'How can you travel alone?!'

After visiting beautiful Palampur, my travel buddy Eric returned to Canada so I was back on the road solo and ready to explore some places I'd never been before.

For many going somewhere new can be a nerve wracking experience - particularly if you are alone in a county where the culture is so different and you don't speak the language.  A few months ago it seemed like a daunting prospect (even though I did it on a previous India trip over five years ago), but this experience reminded me again that every time I do it I get so much out of it. How quick we are to remember negative experiences and slow to remember the positive.

Wandering around the mountains of Manali

I see how much fear we can create for ourselves, worrying about all sorts of if, buts and maybes.  The great thing about continuing to travel is after a few new places you start to lose these worries and get a deeper faith that somehow it will all work out well. You gain a sort of flow, or momentum and then when it does all work out it is just so satisfying!

The kindness of strangers makes my travels possible and it's these interactions with everyday people that restore my faith in the world.  People taking me to the right carriage, getting on the bus with me to take me to my stop, buying me chai for playing them a song, allowing me to stay in their home without asking for anything in return, assisting me with printing, booking transport, finding a good mobile deal etc. The list goes on.   It's so nice.

Immersion in beauty

My week in Manali was a time of immersing myself in the nature of the mountains and as a result I had a flurry of musical inspiration.  I really fell in love with the mountains of Himanchal Pradesh this trip - the snow peaks, the animals, the sweet local people, the clean air and the calm feel.

Traditional buildings in Old Manali

 

Old Manali is the place to stay (as opposed to New Manal), as it still has a lot of the character of a traditional Himanchali village despite it becoming ever more busy with guesthouses, bars, restaurants and cafes for the growing steam of tourists that come for trekking, skiing and rock climbing.

At the top of the town are buildings in the local style made of wood and stone, with space for the animals underneath the house.  The women here still weave the local clothing of thick blankets using traditional weaving apparatus.  Despite the tourists they are still connected with their roots and wear this traditional cloak style blanket with a tie around the waist and a scarf tied around the head. I couldn't resist buying a hand knitted wooly hat that I didn't really need.  I just had such a nice chat with the women in my growing Hindi that I wanted to support their work.

Traditional weaving machines

In the end it came in handy as Manali was very chilly at night time, sometime reaching 0 degrees so I would wear all of my layers in bed.  But during the day, as soon as the sun was out,  we could bask in the glorious weather, perfect for exploring the gorgeous forests and mountain peaks in every direction.

I found myself wondering around a lot for walks with my guitar and writing some songs, my favourite being 'In the Mountains' (original title I know) which came following a conversation with a friend about the mountains being the last place on earth to live as climate change gets worse.  The recording quality is terrible (as there is the noise of a river and someone building in the background!) but here it is on you tube on a better one should appear at some point…..!

Gorgeous forests in Manali Musical Magic Manifestation

All of the playing culminated in some kind of new musical surge, finding it easier than ever to sing and play guitar together at once (finally) which before was a true brain ache and now is becoming natural and easy.  This is immensely satisfying as I remember being on my previous India trip five years ago and practising uber basics of strumming (up, down, up, up, down, up), so boring, yet now I play and even write songs.  I'm so glad I had the insight to realise what I could gain if I put in five years of practise.

I was reminded so much of the Renee that wanted to play and sing but couldn't yet when I began giving free guitar lessons to some Nepalese guys running a German Bakery.  Their tea, friendliness and good wifi initially drew me in, but it became a bit of a daily routine to sit in the bakery and teach some guitar.

Me and my best travel buddy – my guitar

It was their turn to overcome the repetitive practice of 'up, down, up, up, down, up' monotomus strumming.  But because I have been there, I have ultimate patience to sit with someone working through this important, but very boring, initial stage.  I now have real experience of what is possible with practice and I know how much the support of others can help you on this journey so it was really nice to support them.

Moving on up

Ii was a real momentous victory when a Nepalese bar owner promised me a free dinner if I played at set in his bar.  I was terrified, but knew the pay off would be so great if I could learn to enjoy playing in front of others without being self conscious.  It could be a true useful, practical skill for travelling to provide me with the basics I need like food for free - a huge gift when living on a shoe string budget.

So I overcame my stage and mic fright and sang about 8 songs, half of which I had written myself and the other half blue grassy/folk songs I love.  It was far from perfect but it was fun and it went down well.  Seeing the guy after me play reminded me that you don't always have to be super/ gifted talented musician for people to enjoy your music as so much of the music is what you bring to it - if you are enjoying it, or really feeling it, others are also more likely to.

Love ewe Manali

So yes I got free dinner and some cups of tea!  The basics I usually have to pay for with hard earned money, were given to me for free for doing something I love that gives me energy and makes me feel good.  Wow!  In Manali I reached a tipping point –  my musical experience and playing of songs will just keeping getting richer and richer.  My bank balance is getting low but, but my wealth is increasing.  You can't put a price of music and nature.  I feel so lucky that this is what I get to do at this time in my life.

Off the hummus trail

I was growing tired of the backpacker hub of Bhagsu - the familiarity and lack of what I call 'real' Indian culture (if it’s too easy, it’s not ‘real’ India!).

Bhagsu and the nearby town of Dharamkot, are famously part of the 'hummus trail', a route taken by Israeli travellers.  They often spend months travelling in India, following their compulsory military service for 2 or 3 years (depending on whether they're female or male).  They come to India to chill out and forget about life for a while, yet it's created these strange pockets of cafes and guesthouses with mainly just Israeli travellers, with all the menus and signs written in Hebrew.  They tend to hang out in big groups and party hard. Although I’ve met only lovely Israelis, I wanted to move away from this culture, after all when I want to experience Israeli culture, I will go to Israel not to India.

A perk to the many Israeli cafes is the abundance of hummus (my fav snack)

I hadn't realised it consciously, but I needed to get out of my comfort zone again to be opened up to the beauty of India and out of the Bhagsu bubble.

Enough of the same menu for Westerners that somehow ranges from Indian, Israel and Italian main meals to Tibetan, Japanese food thrown in with some English or American breakfast - none of which is quite like what you'd eat in that country.  Enough of speaking in English all day to other backpackers.  Enough of my nice guesthouse.  I was scared of being lonely, having had company the most of my trip - in Varanasi from my Indian family and then my mum coming to visit and then lots of interactions with backpackers.  But it was time to rock the boat, which is the best move I could have made…..

Back on the move

When I'm travelling, I find it near impossible to plan any sort of route in advance.  Reading information in books or online, I just get overwhelmed by possibilities and options and find it difficult to really get a feel for the atmosphere of a place which, for me, is the most important.  So I tend to go on recommendations by other travellers I meet along the way, who always give you the golden nuggets of information.  Even then, you can't take what they say as a given as everyone has different views on why they like a place, but from past experience I've found this method to work very well on big trips where timing is not an issue.  And so I'd collected some golden nuggets and had some chance encounters with other travellers that shaped up nicely.

In McLeod Ganj I sat down in a café for a nice coffee (the best way to get free wi fi), joining a table with a young guy sitting there already.  Eventually we started chatting as he wanted some local information on yoga and trekking. Just ten minutes later we were best buddies who had decided we needed to go off the beaten track together to do some hiking for his last few days in India.

Travelling in the back of a truck with my new overnight best buddy – Eric

It's so funny how fast that can happen when travelling. With Eric, I just knew in just that short amount of time, that we really clicked on a deeper level.  He was super friendly, funny, so enthusiastic to learn, reminding me of me on my first trip in India.  I could tell he'd also really immersed himself in the culture and had lived away from backpackers for substantial amounts of time so had some really interesting, crazy stories.  Lastly he didn't feel too intense to be with alone, which is super important travelling with just one other person.  I say this because I've met many types of people in India, some who are seeking something, some who are very lost and for me it just sucks my energy.  But with Eric it was easy to just chat or have our own space when needed and if anything we inspired each other.  Needless to say I'm so glad I met exactly the right person to leave the bubble with.

Trekking Tales

We headed by local bus, just three hours away, to a town called Palampur, which turned out to be just what the doctor ordered.  It's really not on most traveller's radars - in fact every time I mentioned I was going there, the response was 'Why are you going there?' or 'What's there?!'.  Yet it turns out that just outside the main town, it's a really quiet, countryside place, with a village like feel to it, super friendly locals, charming tea plantations and stunning mountain views.  Even the main town is what I call 'India light', as it's the least hectic town I've been to in India, the Himanchali mountain people really are very chilled out and kind.

Rhododendron flowers in the Himalayas – a tasty treat

We were fortunate to meet an American guy who was really knowledgeable on the local area as he lived in Palampur managing a company that takes groups on mountain training courses at high altitude.   He arranged for a local villager to take us on a two day trek for just 750R each (about 7.50 in pounds), promising it wouldn't be like the hikes his groups do that last ten days and climbing high mountain passes!

We went shopping with the guide to buy food supplies to take with us up the mountain as there would be no shops and then caught a dodgy looking Indian van, with an open back for carrying goods, to the trail head.  Of course to add to the excitement we had to sit in the back of the truck which then turned into standing as we got more daring.  I also very wisely (?!) decided it would be a great idea to bring my guitar as Eric had said he'd really enjoy hearing the songs I'd written and I thought the top of a mountain would be a pretty beautiful place to play.  So I did the ridiculous thing, not for the first time, and took my guitar for a hike.  Was it worth the pain?  Of course…

Sheepishly (!) I trekked with my guitar

It was exciting hiking on paths that we’d never have been able to find ourselves.  We admired the beautiful, bright red rhododendron flowers that start to appear when you reach a certain altitude in the Himalayas.  We learnt you can eat them straight from the tree, they taste quite sour and bitter - an acquired taste, but once I was hungry they suddenly did wonders as a snack to keep me going.  You can also make tea and a chutney out of them, both of which I was keen to taste, but as yet have not yet come across as it's something not available to buy, only made by locals.

After a day of hiking we arrived at our destination - a deserted Sherpa village in which we were the only ones staying.  A bit eerie, but also incredible to encounter, especially as on all sides of us were mountains. During monsoon season a whole village move up the mountain to this spot to graze their animals on the grass and shelter from the bad weather in their traditional stone cottages.

Deserted Sherpa Village

The cottage design ensures there's space to sleep at the top of the house and space for the animals to shelter at the bottom.  The sleeping space also contains an indoor fire.  This was great to keep it warm, as it was freezing, but it got so ridiculously smokey that we had to keep the door open.  It doesn't surprise me that smoke inhalation is still the biggest cause of death in India when this is still common place in villages to have fires indoors.

 

Home for the night – sleeping on a bed of hay

Dinner was of course the standard dish - rice and daal.  We had an epic (outdoor) fire and went to bed pretty early knackered from the hike (and also as Eric's stomach was playing up - not ideal at the top of a mountain!).  That's when the bad weather started - howling winds, cold temperatures, rain.  In the morning neither of us could bear to move from our cozy sleeping bag until the guide came to tell us we had to get up and go before it got worse otherwise it could be dangerous. So we had to hike down through the epic rain, lucky that we'd been given some waterproof ponchos.  Brave Eric kept on trooping despite his stomach getting worse.  But it was such a great trek - so off the beaten track and such good company.

Wet, wet, wet on the way down Village life

During the rest of our time in Palampur we were fortunate to explore some gorgeous villages.  I'm probably idealising village life greatly but I just loved seeing the children running around playing, giggling so much, free to explore as it is such a safe place and because Indian parents tend to have a more laissez faire approach whilst children are young, allowing them to play without supervision.  Ironically the children seem to have less freedom as they become adults having to report in to their parents regularly about every aspect of life if they aren’t at living at home.  Or so I have been told by several young Indians I have met.  I’ve had to be in a few selfies with Indians to proove what they are up to, to their parents!

The children weighed a lot less than the guitar

The kids were enjoying us giving them piggy backs up the hill.  There's still a traditional style of building, made from clay and wood, which is beautiful, and many of the houses still have their own vegetable patch and animals.  There were only about 50 houses in the village and most of them had TV dishes on the side of the house, and apparently good electricity supply.  It's such a mix of tradition and modernity.  The villagers were so friendly and we were invited into one for delicious pakora (deep fried veg) and chai tea (spiced tea with lots of milk and sugar).  I really have been appreciating my basic Hindi in these situations and I just can never get over how hospitable people all over India are.  It makes you feel at home wherever you are, restores my faith in humanity and is the best way to get a taste of local culture.

