am just as rapidly beginning to believe the praise as I am the criticism. So early into my understanding of this foreign land, these people, and their way of life, I impart only nascent impression in this email. My time here remains undetermined but most of all, uninhibited. I hope to seek occupation and I hope to cover cosmic ground—and in the process, keep all of you suffocating in suspense. So without a moment of further delay, I want to welcome the old, the new, the interested and the not-so-interested to the India Chronicles 2008…
Dorothy: [has just arrived in Oz, looking around and awed at the beauty and splendor] Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas any more. Dorothy: [after a pause] We must be over the rainbow! [a bubble appears in the sky and gets closer and closer. It finally lands, then turns into Glinda the Good Witch wearing a spectacular white dress and crown, holding a wand] Dorothy: [to Toto] Now I... I know we're not in Kansas!
My toto is named Jean Claude and he is a Bichon Frise. He is one of my three roommates and he has been with me since I first arrived. He, who has followed my sister from Geneva to Delhi has made the Euro-Indo transition seemingly smoothly, but he certainly takes time to show a little empathy for a lost American like myself. His patience, loyalty and soft fur has provided me the reassuring comfort that Toto once provided Dorothy when she realized she had landed in a different world.
Indeed, I had arrived into this new world with a thundering bang—5 bangs to be exact. In my first hour in Delhi, news struck that a series of five bombs had rattled the busy marketplaces—killing 30 and injuring 100 plus. Voyaging to a new land, like India, where culture-shock would paralyze the spine of a Chameleon, the imposing threat of terrorism, I suppose, is an added bonus. We've been heavily advised to avoid the crowded areas until after the festival season—ending towards late October but I, and the other 14 million don't so such a good job of that.
As the second most populated city in India, New Delhi appears to be the marvelous bedlam I had imagined. From the moment we pulled out of the airport parking lot, our driver fused into the whizzing traffic without fret. I was in disbelief and I still am with the approach to driving. Rickshaws, cars, SUV's, motorcycles, motor scooters, bicycles, pedestrians and cows all share the same road—moving forward like schools of salmon upstream. The sound of the horn is one flowing sound that echoes across the city—as honking one's horn is much more thoughtful and a compulsory gesture than any groan of frustration. In America, where beeeeeep is so often complimented with a middle finger, you'd be amazed to see such static facial expressions while an Indian man squashes down his horn. I've seen families of 4 squeeze together on small, rusting motor-scooters, I've seen little boys petal bicycles bursting in the back with concrete bricks but most extraordinarily, I see 5,000 recipes for disaster a day, but not one accident. The point of contact between two cars is so close, yet somehow, so far.
I am also fascinated how the more reckless and dangerous the driving is here, the less concern there is for safety belts or helmets. Just as the hotter the climate is, the more Indians see reason to wear as much clothing as possible. (As soon as my sister saw my suitcase piled high with shorts, she alerted me that men do not wear shorts in India. I have respected the custom so far, but I've seen a half dozen Indians in the last few days who too, are trying to show off some more leg that I may soon join them).
Many of the poor beggars engage in a practice of roadside vending. When you break at a stop light, malnourished, dirt-covered children approach your window either selling knotted balloons, oversized cowboy hats, or an issue of Maxim magazine. However, a few days back, a little bare-foot boy knocked on the backdoor window holding a brand new ball-point pen. Gee, I wondered. Here is a young fellow who has the idea of what the average consumer might want. Rolling down my window, I handed him ten rupees and he handed me the pen. I still use the pen and with it, I've brainstormed a list of more useful items a hungry child could display while he asks for money. In fact, I've recently purchased a few packages of Pens and sterile wipes to distribute to the panhandlers. Begging is not going away anytime soon, so why not empower the desperate with items that hold a bit more utility and practicality. I'll be sure to keep all of you updated on how my first social entrepreneurial project pans out—especially Dr. Levinson.
While we're on the topic of the lower class, I want to cite a passage in the India Times the morning after the terrorist attacks that struck me with unfamiliar bluntness. As you will see, these same children that I discuss above as impoverished and misguided receive what I consider to be brutal treatment in the Indian media.
