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July 18, 2004
Crass stupidityThe American national talent for making enemies and alienating would-be friends never ceases to amaze me. This BBC story has details of the humiliation doled out to former Indian defence Minister George Fernandes by the over enthusiastic and xenophobic security goons at Washington airport, who evidently have no clue as to the meaning of 'diplomacy'.
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More details on missing Italian backpackerMore details have emerged on missing Italian backpacker Francesco Gatti's last known movements, including clarification that he did indeed stay in Kasol in the Parvati valley on 26th July 2004. After that date, nothing is currently known, but he may well have gone trekking to Melana, as he suggested in one of his last emails. Check out this blog set up by his girfriend Eleonora to provide up to date details, including a photo and contact details for anyone who may have met him or have further information.
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July 17, 2004
Missing person, Francesco Gatti - please helpI've been contacted by Eleonora, an Italian girl seeking info on her boyfriend Francesco Gatti who has gone missing in the Parvati or Kulu valleys, possibly at Naggar or Kasol, on or after the 26th June. More specific details including his last known movements and a picture are here. If you have met Francesco recently while in the area, or have any information at all that could help, please get in touch with Eleonora at missing_francesco"AT"hotmail.com (replace the "AT" with the @ symbol to use the address).
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July 15, 2004
"Lend us ten grand so I can finish building my God please"The festivals and special religious events for which the Kulu Valley is famous are a bit thin on the ground over the summer. The main village festival season runs from mid March to mid May then all goes quiet over the summer except for a special prayer at the Dhungri temple next week, before starting again in September, when Goshal and a few other villages hold their festivals before the Valleys big event; Kullu Dussehra. On a few occasions, the God statues will be invited by a villager to their home for a special event known as a Devi Shadani (or Devta shadani if the God is male), usually attended by the whole village. Villagers will make the invitation to obtain a blessing for an upcoming venture, or as thanks for a good year.
The rich and fascinating culture of the valley stems from, and revolves around, religion, and the festivals and religious events serve both spiritual needs and deepen the sense of community in the villages and the valley as a whole. To begin to understand something of what makes the place tick, a few visits to these gatherings are essential, and as they are in any case enjoyable, we have spent a great deal of time in the last three years visiting the many melas and other events between Solang and Kullu. The more you visit, the more people begin to recognise your face, and as a result the more relaxed they are next time and willing to answer the endless stream of questions we ask about the Gods names, their relationships and any deeper meanings to events. I suspect they think we are totally bonkers, but generally indulge us nevertheless. We have made a fair few new aquaintances by turning up, and (I like to think) earned at least some respect by asking some of our inane questions in halting Hindi. As people often attend gatherings in other villages, its unusual now if we go somewhere and donÕt see at least a few familiar faces - at worst itÕll be Prem and the boys from the Old Manali volleyball team, who seem to go to everything.
The marathon 11 day "Vishnu yagya" (a special puja, or prayer) we went to today is being held at the Vishnu temple in Sajla, close to Jagatsukh, and is not a regular annual event. As usual, getting an accurate picture of what it was all about was near impossible in advance, with the same question to six different people eliciting six different and contradictory answers.
The 10 km rickshaw ride out was spectacular and relaxing in itself. After clearing the concrete mess of the luxury hotel zone in Aleo, the usually quiet Òleft bankÓ road winds its way through pine forest and small villages, crossing the many small rocky nallahs that come down from the hills around Hamta pass, and looking down over the now vibrant green rice paddies below Jagatsukh, planted only two or three weeks ago.
The road close to Sajla was packed with taxis and rickshaws, waiting for their clients who had sensibly hired them for the day in the full knowledge that finding a rickshaw in Jagatsukh is only slightly easier than finding a cold beer in the Thar desert. A friend who had visited the previous day said she had left at four and proceedings hadnÕt yet started, so we arrived at 3.30 and went to find a chai shop for a spot of late breakfast. We ordered a chai and an omlette from the brightly dressed smiling woman, and went to sit in the garden under a shady apple tree. A few moments later, the woman came out tugging her earlobes between her fingers in a gesture of contrition especially popular in the Punjab. She had forgotten the whole village was non-veg for the duration and was apologizing profusely. Indians tend to be liberal with the definition of non-veg, and in this case it would take in not only eggs, but booze. We settled for butter toast and a plate of steamed veg momo.