My new friends from the village near Palamput The best gift

My other favourite memory of Palampur is writing a song for Eric's brother – David who has had a tough year fighting sickness.  Having brainstormed what would be a good gift to bring home for him, we decided instead to write him a song as what could be more original?  It was so much fun to write – first Eric told me as much as possible about his brother to give me writing inspiration and then I wrote the tune and lyrics according to what he wanted to say to his brother.  It turned out super cheesy and is called the best gift.  I've given up fighting against the cheesiness now as at least it made someone smile!

Even more fun was shooting a short video to go with it.  Of course we had to have a super, luscious, gorgeous looking back drop - so we sat on some rocks in a stream with green fields and snow peaked mountains in the background, as you do!  It’s not great quality but you get the idea.

Video shoot for ‘the best gift’ Dreams of living off the land

I've been really inspired by the way I've seen people live in the state of Himanchal Pradesh, more traditional ways of life, coming back to basics such as growing your own food and building your own house with local materials.  Sometimes I forget how many ways there are to live other than the culture I have been raised in.

I was fortunate to be invited to visit an Indian friend's land, also in Palampur, which they hope one day to turn into their own sustainable and eco friendly farm that will host volunteers.  Already they have their own tea plants, several types of vegetable and many herbs and spices and they plan to build eco cottages out of local materials.

It's just such a peaceful space, you instantly feel calmer being among the sound of birds and crickets.  I was also welcomed most warmly, as is so uplifting in India, with lots of tea and delicious home made Indian food.  I'm really excited to see how the project will pan ou'- they are currently trying to build the funds required to kick start the project and will soon launch a crowd funding campaign.  If you want to help support them, get in touch with me!

Beautiful land in Palampur with so much potential

After six years of incredible cycling experiences, ibikelondon blog is coming to a close. I want to highlight where I have been, where I am going, and to say thank you for coming along for the ride.
I began writing about riding in London in 2009. I hardly expected then ibikelondon would become such a big part of my life.  My first post had just ten readers, and included a photo of me participating in a Skyride on a very rusty, very purple second-hand bike. Over 500 blog posts later and thankfully my wheels have improved - and so has London.
If you know me via Twitter you'll have seen clues that change is coming.  Starting any new venture is daunting, but I've been preparing to make this move for a while.  I worked hard on building this, I'm excited to share it with you, and I hope you'll be as excited using it as I have been creating it.  @markbikeslondonwill shortly become @StrategicCities, and you'll be able to find me at my new website; strategic-cities.com 
 With some of you on Blackfriars Bridge in 2011.
I'll still be looking at how people travel, and how cities can become increasingly efficient and liveable, but my focus will be wider than just the bike.  I've come to realise bikes are the "canary in the coal mine" of liveable cities, and there are many issues - childhood freedom, planning, obesity, transport - which are all part of the same urban matrix we call home, and which deserve further scrutiny.
StrategicCities will also see me start a new career.  I'll soon be delivering training for urban professionals and communications analysis for city leaders.  Why?  I've been fortunate enough to work in the media from the inside - as well as influence it from the out - and my experience has shown me that the way we convey messages is more and more important in delivering difficult projects. You only need to look at the vociferous - and frequently hysterical - anti-bike lane sentiment we've experienced in London.  Communicating well in a difficult environment is not a skill which comes naturally to most, but preparation goes a long way in helping to navigate that minefield.  My first web-based training seminar; "Achieving Change In A Hostile Media Environment" takes place in May and registration is open.  If you want to keep up to date about further events and training then you can sign up to the Strategic Citiesmailing list, or connect with me on LinkedIn.
ibikelondon has given me incredible opportunities. I've given evidence at Parliament, lectured at the National Conference for Urban Design at Oxford University and written for national newspapers about cycling and cities. I even appeared on Newsnight and Russian state radio.  Blogging takes (a lot of) time, effort and patience, but I've had fantastic experiences by bicycle along the way as well; from riding through backstreets in Shanghai, to chasing the Tour de France through Belgium in a helicopter.  More amazing things than I could ever have imagined when I wrote that first post back in 2009.
There have been tough times, too.  I've stood beside dangerous junctions as grieving relatives mark the site of a loved one's death too many times.  Too often I've written about poorly designed, poorly driven lorries in London, and the fatal problems they present.  And too often I've written how someone has died on an appallingly designed stretch of road which authorities had been warned in advance would lead to fatalities.
Two terrible weeks in 2013 saw six London cyclists lose their lives in rapid succession on our roads.  Those missing riders marked a shadow for a long time afterwards, when the bus seemed more appealing than the bike, and more likely to deliver me to work alive.
The "Tour du Danger" around London's 10 most dangerous junctions for cyclists.  Here the ride is seen outside TfL HQ on Blackfriars Rd - now the site of the north / south cycle superhighway.
London's anger at those deaths, and others, helped to spur our cycling community on.  This helped to achieve genuine political commitment and action from Mayor Boris Johnson.  Protests on Blackfriars Bridge and around dangerous junctions lead to really meaningful change.  Hours of meetings with politicians and their advisors helped to guide policy and new street designs.  But it should never have taken so many deaths for this process to start.
Now we're seeing the result of that commitment with hard-won bike tracks and re-designed junctions appearing across London, most contentiously along the Embankment.  Credit where credit is due; the North / South and East / West Cycle Superhighways is going to change the way we cycle in the city, and for good.
But resistance was ferocious, well-organised and - in the case of the taxi lobby and CanaryWharf Group - incredibly well-funded.  Those same opposing forces are still out there, making their backwards-thinking grievances an issue for the next Mayor of London. 
People who want a liveable London must remain focused (and angry), and Mayors must not be afraid to be bold.  Do not underestimate the change that committed citizens together with committed leaders can bring about.
I recommend you to the London Cycling Campaign and their Sign4Cycling Mayoral target, and to my fellow bike blogger Danny, at Cyclists In The City, who so often has been "a partner in crime" in campaigning escapades.
So it's goodbye ibikelondon blog, and hello to exciting, new Strategic Cities.  Through the years what has often kept me going have been the wonderful interactions - both online and off - with people like you who have read my words here.  Thank you.  I hope you'll come with me on my new adventure, and that there are many safe and wonderful bike rides ahead for us both.
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I've greatly appreciated spending the last month exploring the Himalayas in the state of Himanchal Pradesh, now one of my favourite places in India.  There's something so special about living in the mountains.  The views are truly magnificent, the Himanchali people are so nice and I've encountered a greater sense of village life which appeals to the side of me that just wants to live simply and close to nature.

It is especially a relief to be in the mountains after my time living in the hectic, heavily polluted city of Varanasi.  To breathe clean, mountain air is such a blessing and the nature is beautiful – snow peaked mountains, cheerful birds chirping away, butterflies flying onto flowers, mountain animals like goats and donkeys wandering.  Not only that, but India is experiencing a really unusual amount of heat for this time of year.  Millions are suffering temperatures over 40 degrees and there are major concerns over people’s health, in particular those who are most vulnerable who can’t manage these extreme temperatures.  I realise I’m so lucky that escaping to the mountains is an option available to me that many don’t have.

Back to the Future

My first stop in Himanchal was to the area of Dharamsala where I spent a month on my previous trip five years ago.  This time was very different - firstly as I was there exploring with my mum for ten days whereas last time I'd been alone, and secondly as previously it was off season in monsoon and thus very quiet -at that time I felt like I had the mountains to myself and could sing into the wind!  Yet this time tourist season was just kicking in.

Once my mum left to go back to England, I returned to the town of Bhagsu.  Bhagsu is a lively backpacker hub, walking distance away from the town of McLeod Ganj, home to the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile.  It's nice to be close to this area as the Tibetan town has a completely different feel to Bhagsu and also has lots going on.  The monks are always very chilled out and the Tibetan parts of India always feel calmer than the Indian parts of India!

View of Triund from McLeod Ganj

It was surreal, yet easy, to return to familiar Bhagsu, with it's nice cafes and views – the hours just fall away as you watch life pass by and chat to other travellers.  I even ended up in the same guesthouse as last time as I had such a good view and liked the location, high up the hill, away from the main street.  Yet I felt restless especially as more and more people arrived as the season kicked in.  Amazing musicians come here and there was potential to play music with them but I wasn't content to just sit around among the stoned backpackers drinking tea.  I felt I wanted to be as active as possible or to be experiencing more of 'real India' not this bubble.

What a waste

I was really thankful that I came across an organisation that I could volunteer with called 'Waste Warriors' whose work I felt really passionate about.  They are doing their best to clean up the town of Bhagsu as well as the surrounding local trails.  In particular they clean up the hike to the popular mountain top destination of Triund (2900m 9 km hike) and the path to the Bhagsu Watefall, a popular spot for Indian tourists. Waste Warriors also go into local schools to run workshops and they work with local businesses to ensure that they can recycle and responsibly dispose of their rubbish.  Volunteers can come and help with the weekly clean ups or can come to support the NGO in other ways via internships, running workshops, or helping with design, social media or other office based activities.

Waste Warriors office in Bhagsu

Despite the beauty of the mountains, trash is still a significant problem as there is a big difference in people's attitudes towards rubbish in India, it really is hugely dividing.  Either people will really find it a terrible issue and do their best to stop it or people just don't care at all, it isn't even a consideration - especially for those used to living in cities where the streets are full of litter and anywhere is a dumping site.  Even I am basically used to the rubbish in the cities, as everything is so polluted and dirty - but when you see the rubbish in the natural setting it really stands out as something that shouldn't be there.

Rubbish at the top of Triund

When I did the Triund hike the first time with my mum, I just couldn't keep my mind off the rubbish that I kept seeing everywhere along the trail.  It reminded me of a familiar feeling I'd had in Nepal when I had also been hiking.  There were plastic bottles, glass bottles, clothes, shoes, sweet wrappers, cartons, crisp packets, cigarette butts, plates, plastic bags - the list just goes on.  It was distracting me from taking in the scenery as I just felt so disgusted by it.  I vowed to take some trash down on the way back down the next day.  My heart sank as I confronted some Indian guys who happily threw their plastic bottle from the mountain.  They just didn't understand what I was saying, or simply didn't care.  The top of the mountain was the worst - we'd come during a popular holiday and the camping site looked atrocious covered in bottles left by tourists.  I was also surprised none of the chai stands had made any effort to clean up at least their patch.

A plea to keep it clean – but who listens?

But I was fortunate enough to join Waste Warriors on a few of their clean up operations.  I came across them when I was on the way down from Triund on their weekly clean up of the route.  Inspired and raring to go, I joined them a week later to do the same hike but this time I was equipped with big waste bags, gloves and tongs ready to face the rubbish.  Luckily, having done the hike before, I knew what I was letting myself in for and that I was fit enough. The Indian couple who had also joined us had not anticipated how hard the hike would be - it's one thing to do a hike when you aren't used to it, but another to also be bending down picking up waste and they really struggled.

Yet I enjoyed the challenge. We spent the whole day collecting rubbish, arriving at the top only as it was beginning to get dark and we stayed overnight to rest and return the next morning.  I found myself getting quite perfectionist in my litter picking - not being able to leave anything.  As I grew more confident I became a bit more daring with where I would go to collect the waste.  Some pieces were quite hard to reach, stuck in trees or bushes or having rolled off into the valley, but I figured if we didn't collect it, who would?  So we were very thorough in our clean up and I also improved my acrobatic and balancing skills as a result!  In return for volunteering the local chai stands would give us free drinks and we got to stay in a small hut in Triund for free, sheltered from the biting cold.

Accommodation in Triund is limited – a relief to shelter from the cold!