"Located at the bottom of the urban social pyramid, rag pickers are the smelly boys in tattered clothes whom everyone quickly passes by. Even street dogs, sub-consciously aware of their lowly status and often confusing them for thieves, chase them in shabby bylanes."
This article goes on to say how one of these "rag-pickers" notified the police about the location of a bomb and emerged as a hero, but can you imagine the New York Times describing one of America's unprivileged as so depraved, he or she would be subject to the discrimination of a stray dog. Eeeks.
Where disparity, malnourishment and overpopulation throttles a roaring engine—Delhites tender strong convictions to modernize (At least as what the Western standard considers to be modernized). The citizens incorporate a wide range of Westernized products, pastimes, and procedures into their daily life. The gimmies like McDonalds, Subway, Western Union, but I've seen baseball games (not cricket, I am sure!) multicolored I-pods, fitness centers (I belong to one), night clubs, lustrous lingerie boutiques, wireless internet cafes and advertisements of half naked Indian women. Those that frequent the main marketplaces represent every walk of life in Indian society. The wealthy walk side by side the famished while the ever-growing middle class fills everywhere in between. Whereas in America and in Europe, defacto segregation plays a major role where one goes to shop, dine or just relax, New Delhi stands out as the greatest convergence of social class I have ever seen.
The landscape of the new city appears flat, green, methodical and manicured. When you emerge out of the commercial and populated areas, you're refreshed by trees, shrubbery and long narrow columns of grass. If I were to explain the vegetation, a tropical rainforest has shmoozed with the backwoods of Vermont. In my first few days, the heat certainly bolstered India's scorching reputation but in the last week, it has cooled down somewhat comfortably. Spending a summer in DC prepares one suitably for the climate in Delhi. Furthermore, as the capital of India, New Delhi resembles the same manufactured layout as Washington and subsequently, Paris to some extent. In Delhi's case, the British aesthetically designed the federal buildings in one concentrated area— complimented by the same manmade ponds and grassy gardens one would see at the National Mall. Like Washington, all roads converge at twirling circles and if you're not careful, you're spat out going the opposite direction on a one way. The India Gate, a very visible landmark in the center of the city stands as tantamount and proud as the Arc-De Triumph with a broad avenue running beneath it, seamless in its similarity to the L'avenue de Champs- Elysee in Paris.
The only thing developing in India that I notice on a daily basis is my laziness. We're not short of help in this house. Let's just say when you have two guards, a driver, a full time maid and a chef, one's attempt at earning keep is often thwarted by the duty of others. If I were to clean a dish, let alone bring a dirty dish into the kitchen, I am immediately reprimanded by our most soft-hearted chef, Teresa. If I tiptoe outside my bedroom and glance back, happy-go-lucky Lela is making my bed. To a restaurant, how about a day outing to a market or a party in the evening, my driver Vipan awaits still. With all the luxuries, my sister Gabrielle is a new-age ascetic—who acutely monitors electricity, cheese and alcohol. My Niece Sachi, 9, is a Canadian-Japanese- American who has lived everywhere but. Delhi, Geneva and back, she salutes an erasable flag. My sister's husband, born and raised in Canada, has called South-East Asia home for the last 14 years. His post at the World Bank has him orbiting around a half-dozen nations—some of these countries are honorees of Washington's "axis-of evil," others are only sketches on a map.
One of the most reoccuring attitudes in India from Indians and foreigns alike is that absolutely anything can happen here. Where cows unconditionally have the right of way and buses hold three times their compacity, a new day is a new way for the Indian people. Let me offer a small taste of what I like to refer to as the Indian debacle du jour...