By the time we had finished and began walking toward the path up to the temple, a fair crowd of people were coming down and evidently heading home. Despite all the claims we have heard in the past about things starting at 1pm or whatever, the main part of events in the Kulu Valley rarely happens much before 4 pm or so. Today was apparently an exception.
Not far from the bottom of the steps up to temple we saw an odd sight. Two planks of blue painted wood were arranged as a sort of impromptu bench spanning a small clear stream, with a couple of large, brightly coloured plastic flowers and a flat tin duck of the Òfairground shootÓ variety attached to the back. On a small front rail was a small God statue, a minature of the normal full size statues carried on palanquins. Hanging below the seat was an odd contraption resembling a sideways anemometer (wind speed measuring instrument) made of battered tin plates painted alternately in red and green, spinning under the pressure of a jet of water from a length of pipe with its other end in a small water cascade behind the seat. The final oddity was an old metal thali that held the anemometer to an upright and made a ringing sound when struck by the water. Weird? It was, and especially incongruous in an otherwise apparently sane village. In the UK, it would have been more at home in a Tate modern exhibition, or would at least have merited some arts council funding, a place in a sculpture park and would probably have got its designer a brief spot on some BBC Radio 4 mid afternoon arts programme.
We had only just started taking a few pictures when a smiling old man in a wool jacket and Kulu cap came out of the house next to the stream and started talking in Hindi. We had trouble understanding at first except for the word "paise" (money), but he persevered till we got the message, pointing repeatedly above the contraption at a hand painted cloth sign written in Hindi. My ability to read Hindi is exactly nil, but Kirsten got it after a few minutes squinting. The artwork had been knocked up by the old gent for tourists to photograph, for a ten rupee fee, and as it was aimed at Indian tourists, the bench was for couples to sit and pose, similar to the snow sculptures that dot Solang valley and Rohtang pass earlier in the year. Since he was evidently as yet undiscovered by the Arts Council, we handed over the cash and persuaded him to sit on the bench and be photographed inside his creation. He introduced himself as Totu-Ram, shook hands and invited us back for chai on our way back from the temple later in the afternoon.
We arrived at the Vishnu temple to find the crowd much thinner than expected. A few hundred people were milling around, and to one side a sitting of communal dinner for the Pandits (brahmins, priests) was in progress, with more people gathered in front of the large tent distributing vast amounts of chai in tin cups to anybody who asked. The Vishnu temple itself was of the "Kulu valley modern" variety, built in the last five years or so in a style familiar from other recently built temples, the finest of which is the new Shiva temple in Siyal. The pillars around the temple were decked out with hanging lights and flowers, and a stream of people waited to enter and offer prayers.
Just next to this main temple stood a small and ancient shrine (4 feet high) of indeterminate age, with a pyramid shaped roof decked out in bright flowers that stood sharply out against the dark and weathered stone. It certainly looked old enough to elicit the bog standard "5,000 years old" response that any enquiry as to a temples age will usually bring. Like most of those on the older stone temples in the area, the carvings on this mini temple are entirely unlike the modern representations of the hindu gods found today. The figures are more rounded and slightly plump, often with bulbous circular eyes and stubby bodies and look not dissimilar to representations of gods on temples in Central America.
We wandered up the steps to a higher piece of ground, where a large roofed structure - basically a sloped tin roof 25 feet to a side, supported by girders - seemed to be the centre of attention. Underneath this canopy we could see a few pits, with raised sides apparently made of clay, from which thick smoke and the odd flame emerged. There must have been Ghee (clarified butter) put on the fire, because the air was thick with the aroma of burning fat.
Underneath the far side of the canopy stood a straight line of god statues on palkis (palanquins), all facing toward the centre of the covered area. On the front of each was a small sign that gave the name of the deity and the village, including Karthik Swami from Kakhnal, and five Jamlus (we thought there were only 4 in the valley) from different villages. There were 22 gods on palkis plus another few smaller gods, a total number almost unprecedented outside the Dussehra festival which can be attended by 300 or more deities. Halfway across this area in front of the line of Gods was another statue, clearly separate from the rest. This turned out to be Ganapati, a representation of Lord Ganesh the elephant headed god.
In between Gods and fires we could see a few low wooden seats, about 3 inches high, and a number of smaller flower decorated shrines. The area was roped off to prevent people walking in, and a few Pandits clad in Kulu caps and saffron Dhotis were wandering about inside, occasionally talking to those praying outside. The area is kept "ritually pure" and only Brahmin priests are allowed past the ropes, should a lower caste step inside the ropes, a puja would have to be held to repurify the ground.