I still can't believe how much people's attitudes vary towards this issue.  From speaking to locals there is a great deal of tension and resentment towards the tourists who are the ones creating and throwing the rubbish.  However in particular, they blame the Punjabi tourists who are increasingly using this as a weekend holiday destination.  They are developing a reputation for 'having it large' and will come, party, do lots of drinking, shouting and then go home oblivious to the mark they have left.  It's difficult for me to write this, as I don't want to single out a particular group, as we are all responsible for this issue, however there is certainly evidence showing that the numbers of these tourists are increasing and I too observed this party culture and have been shocked this trip by how much alcohol and binge drinking really is becoming part of main stream Indian society.

The Bhagsu Waterfall Clean up Team

I'd really recommend anyone that goes to Bhagsu to spend some time working with this organisation - they are doing a really great job and it's oddly very satisfying to collect the rubbish.  Of course there is still much work to be done in preventing this from happening in the first place.  There needs to be a huge change in attitude and public opinion and I just hope that India's new prime minister succeeds in his mission to try and clean up the country.  The mountains are a wonderful place and it's a tragedy to see them being polluted and the wildlife to be destroyed.  Once it's done it's too late - I hope people start to wake up soon. For more info on Waste Warriors visit their website here.

5 bags of rubbish collected at Bhagsu Waterfall in just 2.5 hours

Back in the country, stockpiling tins of pineapple.

I don't know. There's enough for me to go on holiday, right? Right?

The billhook is a tool with a long history and, perhaps, an important future. It's been around since the Bronze Age, i.e. it's one of the oldest metal tools that mankind has. In Britain, that means over 4,500 years of continuous use. A billhook has a wooden handle (preferably ash) and a wide blade that curves out, ending in a sickle shaped hook. The top of the tool is usually dull and heavy, but is sometimes supplemented by a straight, shorter, projecting secondary blade. The tool is usually no longer than 16" long (including the handle), but can vary in length - and weight. In Britain, there are a number of regional variations that add or subtract to the basic design, and this is repeated across Europe. The billhook is both a general and specialist tool, and these area-specific refinements reflect this.
The billhook is traditionally used for cutting and hacking shrubs, branches and vines. When The Crisis comes, as come it must, finding secluded places to live and farm will become important, and the billhook will come into its own in clearing a path. But it is also a weapon of some note.  As we say in Essex: 'no-one ever fucks about with a bloke holding a billhook' (I can't remember the original Latin), and it also lends its owner a sense of unfuckwithability, which isn't a word but perfectly encapsulates the sense of invincibility and confidence this wooden handled wonder can inspire.
Like the much later smatchet, the billhook is both a blunt instrument and a sharp blade, and can be very useful in hand to hand combat. In the middle ages, with much longer handles, billhooks were often used against attacking cavalry. Its use requires a little technique, but can be effectively employed in a hurry without training, as long as you have brute strength and a will to win. It is a fearsome looking weapon, and brandishing it with feeling may be enough to defer conflict: it looks like it can do immediate damage, and few would relish the thought of being struck with either side of it. It is a great off-putter, or a putter-off-er, if you prefer. There is no stabbing point, of course, so be prepared for things to get messy if things escalate to an actual scrap.

Unlike the specialist (and expensive) smatchet, billhooks are readily available, especially if you can find an agricultural market. A well-worn, well-used second hand billhook is a thing of great beauty, an ergonomic wonder that will make you feel like you were born with it in your hand. Keep the blade sharp and clean, and the handle oiled. You might want to add a wrist strap to minimise the chance of it being used on you. When The Crisis comes, as come it must, your billhook will be your best friend, replacing the dog that you had to eat when times first got tough. Treat it carefully, deploy it decisively, it's a tool and weapon of proud lineage and infinite usefulness.  

I read recently that Japanese scientists studying the Great Tit had discovered that it used compositional syntax in its calls, i.e. it combined different noises to create new meaning and convey more complex ideas. This was previously thought to be something only humans do. It was an interesting study but the headline, however, was 'bird talk just like humans', which is hardly the point. It got me thinking about how mankind behaves like a solipsistic brat, utterly incapable of processing anything without reference to ourselves. Great Tits don't talk like human beings, they use compositional syntax. Yes, this is something that humans also use, but it's not something that we own.
Mankind has always been hard of hearing when it comes to nature. If we were to walk into a jungle, for example, we would be deafened by an array of animal calls. They all mean something, usually very specific. In this example, they may be warning each other about us. Yet, because we don't understand it, we don't value the sounds they make as communication, so we simply ignore it as noise. If, however, we can get a parrot to say 'fuck off' or a dog to say 'sausages' then we laugh and shake each other's hands like we've just discovered fire. We're idiots. A dog isn't delighted if a human makes a barking noise, it just wonders what on earth they are trying to do and what they are trying to say. They probably get annoyed at themselves for not understanding, but then dogs are less intelligent than us, aren't they?
Humans are obsessed with remaking the animal world in our own image. Look at social media: depressed cats, dogs in trousers, penguins on motorbikes, donkeys laughing, otters that look like Dominic Bumbercuntch. Even when people try and 'talk' to animals, like Johnny Morris, or Dr. Doolittle, it's a ventriloquist act, not a dialogue. The animals are given a human voice, and a silly accent. Is there any reason meerkats are Russian? Oh yes, because it's funny*. And all this is presented to reinforce the idea that mankind is where it's at,  and nothing else matters unless it is serving, amusing or copying us. And where has this got us? The world, once a genuine paradise, now resembles a well-used football: denuded, disfigured, slowly losing shape and air.
Think about the Earth and how it was only a few hundred years ago. Think about the Earth as it is now. Think about how the Earth will be in a few hundred years. Yeah, I know, miserable isn't it?
Now dry your eyes, because there is potentially good news around the corner. When The Crisis comes, as come it must, it may only destroy our way of life, not the world we live in. That seems fair: let human beings pay the bill they have run up. We are the only thing the world needs less of, and everything else will benefit from our misfortune: animal numbers will thrive, plants and trees will grow, the planet will compose itself itself, cool and clear its lungs. It will take a while, but it will happen. Most importantly, it will happen without any help from us, our input is simply not required; we've done more than enough. We measure everything in terms of lifetimes, as if a seventy or eighty year period has any cosmic relevance. Even a thousand years of human history seems like an impossibly long period of time. It's pathetic. Our planet is used to the long game, and it has seen off nuisances before in its four and a half billion year history.

Post-Crisis, post-industrialisation, post-mechanisation, post-capitalism, post everything we know, perhaps those of the species that are left will be assimilated to the extent that they will have time and sensitivity and silence enough to finally listen to the world and the noises it makes, to actually hear what everything else is trying to say. That's my hope. Evolution is an ongoing process, after all.

* It's worth pointing out that these 'silly' meerkats are the brains behind the UK's most successful price comparison website, so they're actually laughing all the way to the bank.

and this

and this of  course

Schools out

I've been so happy to start volunteering at the Lotus Foundation School, a small NGO based in Samne Ghat with around fifteen students.  As always in India, things never go as you want and so I couldn’t start on the planned date as there was no water at the school as there was building work going on. Yet it was a huge relief when I finally could start as I'd felt quite isolated being in my Indian home away from it all and wanted to dedicate my energy to something.  I've really enjoyed working with the kids, they are so full of life and it feels good to be contributing to something other than just my own travels and musical development.

The school is a primary school for children that live in a small slum next to the Ganges beneath a large unfinished bridge that crosses the river.  It's really great they get an opportunity to have an education and to learn basic things that we take for granted such as how to take care of ourselves.  At school they can wash, clean their hair and brush their teeth.  Such simple acts that otherwise aren't part of their routine.

We learnt a song about a house and drew pictures to go with this

Sadly hitting and shouting are part of their every day routine and school is also a place for them to learn that this just isn't an acceptable way to treat people or get what you want. It's difficult when this is what they learn at home.  Many parents aren't supportive of the children attending school, so there are always different students each day.  Sometimes the children might want to come but have to work or sometimes they might just not feel like it and no one is forcing them to go.  However every day we go to the slum to collect them to try and encourage them.

I have a huge amount of respect for Jill, an American lady, who runs the project. Firstly she's learnt pretty good Hindi which her allow her to teach the children to speak, read and write.  Everyday there are new challenges at the school – there's no cook, there's noise from builders, the gas has run out, there's a scooter in the classroom etc, but Jill keeps her calm and each day just does what she can given the difficult circumstances.

She is co-ordinating a move to a new school building next month across the river so that more children can attend.  She will create a hostel so that the current 15 or so children that come each day can live there and be fed so that they can keep coming.  If that wasn’t enough in itself she is also in the process of starting a guesthouse in the tourist area – the profits of which will be used to fund the school in the long run and offer job training to the children in the future. Jill very much takes everything in her stride, she manages so many things, it's amazing.

Going to the slum to collect the kids for school

She has also been great to work with.  I've found it challenging in the past volunteering on projects where there is little support and induction but she was very welcoming.  I work with an Indian man called Vikash, who usually teaches but has been translating for me and handles a lot of the discipline which makes it so much easier.  I also really appreciate his help so much – in the past it's been hard to teach with my limited Hindi and not knowing the school's way of maintaining discipline.

Jill is also passionate about ensuring the children are involved in the arts and can learn to express themselves.  Which is where I come in! I've been teaching the children music and songs to develop their English and starting to develop their rhythm.  It's been fun taking my guitar to school each day to teach new songs.  We've also made out own instruments and done lots of drawing. We are now preparing for a performance before I leave which is really exciting for them and gives them a good reason to come to school.  I feel like in this short space of time I now know each child - their personality and ability.  It's a shame I have to leave, I've enjoyed working with the kids and having the school routine.

Lunch time – yummy

As well as the teaching I love the start of school, the name game they do so that they can learn names (another things we take for granted - they live together yet don't know one another's names), doing yoga, some meditation (aka trying to sit still for two whole minutes) and reading the day's message. It's also great they get given a healthy snack of fruit as well as lunch of rice and daal.  The one time of day there is a sustained amount of silence as they gobble up their food.  I'm also fortunate to get picked up every day on a scooter which is just so much fun, whizzing through the hustle and bustle of Varanasi.

Thanks so much Jill - if you want to get in contact with her for any volunteering let me know!

Monkey business

You truly know you're in India when you have to alter your daily routine as a result of monkeys causing you trouble.  I was lured into a false sense of adorement for these creatures, the little ones look so cute and they're entertaining to watch but I quickly discovered they are not to be messed with.  In fact now I'm super wary of them.

The monkeys are very aggressive, territorial and protective of their babies.  They're on heat at this time of year and just become crazy.  My first encounter was with Anita Ji, trying to get to her mum's house - there was a group of them crossing the street and she wouldn't dare go past them until a man came with a large stick and shooed them away.  I remember thinking she was quite overly worried and that it was a bit extreme, surely we could just quickly scoot past?

Beware – monkeys crossing the street

Soon I got a phone call from my Kolkata friend explaining she'd just arrived in Varanasi the previous night and had been bitten by a monkey this morning!  She was meditating on the roof when she felt a baby monkey jump innocently onto her.  She thought it was sweet until the mother monkey lept towards her, chasing her down the stairs with other monkeys following.  Mother monkey then bit her on the leg with her sharp teeth.  My friend had to go to the hospital to get several rabies injections which made her pretty sick each time she had them.  What a welcome to the city……

I knew then the monkey problem really was serious and the next day I had my first adrenaline pumping encounter.  In the mornings, if there's time I like to go to the roof top to play my guitar.  It's the only place I can get some privacy as every door in my Indian house is always open (even the one to my bedroom get's  re opened whenever I close it as they use the room for puja and to have class!).  If I played outside the house I'd just attract so much attention.  So before and after the heat of the sun blasts out, the roof is my one 'safe space' - although obviously there is also someone who lives up there are does their washing and cleaning as I play…ha.

Anyway, I was innocently playing my guitar and watching the group of monkeys across the street on top of another building, far away, scavenging for food leftover from a wedding party.  Before I knew it a small head popped up from over the wall, looked me straight in the eyes, flashed it's sharp teeth and immediately I knew it was in attack mode. Uh oh,

I knew that if I just ran, it would chase me and just bite me like it did with my friend because they are so fast.  Luckily I'd just heard from someone that if you look as though you are going to attack them they back off and so you shouldn't lurch backward but run forwards.  Yes, it seems a bit counter intuitive but I lifted my guitar in the air and shouted 'AGHHHHHHHHH' in a really low voice for a really long time lurching my body forwards. It looked surprised, so then I ran for it!