The other night, my sister and I had to rescue our security guard, Ravi Ji, from a series of allegations held by a neighboring couple. That morning, Ravi Ji asked the man to remove his bike from our parking space. The man jeered at Ravi's request, and when Ravi repeated, the man impulsively struck a right fist into Ravi's cheek. Next thing led to another, and there were a dozen policemen and bystanders processing the sudden eruption of violence. In muddled up English and Hindi, we were told Ravi was headed to the hospital for treatment. Our condolences were only with Ravi's face until we received a call at dinner— Ravi ofcourse—in jail. The man who swung the punch and his wife had accused Ravi of a long history of offensive slurs. I accompanied an enraged Gabrielle and the guard on duty to the police station. Having not the foggiest clue what I got myself into going to an Indian jail, I sat in the backseat, thoroughly impressed with my sister's know-how and courage to zip along in Delhi traffic with a right sided steering wheel. We arrived at the station and Hindi emerged as the chosen language—I again, sat silently and obliviously. I sat because the most gracious Indian police officer invested more concern that I sit than he did arbitrating the dispute at hand. As the two sides pleaded their case—Gabrielle representing Ravi Ji (In Hindi, b.t.w., she speaks crystal clear Hindi—as I am told) I would stand--out of consideration to those that were standing. But again, the same police officer halted the deliberation and signaled that I sit back down—waving his hands back and forth below his waist. I sat and the Indian judicial process resumed. Once the parties quieted, the kindhearted policeman who made certain I was still comfortable, declared that in India, the two men must formally apologize to one another, followed by a handshake. This did not come easy, but in time, the two men suppressed their animosities and shook hands. The handshake concluded that Ravi Ji indeed may have said rude remarks to the couple, but there had not been any other testimonies to substantiate such a claim. Ravi Ji and the other man swapped positions--Ravi was set free, while the culprit spent his night in jail.
On the other hand, many Indians stay rather clear of the city's hussle and bussle. If truth be told, I've never seen so many humans just sitting, and not just sitting, but sitting so low, their legs seem to be missing. Sitting on the ground, sitting on walls, on bicycles or sitting beside dogs who sit for hours—primarily due to the fact they're unconscious. It seems for a lot of Indians as well, if they sit too long, they begin to fall asleep. 12pm or 12am, the sidewalks prove to be a terrific spectrum of snoozing, sprawling men.
Indians do much more than seek room and board on the sidewalks. They also come together and create small little economies that serve the needs of everyone on that block. Little external kitchens that grill, young girls and their mother's husk corn while others knit. But the most venerated professional on the block seems to be the barber—who spends his day shaving the wooly faces of his neighbors. Observing the popularity among the local folk time after time, I needed to discover what all this hype was about! So when I decided I needed a haircut, my sister and I approached the crowded dwelling where the barber sets up shop and requested a beginner's trial. Undoubtedly, I was his first westerner of the morning and very well likely, his career. As he began to cut, an audience of 20 to 25 puzzled Indians observed, as if a friendly octopus had just sat down for a quick trim. After delivering a picture-perfect haircut, he ended with a complete head message—all for one great price! 1 US dollar! As long as he still practices, I will forever roam the Subcontinent with a fresh dew!
Under the guise of my sister's son, I was able to join the family membership at the health center. I spend most mornings recovering the mental and physical health that once propelled me to run marathons. I am starting back slow but I have signed up for the New Delhi ½ marathon in early November. It is to be one of the world's premier half marathon events, attracting runners from all over.
We're busily brainstorming ideas for Christmas, but I have firm aspirations for my forthcoming travels. Starting tomorrow morning, where I will join a few other Americans to a land I know very little of except that its beauty is as breathtaking and its enchantment is without equal. Known as the Ladakh region of Kashmir, we will fly to Lak, a quaint Buddhist town tucked high in the skyscraping Himalayas. The plan is to spend three days acclimatizing and three days hiking higher into the mountains. You can be sure the next installment will be stuffed with my experiences there. Down the road, I plan to take a few weeks to see more of Southern India, including Bombay and the Goa region but at the fore is my adventure to sashay the shores of South East Asia. Beginning in Bangkok, I will rove south to see for myself where the bluest water truthfully meets the whitest sand—Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore or Indonesia? I am subburn just thinking about it!
There is so much more to tell but I need to break everyone in before I totally fill the page!
I want to thank everyone who attended my send off party in Gloucester and I kid you not, if you thought it had covered some reasonable ground, the teenage pregnancy scandal at GHS made headlines in the Delhi newspapers.
Please feel free to forward these emails to anyone who I may have left out or someone you know that may be interested in this part of the world. Please respond with questions, gossip and travel advice! I've even discovered that earth-shrinking gizmo called Skype (Richard Alec: India directory). I would love to hear from everybody! Without any hockey moms over here, it can get a little lonely.
So long for now,
Richard
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