I heard it chase me as I ran down the stairs so I turned again and went 'AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH'.  Ran again - I was still being chased so turned around AGAIN with my aggressive 'AGHHH' until I was on the level of my house.  Of course another monkey was also coming up the stairwell having heard the shriek from it's friend so I backed into my gateway slamming the gate shut and could see that there were now about six monkeys hanging around the house, the balcony of which is protected by a cage.  Now I know why there is a cage.

Now I always carry a stick to the roof!

Anita said she'd heard my shout but had though it was a man because it was so low.  They monkey troop hung around for a good hour waiting for me to come out.  It shook me up but I know I had a lucky escape.   From that day on if there's the slightest sign of any monkeys on the roof I return home.  And I always carry a huge, big stick up there with me.  On the streets I avoid going near them and know never to make eye contact….monkey business.

Gratitude

Little things I'm grateful for - hot water for washing.  I hadn't realised there was hot water at our house as the warm and cold tap are the wrong way round.  Each morning I'd been cringing as I washed, thinking that 'warm' water, must mean not freezing cold.  Only accidently did I discover there is warm water.  Halleluiah, it's changed my world, just a small, simple thing but so much nicer to have.

I also never realised the importance of mirrors.   I like to think I'm not so vain and when I lived in the jungle I barely used a mirror, but it's not like I had to look presentable for anything (or wear much!) but now I've been working in a school and wanting to get ready and there is only one mirror in the house in the dining room that everyone uses.  I feel really weird about standing there and getting ready.  Privacy in the house has definitely been an issue!

India life is so surreal

It's wedding season and so it was only a matter of time before I would be invited to an Indian Wedding.  I went to a small sections, which is good as they go on for days with people not even sleeping so I was satisfied with just a glimpse.  I attended with the whole family and although we didn't see the actual ceremony, as that didn't start until 1am, I got a good feel for what it's like. It was a grand affair with the venue lavishly decorated with sparkly and shiny things that they so much love here.  There were delicious food stalls dotted around the site and so I was in food heaven.  I borrowed a beautiful silk sari and felt very glamorous.  There was also a lot of sitting around not knowing what was going on which is just my usual India experience a lot of the time.  So I played with Anjali, the 11 year old child of the family, who was delighted to have someone to play rock, paper, scissors with.

Blinged up for the Indian Wedding

 

Performing folk at an Indian Classical Concert …only in India

I was also very privileged to perform in a small concert a couple of weeks ago – a complete surprise.  A group of Argentian tourists came to the home to see my Indian parents do a concert and they invited me to sing with them.  I sang an Indian song (Bolo Bolo) by myself which was terrifying as I had to follow their incredible performance!  And nerves make singing an already complex song even harder.  But I appreciate their sentiment, they were giving me this opportunity to practice which is wonderful.

Then I got to sing a song with my guitar which I really enjoyed, this was much more in my comfort zone but of course once again, expect the unexpected.  We hadn't rehearsed and as I started playing the song Indian drumming from the tabla accompanied me, a super fast rhythm started, far faster than I wanted - it just did not suit the song and the drumming had to slowly fade out again.  It threw me a bit, but I managed to see the funny side.  This is India….

 

When The Crisis comes, as come it must, it will signal a number of seismic changes to the way we live, especially the fundamental tenets of modern society that we currently take for granted. Paper money will only be worthwhile as kindling, for example, or, if you really want to know bitter irony, as toilet paper. Conversely, actual toilet paper will be so rare that it will become a type of currency. There won't be any sandwiches either. I'll repeat that: there will be no sandwiches. In my lifetime, the sandwich has evolved from something curly and white and slightly smeared with meat paste to a multi-layered, multi-coloured baroque masterpiece, a vulgar but wonderfully rendered piece of rainbow food art with up to sixty ingredients, some of which actually taste of something, others which you would be advised to wash your hands thoroughly after handling. Take a look at your store bought sandwich this lunchtime, and simultaneously marvel and recoil at the impossibly long list of sinister components, I speak, of course, about such life-affirming nuggets and unguents as niacin, thiamin, sodium nitrate, ascorbic acid, beryllium, sapphire, silver, steel and watercresss.
Actually, these ingredients may have been in sandwiches before, I don't know. Perhaps ascorbic acid is in every slice of bread, part of the process. It may even be the tastiest bit. But my point is that, previously, no-one cared. They ate it, or they didn't, they had no interest in what its constituent elements were. Also, very few people had allergies, and even fewer people cared about those that did. It was a strange and savage world in many ways, but you knew where you were. Being made aware of the composition of every molecule of every morsel you put in your mouth has not in any way been an advance. It has caused confusion and fear, and added another wrinkle to the worried and weary face of the 21st century, a period already much older than its time.      
In any event, your worries will soon be over as most of this lengthy list of bromides, anti-coagulants and laxatives will not be available post Crisis or, rather, will be hoarded like rubies and used in bombs or added to stews as a means of removing unsuitable chieftains from power, so that's literally and figuratively one less thing on your plate.
Overall, however, I think that this is most definitely a good thing. As an office worker, I am so fucking sick of sandwiches. There's something quite shameful about the average shop bought triple decker on artisanal halfmeal with pumpkin seeds and beetroot slaw - or, indeed, a good old fashioned cheese and pickle pile on cardboard bread in a sweaty cling film coat. A sandwich seems to rams home the corporeality of mankind, its grossness, its self-disgust. Only a KFC is more humiliating. The sandwich is designed to be devoured, shoved in, gulped down, quickly, easily, unthinkingly, in a hury. Who amongst us hasn't hastily gobbled a sandwich on a train, on the street, in a corner, in a corridor, like a rat in a bin, or a fox in a skip? Who hasn't understood with every hasty bite that we're nothing special, just  large, ambulatory lumps of meat that need to pump prawn and avocado into their guts lest they seize up? The sandwich, which always looks so attractive in the hand, goes down like excrement on the palate, because you are never more aware than with the first bite that, in purchasing this gilded turd, you have failed as a human being*.
So, yep, for once, The Crisis will actually facilitate a positive change: no more sandwiches, and no more sandwich shame. Don't worry, though, you will have a million other things to be mortally disgusted with.


Finally, there is nothing wrong with the sandwich at the top of the post, despite its appearance. It's actually been put into pre-marked anti-theft bag. I don't know what's worse, a world where people steal your sandwiches, or a world where you can buy something to desperately try and stop them. Thank fuck for The Crisis, which will put an end to such dilemmas once and for all.

* This is especially true of awful outlet Subway where, despite being able to customise your bread roll with hundreds of different ingredients, the end result can only ever be one of two combinations: cold shit, or hot shit.

Drugged, hypnotic, sleazy throb

Jamerson requires his own post: Lazily I have cut and pasted this from http://www.bassland.net/jamersonhits.htmand this is only the single tracks he figures on:
My Girl - TemptationsBernadette - 4 TopsAint That Peculiar - Marvin GayeOoh Baby Baby - The MiraclesTo Many Fish In The Sea - The MarvelettesUptight (Everything Is Alright) - Stevie WonderHeat Wave (U) - Martha & The VandellasThis Old Heart Of Mine - Isley BrothersI Heard It Through The Grapevine (2 recordings) - Marvin Gaye, Gladys Knight & PipsWhere Did Our Love Go (U) - Diana/SupremesSince I Lost My Baby - TemptationsFor Once In My Life - Stevie WonderMy Guy (U) - Mary WellsYour Precious Love - Marvin Gaye/Tammy TerrellYou've Really Got A Hold On Me - The MiraclesLove Child - Diana/SupremesI Guess I'll Always Love youDancing In The Streets - Martha & The VandellasDon't Mess With Bill - The MarvelettesWhat's Going On - Marvin GayeStanding In The Shadows Of Love - 4 TopsMickey's Monkey (U) - The MiraclesCloud Nine - TemptationsNothing's To Good For My Baby - TemptationsMy Baby Loves Me - Martha & The VandellasYou Keep Me Hanging On - Diana/SupremesYou Beat Me To The Punch - Mary WellsLittle Darling (I Need You) - 4 TopsI'm Ready For LoveThe Way You Do The Things You Do - TemptationsI Can't Help Myself - 4 TopsRoadrunner - Jr. Walker & The All-StarsYou're All I Need To Get By - TemptationsYou Can't Hurry Love - Diana/SupremesShop Around - The MiraclesAin't To Proud To Beg - TemptationsMy Cherie Amour - Stevie WonderIt's The Same Old Song - 4 TopsHow Sweet It Is - Marvin GayeTake Me In Your Arms (And Rock Me A Little While) - Brenda HollowayAin't No Mountain High Enough (2 recordings) - Marvin Gaye/Tammy Terrell, Diana/SupremesMy Baby Must Be A Magician - The MarvelettesLove Is Like An Itching In My Heart - Diana/SupremesBeauty Is Only Skin Deep - TemptationsAsk The Lonely - 4 TopsGoing To A Go-Go - The MiraclesI was Made To Love Her - Stevie WonderHitch Hike - Marvin GayeI Second That Emotion - The MiraclesPlease Mr. Postman - The MarvelettesJimmy Mack (U) - Martha & The VandellasI Hear A Symphony - Diana/SupremesShake Me, Wake Me (When It's Over) - 4 TopsI'm Gonna Make You Love Me - TemptationsGet Ready - TemptationsThe Hunter Gets Captured By The GameStop! In The Name Of Love - Diana/SupremesThat's What Love Is Made OfNowhere To Run - Martha & The VandellasSeven Rooms Of Gloom - 4 TopsPride & Joy - Marvin Gaye(I Know) I'm Losing You - TemptationsTwo Lovers - Mary WellsI'll Turn To Stone - 4 TopsCome See About Me - Diana/SupremesStubborn Kind Of Fellow - Marvin GayeHow Long Has That Evening Train Been GoneIf I Were your Woman Gladys Knight & The PipsMy World Is Empty Without You - Diana/SupremesThe Tracks Of My Tears - The MiraclesI'm Wondering - Stevie WonderCan I Get A Witness - Marvin GayeThe Girls Alright With Me - TemptationsShoo Be Doo Be Doo Da Day - Stevie WonderReflections - Diana/SupremesWhat Becomes Of The Broken Hearted - Jimmy RuffinBaby I Need Your Loving - 4 TopsQuicksand... - Martha & The VandellasReach Out...I'll Be There - 4 TopsYou Beat Me To The Punch - Mary WellsThe Bells - The OriginalsShotgun - Jr. Walker & The All-StarsFingertips (pt2)- Stevie WonderHey Girl - Stevie WonderWhat Are You Gonna Do When I'm Gone (U) - Kim Weston Still Water Runs Deep - Four Tops (Chuck Whaley)All in the Game - Four Tops (Chuck Whaley)My Baby - TemptationsThe One Who Really Loves You (U)- Mary WellsThis Old Heart Of Mine - Isley BrothersMy Whole World Ended (The Moment You Left) - David RuffinIt Takes Two (U) - Marvin Gaye/Tammy TerrellHoney Chile - Martha & the VandellasTo Busy Thinking About My Baby - Marvin GayeWhen Your Young And In Love - MarvelettesAin't Nothing Like The Real Thing - Marvin Gaye/Tammy TerrellStill Waters Run Deep - Four TopsIf I Were Your Woman - Gladys Knight & the PipsI Want You Back - Jackson 5It's Growing - The Temptations Agent Double O Soul - Edwin StarrI Can't Get Next To You - Temptations I want A Love I can Feel - Temptations Heart Breaking Guy - Supremes 

bass = discipline


two very different tracks, but the bass has the same kind of propulsive quality in each

The man.

The legend.

The machine.


The slap bass.

'The Bass was played using an early Roland SH1000 made in the late 70's This was originally designed to sit on top of a Hammond organ so it looked like one! This was a monophonic synth but would play two octaves at once so using a combination
of square and sine waves an octave apart combined with a lot of wrestling with a portamento switch to get the slides this is how the bass lines were done. No sequencer was used at all on the bass lines just a lot of sweat and keeping time which was helped by me also being a drummer! The synth was recorded through a Boss chorus guitar pedal (blue type) and then compressed a lot through a studio DBX160 a really great vintage compressor.The bass was very high in the mix but cut through because of the compression and the split octaves.Just an illusion bass was the best of two different lines recorded over two days on Analogue 24tk before digital came in.' - Tony Swain from his blog tonyswainproducer.blogspot.co.uk   http://tonyswainproducer.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/tony-swain-producer-composer.html 

As referenced previously by Ralph Dorey, very eloquently - http://andwhatwillbeleftofthem.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/free-your-mind-and-your-ass-will-follow.html

'....Heinke cracked the code of "Shook Ones Part II" while listening to "Jessica," a 1969 recording by Herbie Hancock. It turns out that Mobb Deep rapper-producer Havoc took a piano melody from the song and slowed it down at two different pitches to create a two-bar loop more reminiscent of a bass guitar than keyboard.'
LA Times, April 5, 2011

The one I should have posted for Peter Hook

Back in Varanasi

It's been a fortnight of ups and downs as I'm whirled around on the bumpy path that is India.  Don't get me wrong, I'm so grateful I'm here, but sometime I have to remind myself of why I'm in such an alien environment where everything is topsy turvy, dirty and I'm away from my friends and family! In actual fact one of the biggest reasons is to have singing lessons and spend time with a wonderful lady called Anitaji. The ji at the end of the name is an Indian term of endearment and respect.  I've been using it as I integrate back into Indian culture and family life.

Cows and kids – the most common of sightings in India

I'm fortunate enough to be living with her and her husband Rohitji in their family home in the sacred and super busy city of Varanasi - a place of pilgrimage for many Hindus.  Dying in Varanasi is particularly auspicious as it's meant to overcome the cycle of rebirth.  Anita and Rohit live in a residential area called Sakat Nagar which is about half an hour away from the holy river Ganges and the Old City (an area made up of narrow alleys, temples and lots of cows and monkeys).  This means I'm somewhat isolated in that I'm away from the main tourist area (and thus creature comforts such as Wi Fi!).

How things unfold

I met these talented and kind musicians on my previous India trip when I was totally mesmerised by the singing lessons I had with Anita in Bhagsu, a backpacker town in the Himalayas.  I enjoyed the lessons so much I stayed there for a month and then later in the trip also spent a month with them in Varanasi for an intensive course and had four hours of lessons per day! I had such an incredible stay being immersed in study and expanding my voice – it really inspired me so much to sing, a supressed ambition I'd had for a long time.  Choosing to dedicate your energy to singing is the kind of insane thing that only happens on travels in India when you have time and a little money (for us) goes a long way.

Singing has now become a huge part of my life – five years ago I couldn't even have imagined I'd be running my own community choir and performing at Glastonbury Festival - it's all a bit surreal.  My Indian music lessons paved the way for this and if anyone could appreciate how far I'd come; from not even being able to sing in front of others or sing high notes without grimacing awkwardly at the sound, to where I am now - it's Anita. So it felt really nice to come back and share with her my achievements over the past few years and develop my singing further so that I can continue to develop my choir leading skills.

Feeling Frustrated

I've been feeling a huge irony in being here again to have singing lessons, even though I've waited five years to return.  I'm here to develop my singing ability and yet it feels like one of the least conducive environments for this.  The pollution here feels really horrific!  Even in just five years it feels a lot worse than it used to be.  There's so much dust and smog in the air and the amount of traffic that blocks the roads is overwhelming, as it's constant traffic jams and often times it is faster to walk past the traffic than be in the rickshaw.

I've noticed my throat feels quite dry all of the time, I'm coughing – I may also have a cold or be adjusting to the climate, but in any case it doesn't feel good for my health.  It's so frustrating as I have had quite a struggle in class not being able to use my voice in the way I normally can.  However it's not just me who has had difficulty, Anita has also struggled.  It concerns me a lot that these are the conditions that people here have to live in permanently.  Without a doubt, if this continues a lot of people are going to get very sick and although the government is bringing in more measures to create positive change, like encouraging more push bikes, change takes time to infiltrate and we need action now.

Varanasi traffic on a good day Protecting the voice

Every time I go outside a wave of fumes hits me. I've begrudgingly resorted to wearing a scarf around my head that covers my mouth to try to stop this.  I don't want to walk around like this, as if I'm in disguise (though to be fair in India it has it's uses to blend in more) but I feel like it's necessary to protect my voice.  The other option is just to not go outside, but I'm too restless to do that.  I can't sit inside all day, especially if I can see the sun outside - I have to move or I go a bit mad.

All being said, it's making me really appreciating clean air - even London air.  I'm lucky that I can choose to live in places that aren't so polluted.  Although I am hugely grateful to be in Varanasi, I already know the fresh air of the Himalayas will be very much welcome.  For now I just have to deal with the pollution, as millions of Indians do every day!

My dramatic voice and throat protection! Or am I a spy? Welcome to your Indian Family

I've very much enjoyed being part of an Indian family, it's been lovely to catch up with what's gone on over the last few years for them, it's been great to practice my Hindi and it's reassuring there are some people looking out for me.  I feel so welcome in their home - they've introduced me to so many family members, they let me borrow their smart phones if I need to check something, they showed me their 90's wedding video –  jam packed with amazing retro Indian special effects such as their pictures spinning round in a love heart and gods flashing across the screen.

Each evening at 9pm we settle down to watch our favourite Hindi soap opera - Salaam ee Ishk, packed full of drama.  Each love scene the soppy music starts and the actor's hair starts to blow in the wind as they stare longingly at one another.  They have the classic evil step mother who is the villain of the family and is always scheming.  I shout at the screen a lot reacting to the drama as it unfolds, despite not being able to understand a lot of what is being said, but it's fairly obvious and I get regular translations given to me. At home I never watch TV but it feels nice to have something familiar each evening and it's definitely entertaining.

Singing from the same sheet?

I’ve resumed lessons – but this time only 2 hours per day.  Given that the school I a meant to teach in hasn’t been open (due to unexpected construction) I have felt a bit like I’m just hanging around too much. However I realise this isn’t for long.  I do love our early morning singing sessions which are very meditative just singing lots of low notes to warm up the voice and doing scales.  I'm also being reaquanited with songs I haven't sung in five years.  Some are very beautiful but overall I'm already realising that, although it's incredible to sing in the Indian Classical style, it's so complex and isn't really where I want to focus my musical energy.

The singing I 've been involved with in England is so much about making music accessible to all and this is basically the opposite as the true singers are trained one on one for hours per day over a life time.  However it's helping me realise the styles of music that I do want to explore further next -  bluegrass, folk, gospel, old spirituals.  I think that what I'll most benefit from is the opportunity to develop my technique, to really sing from the belly and expand my range.

My first week in Varanasi

I spent some days acquiring an old fashioned Indian mobile phone, having completed my fair share of bureaucracy - filling in some forms, giving copies of my visa and passport and of course also passport photos - what hoop jumping as usual in India.

I've had a few trips to the tailor to fit Indian garments for me - I now have several kurtas (an above the knee length top with slits down the side) and some kurtis (same as kurta but longer).  I have way too many Indian clothes, but as soon I'll be teaching and am not just in backpacker areas it feels like the right thing to do to blend in more and it's quite fun as I get to wear a completely different style of clothing to anything I would normally wear.

The colours and patterns I select are nothing like I would wear at home and the leggings I wear in purple and green are also way brighter than anything I'd normally wear.  Yet people here would probably still say my style is quite demure as they love their bling and bright colours.  Seeing Indian men wander round in the classic Indian sparkly jumpers makes me chuckle - they are so in fashion here, they're amazing.

This photo doesn’t do the Indian sparkly jumper enough justice

I've also gone on a few trips to Anita's mother's house (known as 'nani' or grandmother) who also  tries very hard to feed me so that I fatten up.  It's quite amusing sitting in their house as several people chat, laugh, sometimes bicker and I try to pick up on what's going on but don't have much of a clue.  I just sit quietly and sip tea.  Last time I was there they had a special guest - a family relative, who came to deliver a wedding invitation as it's wedding season.  So now I have a wedding to attend on Tuesday evening, my first one and already a sari is being arranged for me to wear!

Mother away from home…

I feel a bit like I've slipped into the role of an Indian daughter!  In some ways this is lovely and it's nice to be cared for, but it's also difficult!  Anita is a wonderful woman, but she is extremely stubborn and refuses to let me do any washing, cleaning or helping. I feel really guilty as I sit there watching her do it, but she just won't let me and gets quite angry if I do. I think as it's undermining her role and she wants to welcome her guest.  So I guess I should just make the most of it whilst I can, I'm starting to let go but it's difficult.  Then once I leave Varanasi I'll be meeting my real mum, so the mothering may continue!  I think it wouldn't be so bad but at the moment I've had quite a free schedule and so feel like I'm just sitting around too much doing nothing.

I've been going out as much as I can – I know Anita is really grateful to have someone she can venture outside with.  She explained to me that it's difficult to go shopping alone as women still get inappropriate comments made about them  which I find unbelievable.  Luckily, as I can't understand anyone, I'm not scared to venture out alone as I am oblivious to what they are saying and I know I'm doing my best to be respectful in how I dress and behave.

Nearly every day I accompany Anita on some errand that needs doing, including buying new t-shirts for Rohit, fetching supplies and helping her to find a smart phone for Rohit (I'm the 'expert' with this apparently - again ironic as for anyone that knows me I am not so great with this stuff but the fact I can download an app is even advanced so I am also helping them with this).  I've been their mobile consultant helping when something isn't working, something new needs downloading or when they want help writing a message.

Anitaji shopping at a local roadside market

We've also been going for walks together around 6am in the morning for exercise before it's hot and busy.  The park is full of men and you certainly don't see women on their own. It's quite eye opening how much freedom we have at home, to not even have to think about that.  Anita shared with me that as a teenager she could run and played lots of basketball on a team, yet when she married this ended and she really missed it so much.  I can't imagine having to stop doing exercise because you get married and can't go out alone.  She also sits a lot when she teaches so I really understand why she wants to walk whilst I am here and why she is so keen on moving about doing housework.

The park I walk in every morning The next chapter

I'm really looking forward to starting teaching next week.  It's been a great fortnight but I've felt isolated at times or a bit stuck at the house and frustrated I can't do anything to help.  I've been going for walks to Assi Ghat, the most Southern of the ghats which is the nearest to the family home which has helped.  The ghats are the steps down to the holy river Ganges that people use to bathe their and wash their sins away, although on a physical level it’s some of the most polluted water in the world – the Indian ironies…

Assi Ghat, my place of rest

It's nice there as it's far more peaceful, I can make the most of the sun, there is less pollution and I get to use internet in cafes with wifi (if I'm lucky and it's working).  The atmosphere is just very beautiful and sacred.  It's also a great place to people watch as I drink chai and I've already had my first Indian 'Selfie' Pic – hilarious.  Missing all at home, but grateful to be here and see Anita and Rohit as well as my good friends the cows!

First Indian Selfie (so I had to get a copy!)

... the lynch pin of the Jam

I don't dream much, mainly because I don't sleep much. But when I do, and can remember it, I make a note of it. I'm looking for clues, really. I know from bitter experience that there's nothing more boring than being told someone else's dreams, so feel free not to read this post. I haven't tweaked any of the details, but I have, at least, tried to make it short and to the point.
I was in a holiday camp. It reminded me a little of the Butlins holidays I used to have as a kid, but it was all enclosed, so it may have even been a cruise ship, although it was apparently situated in Lancashire. At the top of the building/ship there was a large auditorium where loud but inoffensive techno music was playing. I looked at my phone and saw that the home screen had been replaced by a countdown - 29, 28, 27, etc.
When it hit zero, the room exploded with light and noise and I became weightless, as did everyone else. I wasn't expecting it, and wasn't quite sure what to do. Around me, people were enjoying the process and dancing and grooving in the air. It looked like fun, so I tried a few tentative moves. After sixty seconds we all floated slowly to the ground, all smiling. I looked at my phone, the countdown had begun again: 4.45, 4.44, 4.43…and I was filled with great excitement about shortly being able to fly again.
This went on for a bit and was very enjoyable, and I became ever more daring in my aerial choreography. Then a girl I used to go out with twenty five years ago came in and said she had a job interview and would I tuck her blouse in for her.      

Calling all contributors past and present  Carl and I have had a discussion about whether there could be a Best of the Decades Blog book. The blogs have featured some great writing over the years and it would be nice to give them some recognition. Also, Blogger will stop working at some point, people move onto other things, and it would be a shame to lose so many good posts.
Exactly what form this would take I don't know. We could follow Woebot's example and do it ourselves, or see if a publisher is interested.  But before going any further I would like to hear what other contributors think. So email your thoughts, pro or anti, to: belovedenemies [at] gmail.com
Even if you only posted one piece, I would still like your opinion. Readers who feel strongly are also welcome to express their views. 
Thanks,William

Calling all contributors past and present  Carl and I have had a discussion about whether there could be a Best of the Decades Blog book. The blogs have featured some great writing over the years and it would be nice to give them some recognition. Also, Blogger will stop working at some point, people move onto other things, and it would be a shame to lose so many good posts.
Exactly what form this would take I don't know. We could follow Woebot's example and do it ourselves, or see if a publisher is interested.  But before going any further I would like to hear what other contributors think. So email your thoughts, pro or anti, to: belovedenemies [at] gmail.com
Even if you only posted one piece, I would still like your opinion. Readers who feel strongly are also welcome to express their views. 
Thanks,William

Calling all contributors past and present  Carl and I have had a discussion about whether there could be a Best of the Decades Blog book. The blogs have featured some great writing over the years and it would be nice to give them some recognition. Also, Blogger will stop working at some point, people move onto other things, and it would be a shame to lose so many good posts.
Exactly what form this would take I don't know. We could follow Woebot's example and do it ourselves, or see if a publisher is interested.  But before going any further I would like to hear what other contributors think. So email your thoughts, pro or anti, to: belovedenemies [at] gmail.com
Even if you only posted one piece, I would still like your opinion. Readers who feel strongly are also welcome to express their views. 
Thanks,William

Am I really doing this again?

I can't believe I'm back in India - it's been five whole years since my last trip and this year has seen me back on the road and in traveler mode.  In 2011, I vowed to come back in the not too distant future and now I finally have and am most grateful for the opportunity.  I've felt strongly about returning for a long time, as if it was something I had to do otherwise I'd forever regret it.

Yet despite knowing deep down it will be an incredible trip, I still experienced a lot of the pre travelling apprehension –  that sense of the unknown, wondering how much it would have changed, how I'd feel once I was actually there, awareness I was leaving behind the choir that I'd so proudly built up, saying goodbye to friends and family and basically any sense of stability, routine and familiarity.  Yet I'm now realising in many ways how much more familiar and normal this backpacker way of life somehow feels to me and so within that there is a great sense of stability for me!

A home from my Hertford home – Hertford Lane in Kolkata! Failing to plan, is planning to fail (except in India)

Before leaving England, India logistics felt a bit overwhelming - the two simple tasks I wanted to complete both turned out to be way more difficult than I felt they should be.  Firstly, I needed to book a guesthouse for my arrival to Kolkata, but ringing around the 'nice' budget ones recommended by Lonely Planet (of course), I quickly found they were all full.  On my previous trip I never booked ahead but I wanted to know I would have somewhere to stay upon arrival after a long journey, not yet quite being in my free flow traveller mode.

Secondly I knew that I wanted to get the train from Kolkata to Varanasi as soon as possible upon arrival. I'd made arrangements to visit and stay with my wonderful music teachers/Indian parents for five weeks, who were probably the greatest reason I felt such a need to return.  I knew that staying with them would be the best way to get back into the Indian culture, Hindi and that I'd be comfortable and well looked after in their home with good food to eat and a nice bed to sleep in.

Yet, busy train routes in India become booked up quickly months in advance.  I could see online all the trains I wanted to take were filling up fast. It turns out that booking trains online, which used to be simple, is now close to impossible for foreigners as you require an Indian mobile to receive the necessary 'validation code'.  In theory you can get around this by emailing a copy of your passport and some 'basic details' to an indicated email address.  Yet after two weeks of emailing back and forth and trying to set up an account with different email addresses, I gave up with the bureaucracy as a different person kept answering my query with another reason my details weren't correct which was so frustrating.

And thus, I remembered lesson number one (how could I forget?)  that if you can surrender to India, it will make your life a great deal easier. I could make plans as much as I liked, but in India you have to expect the unexpected, so it's a fatal flaw to try and control everything because you'll just end up really frustrated, which was totally happening to me. So I just had to let go of being in control of everything and to remember that it will all work out, it always does.

Surrendering

Through the wonders of the internet I found some guesthouses that were still available.  They were more expensive that I was looking for (at ten pounds per night which is actually my daily budget living out here) but prices in India are rising fast and Kolkata is known for it's dodgy accommodation which is limited to mainly dingy rooms at a high price. So essentially I got to pick the best of a bad bunch.

I went for one that I knew would be in a good location in the backpacker area.   This is where my previous Kolkata knowledge came in so useful, as I was confident that at least there I could meet other travellers, access internet and find some good places to eat.  The 'Hotel Continental' had three great reviews at the top and about twenty advising not to stay (bed bugs, cleanliness, dingy, small etc). But t I really just needed a bed for the night.

In the end my guesthouse turned out not so bad as I'd had really low expectations.  It wasn't worth what I paid but I had a decent bed, the room was fairly clean and I had my own bathroom.  It was quite noisy, but it's hard to find any peace in this city and it felt safe and secure and was well located (if somewhat hard to find).  I couldn't really have hoped for more given the reviews, I was just glad my room at least was bedbug and stench free.  It's funny how quickly my standards can adapt from my what I am used to in England.

Adjusting to Indian guesthouses in Kolkata – this was a pleasant surprise! Lost is the new found

On the day I arrived I decided to brave the city and walk to the Eastern Railways booking office, a place near the train station where it's possible to book trains under the 'tourist quota'.  They reserve a certain amount of seats for foreign travellers on busy train routes and I was hoping under this there'd still be space.  Fuelled only adrenaline I braved the madness of the busy streets and had to get used to the confused looks and people trying to sell me things.

Finding the booking office, felt like such an achievement.  As I have no smart phone I'd printed a map with more detail than in the book but what did not help was that it turns out that many of Kokata's streets have two names - the Colonial name and the new name, either of which could appear on a street sign and on the map. Also as the roads are so big it's hard to know when to cross as you can't see the street sign. Added to that crowds of people are everywhere and you have to cluster in small groups to have the power to cross the busy roads, edging confidently forwards until the traffic starts driving around you as they can see the direction you are all heading in.  Terrifying, exhilarating and hilarious all at once.

So I just went in a general direction, trying to keep my bearings. When I did have to reluctantly get out my the map and random Indians gave me directions, I ignored them as apparently it is common for people just to want to be polite and helpful even when they have no clue!  This is so true and if I'd followed the street man's directions I would have headed totally in the wrong direction and yet he seemed so adamant of where he was pointing me.

What I did do was ask lots of official looking people along the way, such a security guards in government and bank buildings who were very helpful and seemed quite excited to be talking to a foreigner.  So I found it after forty five minutes and when I arrived I was so proud of myself.  When I managed to also book onto the train that was advertised as full online I was delighted, the form filling and waiting around had paid off.  I am totally winning at India - phew.

The backpacker hub of Sudder Street Arriving in topsy turvy India

Despite my initial nerves, I had so many nice encounters even just on the journey there - with chatty Indians returning home, with the security men in Gatwick asking me to play them a song on guitar and with another girl who I had to wait with for ages before my bag arrived.  By the time I was stepping through the doors at the airport I felt a huge sense of excitement sweep over me. I felt the warmth of the sun on my skin, which I'd been missing so much in England.  Then I got a whiff of that familiar, musty air (honestly not a bad smell, though there are definitely some of those around).  There was a sense of familiarity among the madness and it didn't feel like much had changed or five years had passed.

And it is mad – yet of all the big cities Kolkata is my favourite kind of mad.  The best place to people watch - my taxi journey to Sudder Street, the backpacker area, took me through familiar sights of traffic filled streets full of cars, taxis, motorbikes all beeping their horns as much and loudly as possible to indicate their presence. In time this would probably drive me mad, but at the moment it still has a nostalgic feel to it as I walk the streets or hear it through my guesthouse window.  To us, it seems odd but in India, not beeping would be rude as it is alerting every one of your presence!

I was reminded of the colours and smells of India, so much brightness – in people's clothes, the trinkets and treasures the street stalls are selling, the billboard adverts everywhere showing how much of a consumer culture India is turning in to trying to sell us a Western lifestyle with an Indian twist.  That set amongst the dusty, drab, crumbling colonial style buildings makes a unique place, yet I find it quite mesmerising.

There's so much life everywhere.  People are just going about their business, Indians on the street polishing shoes, cutting hair, selling chai, drying out their washing in the middle of the road, reading newspapers, chattering away at the bus stop - it's just so fascinating to watch.

So happy to have chai back in my life; This stuff is seriously addictive. Times are a changing

I'm so curious this trip as to how much things in India will have changed.  Kolkata still has a very similar feel to last time, the back packer area hasn't expanded and is still small and has that lively but dilapidated character.  It does cater for backpackers but there's still also a local feel to it, with Indians going about their daily life and many of the businesses there exist not to cater soley for tourists. There is still the same mix of extreme richness and extreme poverty.  Prices have gone up a bit, but I am still sussing out how much by.  You can still buy a small chai for 5R which never ceases to delight me and I am already using them as a way to wake me up in the morning to overcome the jet lag.

However I am sad to see the decline of the Kolkata style clay tea cup - to me this is classic Kolkata, as much as the yellow taxis are, and I was so astounded by them last time taking several home- the clay cups can just be thrown on the floor and will disintegrate in the rain. They look most charming and are nice to drink from.  Yet very few road side tea stands have them anymore, that horrible plastic cup has replaced them which is discarded on the floor.  We need to start the 'Bring back the Kolkata Cup' Campaign!  This is a tradition we should be moving towards globally, not away from surely?

#Savekolkatascup

My little Kolkata Chai Cup 

I also came across the same beggar women as last time, who I have to say, look not too bad, they have somewhat of a relaxed swagger, they are chatty and wandering around you can tell this feels like their home turf.  I think their way of giving tourists henna is a fair way to earn money and a fair exchange for those who want it.  However I did hear from other travellers that after long conversations they would still ask the traveller to buy some rice for their kids, which is fine, but then at the shop they would charge 700R it should be about 20R).  I don't like this scam, in comparison the henna seems like quite a fine idea.

Their kids run around the streets together holding hands, the youngest maybe 2.5 years old being carried by elder siblings.  The children just wander in pairs without adults, easily managing the traffic and just playing.  It is incredible how independent these young children can be when they have to be/their parents let them be.  It does make me think that treating children as young, makes them act that way but they are capable of a lot from a young age.

A big change I am still adjusting to is the presence of Wi Fi.  On previous trips the internet cafes were packed full of backpackers communicating home.  My favourite one of these was always buzzing.  They did well as they would also sell Ali Baba pants, brightly coloured bags and sequined wall hangings, but this has now closed as everyone just uses either phones, tablets or laptops to access Wi Fi in the guesthouses or in cafes. There's something I miss about the good old days of not being connected all of the time, I think this is really going to change the nature of my trip as for the first time travelling I now have a laptop with me.  I just hope café's with Wifi won't just turn into the London tube carriages - where everyone is on their device and no one is interacting with each other! That was so much the magic of travel, meeting strangers who you'd otherwise never connect with.

Back to my traveller ways

I already have a favourite street side chai place where you can sit and people watch without too much disturbance.  Their Indian food of curry, rotis and omelettes breakfast is just divine.  That plus 3 chais cost me the grand total of a pound – amazing.

As I sat down, the chai man pointed to another white girl and said 'your friend'.  Turns out she was, at least from that moment on for the rest of that day which was really nice to have someone to wander and explore with.  Another girl from England, also a true traveller who had returned to India after seven years – we had a lot in common and we spent the whole day chatting away and visiting temples and eating street food, being super grateful to be back and grateful for the company as we adjust back to India life.

My favourite chai drinking spot on Sudder Street, Kolkata

We visited the ISKON temple - aka Hari Krishna temple - I hadn't heard much about the story of Krishna until now.  He is an incarnation of 'Vishnu' the god who is known as 'the sustainer of life' in Hinduism.  Apparently he was quite the cute, cheeky baby hence lots of depictions of him as a child and then quite the charmer as a young man, drawing lots of attention from the ladies. Hari Krishas  show their devotion to Krishna through their singing and chanting, all of which is to send out love to him and the world. I didn't see any Hari Krishna's as I do parading around Oxford Street but the food at Govinda's next door was super tasty (as it is in the London branch).

In the afternoon we visited the Kali temple - Kali is a fierce goddess who is associated a lot with mother nature but also death - she has a fierceness about her but is also very protective.  Often she is depicted with bones around her neck and holding weapons.  She is the goddess of Kolkata and we enjoyed seeing the temple with it's full Indianess - flowers, incense, crowds, blessings, a 'small' request for donation in return for a blessing, lots of bling trinkets and tacky (in a charming way) shiny gifts such as necklaces and bangles. A few 'one photo please missss'…  Yet it was that time of day when the sun was setting and walking back through the alleys, we experienced a more peaceful side of the city and the beautiful light of the city.

Being able to speak some basic Hindi, which I learnt on my last trip, has truly been wonderful. It's a great conversation starter, you can have a bit of a joke, it indicates you already 'know what you're doing' and it's nice to be able to pick up bits of what people are talking about.  I honestly know very little but have just worked out what top ten phrases are useful for everyday life as a traveller!

Getting back into the swing of India – visiting the Kali Temple in Kokata

I quickly remembered the traveller tricks of the trade - holding onto and always trying to aquire change as people never want to give you any, you have to spend your big notes in the bigger places like 'proper shops' so that you can gather change to get rickshaws, buy street food etc.  I have also resumed my Indian English voice, which is most strange sounding thing but it genuinely helps people understand me so much better.

I try to look like I know where I'm going, even when I have no clue.  If people try to engage with you to sell you something and you don't want it, just don't even start a dialogue.  It's hard turning off a part of the friendly traveller, but experience has taught me that sometimes this just has to be the way and you learn through intuition who you can and can't talk to.  I've already politely declined a few requests to give my 'Email ID' so that the person can practice English and had to ignore some child beggars, it's so horrible to do but I just can't handle opening that flood gate right now - that's a whole other blog.

This evening I head to Varanasi, I have enjoyed the chaos of Kolkata but I am also really happy to stay with my Indian family where I know I will be well looked after, can gently be reacquainted with the culture and I get to have wonderful singing times again.  :-)

Fifteen years ago, I worked for the Civil Service, in one of the huge provincial offices that used to be dotted around the United Kingdom like a necklace of bee hives. This one was in the North of England, but not to its farthest and fullest extent. The Department of Work and Pensions building was on a site where social housing had once sat. A few hundred years before then, it had been the hill where public executions were carried out, so there was a fairly high probability that it was haunted by at least one disgruntled working class ghost. Around 1,500 people worked in the building, and there was a shop and a pub and a gym and a canteen and a dentist's and hairdressers and, right in the middle, a swimming pool. This building was a public sector citadel, a hub of hubbub, a palace of bureaucracy nicknamed (by me, it never caught on) 'The Ministry of Love'.
As the staff swarmed in each morning, they were met by three immutable things: two chunky security guards, both called Ken, looking at every single ID, and a sign that, rather like the menu outside a bistro, displayed the day's specials - the BIKINI STATE, the alert code that indicated how close the UK was to war, terrorism or civil disorder. The alert codes ran from white to red, white being stable, red meaning that shit is either coming down or is on its way, scudding across the clouds to take out this building and everyone in it in a flash of blinding light.



In the five years I worked there, the alert state was always at Black Special, an intermediate level that meant that there was an increased likelihood of attack, but no defined target. It could have been worse, of course, but, instead, was just incredibly sinister. Something awful was in the air, but it was also secret, unknown, undesignated, undiscovered. It was a constant, low hum of foreboding. But, ultimately, there was nothing you could do, so we did nothing - or, rather, we got on with our jobs, working towards a future we couldn't be sure would arrive. The peril of the world situation has not improved since I left the civil service, but they have changed the way it is measured. The Bikini State was replaced in 2006 by UK Threat Levels. The Threat Levels rely on words rather than colours, and run from Low to Critical. The current level is Severe, and has been since August, 2014. This means an attack is highly likely. It's worth quoting the expected response to such an alert, remembering that perhaps a hundred people were consulted around the wording of the definition:'Additional and sustainable protective security measures reflecting the broad nature of the threat combined with specific business and geographical vulnerabilities and judgements on acceptable risk'.

In other words, just do what you can and be afraid, be very afraid. In other other words you are probably fucked, but we'll have to let you know. I preferred Black Special, with its cheerful pink lettering, slither of hope and diplomatic inversion of Lottery logic that, hey, with a thousand targets out there, it might not be you.

It is an impossible task to understand the depth, breadth, height and area of man's desperation to fill the gaping void of existence with stuff. In some cases, this hunger may lead to positive things, like a dedication to medicine, or exploration, or the authorship of a great book or a timeless LP. It could be countered with love and kindness, or by a devotion of one's life to a noble cause. Mostly, however, this bottomless desire manifests itself, particularly in men, with a time filling, life squandering fixation on trivia, ephemera and miscellany, which, usually, is far from the spiritual quest it is presented at, instead being a massive waste of time, brains and cash, and a generally really stupid thing to do.

I found out recently that there were men who were obsessed with warning sirens. This did not particularly surprise me (there will be someone somewhere who has every type of hoover bag, or collects the autographs of Micronesian heads of state), but it made me wonder. A warning siren is a harsh, horrible thing - deliberately so. You're not supposed to like it, let alone stand there filming it go off for ten minutes before uploading it to YouTube to share with others. A warning siren evokes panic and fear - screams and disorder, children being trampled underfoot, short notice and long odds against survival. Yet, there are men (I'm assuming they are all men, I'm almost certainly right) who have made it their mission to seek out these clarions of chaos, and travel from county to county, country to country, to see examples, document them, and to place a tick against their name and location on a list. It seems crazy, doesn't it?And then I watched the films and heard the sirens for myself. They are extraordinary. I can't say that they would ever become an obsession for me, but I felt more than a little of their baleful gravitational pull, and remembered that the original siren song was powerful enough to lure men to their death. These eldritch shrieks, infinitely varied, but all full of dread and doom, and the simple but effective convolutions of pipes and horns that deliver them, are utterly compelling - although I'd happily live my life without ever having to hear them again.



 

I don't know the protocol, the series of events and orders that might finally set the sirens wailing. I don't know whether they will serve as an actual warning or merely as melancholic countermelody to our destruction. Perhaps they will be the final annoyance on this infinitely annoying planet: we won't even be allowed to die in peace. What I do know is that The Crisis is coming, and the sirens will have their part to play.

And therein lays the dilemma of the true obsessive. When the sirens go off, we are all finished. But there are those amongst us who will welcome this as a fair exchange for hearing those sirens en masse, for finally filling that hole within them, albeit for perhaps only a few seconds. Given the well-established link between extreme obsession and sexual stimulation, it's horrible to think that, when The Crisis comes, so will these men, absolutely in their element, capturing the chorus of doom on their expensive recorders and furiously wanking their way into Armageddon.  

* My thanks to JPa311979 for the film clips. His interest is clearly sound in general, rather than simply being mad for sirens and, as such, he is absolutely NOT the target of this post.

This is Dr. Milton Zigo, Physicist, Academic and amateur cutlery bender. Zigo has been absent since New Years Eve, and was last seen weaving his rather unsteady way across the quadrangle at the University of Exeter, where he has taught for the last twelve years. 
Zigo knows stuff, science stuff, and we need him on our side or to be definitely dead. Please note: this photograph was taken at a party, so he is unlikely to still be holding a handful of twisted forks. 

I like women. I like women so much that I'd rather they ruled the world. I think they'd be so much better at it, and there'd be far less chest beating and tanks and genocide and things. During The Crisis, women will be at risk from their most deadly natural predator: men. Let's face it, the female gender are in danger in our so called civillised society, so life is bound to be unpleasantly precarious for them once our law and order system is reduced to a educationally subnormal man-child who likes dressing up in uniforms and hanging out with a hungry pack of stray dogs. I am not in any way suggesting that women are incapable of looking after themselves, but nobody should underestimate the aggression and danger posed by ruthless men who find that they have nothing to lose. It worries me, it really does. 




The stock response, from sympathetic men and women alike, is 'well, just kick 'em in the balls' and, to a certain extent, that pretty much sums up the thrust of this bulletin. But just kicking someone in the balls is the same as just slicing someone's toes off with a smatchet, or just breaking their oesophagus with a big stick: easy to say; much, much harder to do. For a start, regardless of your gender, your first and smartest response to any kind of physical threat should be to get the fuck away from it. If you can possibly help it, don't get anywhere near their balls. Run fast, and keep running, as far away as you can. If this isn't possible, of course, you are going to have to scrap. It won't be easy. No man is going to let you kick them in the balls early doors, they are born wise to it: male children are born cupping their testicles, a pre-emptive wince on their tiny, pink faces. To this end, it is vital that you have a few more moves than a ball kick in your repertoire: a gouge, a chop, a punch. Learn defensive moves. Grow your nails, especially the thumb. Know how to get out of holds. 

Most importantly, remember that this is a fight, and it's fight that you must win. All people contain hidden reserves of strength, and you must access this in times of trouble in the same way that a parent suddenly finds themselves able to lift a car from their pinioned child. Without wishing to become lurid, you must be aware that your attacker does not have your best interests at heart: he is not going to do anything other than hurt and degrade you, and he must not get away with this. Your first duty is to protect yourself. Your next instinct will be to hurt him, to nullify him. Only do this if you can do so without putting yourself back into danger.



So, The Balls. The balls is a rather jaunty term for that area of the male body that houses the penis and testicles, the reproductive organs that men think so very important (well, they obviously are, but not so much on an individual basis). A smack on the penis itself will result in little more than a shocked expression, so you need to focus on the undercarriage, the recess of the groin, where the testes hang like fat pink bats. This is your target, an area of great sensitivity, so much so that you can cause excruciating discomfort simply by flicking them with the outside of your hand. Catching them with a foot or a fist will cause great pain. Squeezing them will prove excruciating. Be emphatic in your grip and relentless in your pressure, they will get the message. If you are squeamish, please remember that, for the most part, the agony will only be temporary, although, as with any defensive move, there is a chance that you may permanently damage your attacker. Them's the busts. But don't feel too sorry for him, he is YOUR ATTACKER after all. Who knows, you may have put him out of business once and for all. 



Always remember, the second he is incapacitated your best bet is to escape, quickly. If you can immediately find other people or angry animals you trust, you could set them on him before he has recovered. If you feel the need to take revenge on his recumbent, squirming form or, indeed, see yourself as a vigilante ridding a horrible world of terrible people, then you probably need to do something a little more definite, but this is always a matter of conscience. This is not a halfway measure, so if you can't walk away then you must either kill him or permanently incapacitate him. In the post-Crisis world, however, maiming or disabling will not be any kind of mercy, so be careful not to be too kind, it will be cruel. 

Take your revenge and, if there is a pitchfork around, use it, and leave his body out as a warning to the others.

A PREMONITION
A few weeks ago I had a dream. It may even be considered a nightmare, although I was not so much frightened by it as profoundly unsettled. The dream-mare, which was in black and white and had a similar stylistic mood to an episode of The Outer Limits, featured a train compartment and a man who clearly represented me but had a much better wardrobe. The train was extraordinarily busy. I don't mean that it was rush hour busy, with people stood in the aisle and rather uncomfortably wedged together, the sort of scenario accompanied by the smell of frustration and unwashed clothing: this was a different type of busy altogether. The compartment resembled an ant hill, a place alive with frenzied, seemingly random activity - or perhaps a slide seen under a microscope, full of swarming germs. People moved around the compartment seemingly without any control over their bodies, bumping into each other, rubbing up against each other. There was no eroticism here, this was horrible: an involuntary dance from which there was no peace, not a moment of stillness or a second of calm or quietude. 

In a corner, my avatar, clinging to a dangling strap, trying to distance himself but buffeted again and again by the other passengers, some of whom looked at him apologetically, some defiantly, but most as if he were not there at all.  The man pushed through the scrum of people and moved into the corridor, rattled the door handle. Locked. Very quickly, the corridor filled with the same helpless, hopeless people as before, and he found himself pressed into the door, his face squashed against the glass, half registering the indistinct outside rushing by. Then, suddenly, everyone disappeared apart from the smartly dressed man. The train stopped. There was no announcement, no punchline, but I woke up convinced that the man had finally escaped from the madding crowd in the way that people have been escaping misery and unbearable circumstances for eons: by dying.

I'm not a scientist, so I can't be sure of what the dream meant. It came at a time when my life was full of pressure, and full of people, so it was perhaps influenced by that. The message, if there is one, is that life is relentless and restless and people simply won't leave you the fuck alone. I don't know what to do with this message. There is virtually no practical response to it. Perhaps it isn't a message at all. It doesn't require a reply. It is not a warning, as it is already happening. It seems more like a flat, fatal statement of fact, like 'You're never going to be a millionaire' or 'Eric Morecambe is dead': an unpalatable but immutable piece of information that you simply have to file away and live with. So I'm living with it, but I can't help but notice now how many other people there are out there*. Tricky things these dreams, they continue to work when you're awake.  




AN APPARITIONIn the town where I now rather begrudgingly live, there is a neglected area that used to have something to do with the canals and is now largely deserted, apart from at night when it becomes a hotbed of vice and intoxication, of dogging, drugs and prostitution. It is place full of empty units, things that used to be something but are now nothing, less than nothing, and a little less every day. Almost everything seems to be under a bridge. The town's prison is there, surrounded by a smooth, dirty brown wall and identified by a sign that says in an informal font (Mistral, thank you, Andrew Demetrius)) 'Welcome to OUR Prison'. I wish I'd made that up, but it's 100% true.     Just before you get to this fun factory / penal collective there is a bridge over a river. On one side, water rushes down a slope before meeting an abrupt but very definite drop. Here, in the broiling water, float a strange, eerie selection of tyres and balls of all shapes, sizes and colours, some free, others enclosed in the hollow 'o' of a worn out radial, trapped in groups of twos and threes, bobbing wildly but never breaking free. It is uncertain how these objects got there, how far they have travelled or how long it took them to arrive - but now they are stuck, having met an immovable object that resists the force that has carried them there. The worst thing is that this is not a case of arriving and, realising there is no way forward, settling. There is no settling. Instead, this is a relentless, exhausting existence, a never ending battle, like drowning all day, every day, but never sinking to the bottom. Without any outside agency the balls and tyres would butt up against the weir wall forever, or at least until the water froze or became thick sludge or dried up completely. It is a horror. It is horrible. 
At night, I think about the balls and the tyres and the branches and their pointless, endless struggle and I feel afraid. I see my corpse caught in the turmoil, stuck like Ahab on the whale, waving not drowning, deader and deader, but never at peace. I get up and turn all the lights on, as if to reassure myself that The Crisis hasn't happened yet. It hasn't happened yet. Soon, I will flick the switch and nothing will happen.  

*   The Crisis will be a big help in this regard.
** Mistral. Thank you, Andrew Demetrius. 

Life is like this.

I read recently that the Yeti hasn't been seen by anybody since 2006, a conspicuously long gap after living in close proximity to human beings for hundreds of years. The Tibetans do not believe for a second that the Yeti is dead, but his absence worries his neighbours: what does the Yeti know that they don't? And where the hell has the Loch Ness Monster got to?
Generally speaking, sightings of all cryptozoological creatures are down, and UFO reports are at their lowest since the end of World War Two. These complementary issues can be interpreted in two ways, neither of them particularly good. Let's go back to the Yeti as our example for the first interpretation. Has he disappeared by default or design? Is it a forced migration or a tactical withdrawal? Or maybe he just got sick of us and our smells and noises and hissy fits and hydroelectric plants and simply wandered out into the wilderness, very deliberately climbing a little higher than we can follow. Perhaps he knows something bad is coming and wants to remove himself from the source of the problem: human beings. Yeti's no fool, he'll come back when it's all over to make his bed on our bleached and broken bones. It's the same for all the cryptids: they can smell bad vibes. So perhaps Nessie and Big Foot and Ogopogo and Chupacabras are keeping their heads down, just as Aliens are giving us a wide berth: they'll be back to probe what's left in due course. This is bad, very bad. How long will it be before birds fly south and just stay there; before bears go into permanent hibernation; before eels decide to give the Sargasso Sea a miss this year? Nature is backing away from us.
Conversely, let's say that there's no such thing as the Yeti, no such thing as Nessie, no such thing as aliens. With that in mind, it's not at all surprising that no-one is reporting encounters with them. The issue is, however, that, previously, people were seeing them all the time: they had a major presence for something that didn't actually exist. So, why aren't people filing false claims about them now? Why aren't people still pretending to have married Big Foot, or claiming to have been whisked away to Venus for intrusive medical experimentation? Is it a failure of imagination, or a loss of hope? When people stop making shit up, you know we're in trouble.
As with everything on this blog, there are no answers, no solutions, no conclusion, just a bad feeling, and a dull ache about The Crisis to come.

In a surprise statement, the ARTS-GOV computer has announced that, from now on, all British films must star Laurence Harvey. The Lithuanian born actor was unavailable for comment, having died in 1973. 

Lips. Lips are wonderful things: useful, decorative, sensitive, erogenous. Many of the best things that life has to offer are experienced through the lips: fine wine, fancy cakes, a consensual kiss, crack cocaine. They are marvellous, fabulous devices, like sculpted scar tissue, like little chipolatas, like a soft seagull of sensual promise. Parts of the lips have evocative names like the vermilion border, and the cupid's bow. They are also full of nerves and blood vessels and muscles, and the skin there is thinner, making these perfect, pink protuberances extremely vulnerable to twisting, pulling, scratching, pinching and tearing. They don't like being bitten either.
In body part terms, they are weak, effete, as if their epicurean life has made them weak and decadent, like swooning dandies. Punish them, test them - they will not stand up to any great scrutiny. Oh, and sometimes lips have hair attached to them, in the form of a moustache or goatee / standard beard. This hair can be pulled, causing eye watering discomfort. A most effective technique.   

ARTS-GOV North has released this charming prototype verse from one of their Poem-Plex 2000s. As you will recall, all Northern machines are set to write poems about old things that remind you of other things. This particular verse is from unit TED26 although, to be honest, it's all the same, really, they're just machines.

CHURNED UP IN A FIELD

Held in the hand
An unearthed oval of ancient gold
A strong head, recalling my own
What thoughts there? What complications?
It does not matter, what cannot be known
A millennia and a half of dirt wears such cares smooth
Poem-Bot has encountered a problem and needs to close.
We are sorry for the inconvenience.

I have a friend. There is more to that statement, but I thought I'd just let that basic fact hang there for a while as I'm rather proud of it. My friend, who I have known for almost forty years, is a man who, within my hearing at least, has never ever referred to a qualified medical professional as anything other than a 'quack'.
To him, quacks aren't just general practitioners, the phrase encompasses the entire sphere of medicine, including all of the NHS and, latterly, the elements of private health care he has engaged with. Whether free at the point of contact or paid for in advance, they are all quacks: back quacks, foot quacks, tooth quacks, blood quacks, gut quacks and, in the late eighties, clap quacks. In summary, he has no respect for any kind of nurse, doctor, medic, surgeon, dentist or healer whatsoever, despite his frequent utilisation of their skills and expertise, particularly the antibiotics.


It's an inherited condition. His father, Geoff, now sadly deceased, was a man in the classic mould of the English naysayer, the sort of timeless moaner and iconoclast who would have stood behind the catapult at Agincourt moaning about the higher wages the Longbow blokes were on, or critiquing Henry V's speech. Two hundred odd years later he would have been chafing the collar of his New Model Army uniform, complaining about Cromwell cancelling Christmas.

As a man mainly of the 20thcentury, he spent an inordinate amount of time cupping a crafty roll up and detailing what he would do if he were to ever assume his rightful mantel as the ruler of everything. His manifesto was, of course, the absolute opposite of what those who actually wielded the power were doing. He was a tremendous character, and he is greatly missed for his wit and wisdom, as well as his ingrained, endless chippiness. He was often spectacularly incorrect: politically; factually. He called a spade a fucking shovel and to him, all solicitors were crooks, all policemen pigs, all male dancers poofs, all footballers pansies, and all doctors quacks.
Geoff's distaste for professional people was, again, a family heirloom, a legacy of a working class background that stretched all the way back to serfdom. His race memory clearly included bitterness carried over from when sawing peoples legs off and causing them to die, not of gangrene, but of trauma and infection, became the preserve of specially trained people, putting the ordinary bloke who had simply invested in a saw out of business. His distrust of these interlopers was lifelong, and he spent his final hours mocking them for trying to save that long life. According to Geoff, his doctors were quacks: amateurish, ridiculous, dangerous. They did everything they could to keep him alive; he did everything he could to die - just to spite them. Just to prove his point. He most likely died without knowing that he was both part of a long and honourable continuum of working class subversion, and ahead of his time. Geoff, and his son, my friend, and the generations of English men and women like them, will be ultimately proven right as, in the unpleasant aftermath of The Crisis, the quacks will reign supreme.
Seven years of training and countless hours of experience will be of little value in a world without medicine, a world without equipment, a world where surgery is a lottery, and therapy an impossible luxury. Professional medicine will become like visiting a fairground gypsy: a crossing of silver, a crossing of fingers, guess work. It won't be their fault. Even if their diagnoses are as sharp as ever all that will be left in terms of treatment is stuff that they definitely did not train for: homeopathy and butchery - in short, quackery. In a generation's time, those that retain any vestigial training and knowledge will most likely be burned at the stake for witchcraft, and the avaricious, ham-fisted artisans that take their place, with their clumsily adapted and rarely cleaned instruments, smelly poultices, reliance on superstition and almost total lack of accountability, will be quacks in the purest possible sense: pretenders, charlatans, bunglers, frauds, killers.
Geoff would have loved The Crisis, fucking loved it, even as he went unanaesthetised before some gap toothed yokel with a talent for divination and a large, dirty knife, giving the thumbs up to oblivion in a world that was finally working on his terms. 

Sign language is a hugely important communication tool, yet there are currently only around 25,000 users in the UK. This will change post-Crisis, when everyone still alive will be able to quickly learn the only four words that will still have any meaning. Which is a sort of good thing when you think about it, just don't think about it too much, because it becomes an awful, terrible thing.

I used to work for a large city council, one of the largest in the UK. I did various project related things and, as is my modus operandi, I also interfered in areas I had no right or reason to be involved with. One evening, I was poking around in the central CCTV room, the ten floors up eye in the sky where a kaleidoscopic monochrome summary of the daily drama of the city was played out on fifty flickering screens. All human life down there was up there, constantly monitored for flash points and flare ups, traffic accidents and human collisions. Mostly, people drifted silently around, floating past the various cameras like flotsam, the unintentionally discarded rather than deliberately jettisoned. 

After about twenty minutes, I turned to the silent operator and, half-invigorated by our God like view of the world and half-appalled at the pathetic diorama, decided to ask a question:
'Where is it?' I said.  
'Where's what?'

'The vaporise button', I smiled.

I expected him to either laugh or to look at me as if I were an idiot. He did neither, instead, his mouth an unrelenting line, his eyes never moving from the screens, he put his fingers to his lips and said 'sssshhhhhhh'.