We wandered around a bit looking for our landlord, who was supposed to be attending. He has a knack of just appearing out of nowhere and finding us in the densest crowds, and as we had been there ten minutes and not come across him, we wondered if he had been one of those waiting for the bus. We could see people coming and going on a small path upward into the forest so we walked slowly up the hill, passing a sign suggesting a "langar" (communal dining area) was at the end of the path - a likely spot to find our always hungry landlord.
The forest was exceptional, full of tall deodar trees sprouting among the large moss covered boulders and hillocks that looked more like they were designed by a Hollywood set designer than an act of nature; the kind of place JRR Tolkien had in mind when he came up with Lord of the Rings. We decided it was a good spot for a natural beauty break accompanied by a fag, a cheap and best Wills Flake.
We'd been sitting for a few minutes when an old guy with a weathered face, wearing a well worn brown "local" jacket and Kulu cap, walked toward us. We exchanged "namastes" and he sat down next to us and lit a cigarette. We started a fairly difficult conversation in Hindi, made a little easier by his clear pronunciation, and Kirsten asked a few questions about what was happening at the puja, and the names of some gods in attendance. The old guy, Amar Chand, kept talking about Dussehra, but it took a while for us to realise he was reminding us that we had met before at last years Kullu Dussehra, almost certainly when we were wandering around taking pictures of the various Gods in their camps as they sat outside their tents, attended by villagers. Amar Chand kept saying "likhna" (writing) and miming writing on a pad, and since Kirsten must have been the only blonde european woman going around the Dussehra ground writing down the names of village deities with the zeal of a traffic warden taking number plates, he probably had the right people. Obviously the stream of ridiculous questions we had flung at him last October had made an impression, but he seemed pleased enough to see us - even if we were a little mad. Before he headed off toward the langar, he invited us to visit his village, Mala, a days walk high on the opposite side of the valley, and offered to take us riding in the hills on his two horses.
When we arrived at the langar a sitting for dinner was in progress. A couple of hundred people sat in rows on long mats, eating from disposable leaf plates, served by men in orange dhotis. The area was divided into two by a rope, with one area for higer castes and the other for lower, and separate kitchens for each. Each kitchen had several massive brass pots simmering over wood fires, each of the pots large enough to hold one to two "quintals" (1 quintal = 100kg) of rice or dal. At one side was a vast pile of wood -several trees worth - to fuel the fires for the duration of the festival. Communal eating in India is a major exercise in logistics.
We admired the view accompanied by a couple of Wills finest death sticks, and seeing no sign of our landlord, headed down again to the temple. At the bottom of the path a group of children had made an impromptu slide of a large sloping rock, and were sliding down in ones and twos, shrieking with delight when they hit the path at the bottom. The whole atmosphere was relaxed - relaxed enough to suggest we'd missed whatever the focal point of events was. We grabbed ouselves a chai from the large chai tent, spending five minutes fulfilling requests for "one snap" from the humourous crowd of men manning the huge kettles. A group of Dhoti clad pandits stood talking close to the covered area, so Kirsten went over to get the lowdown on what it was all about.
A sadhu (hereafter known as "Babaji", as he is to the villagers) came to the village about two years ago. He stayed in the village, and after about a year announced that he thought it would be a good idea to have a large puja for world peace and the harmony of all things in general. The local people agreed, and preparations were started, taking a year to organise the format, logistics, build the large covered area and invite brahmin priests from all over North India to attend and participate in the ceremonies. The exact date and duration would have involved a good deal of astrology to determine the most auspicious timings to ensure the puja was successful.
There were many facets to the various ceremonies conducted over the eleven days of the puja. A brahmin friend from Manali, Loki, told us that prayers were to be offered to Vishnu as the preserver of life and well being, Suriya (sun) and Ganapati, another name for Ganesha. The fact that the village gods were in a line facing the fire pits and altars of the main area was neatly summed up by another friend, Ravi, who suggested that some gods are more important than others, and as the villagers pray to their own local deities, so those Gods in turn pray to higher Gods such as Vishnu.
I was surprised at the global perspective of the puja in praying for world peace. The people of the Kulu valley are not myopic, but their outlook on the world rarely goes much beyond Aut, the valley's gateway to the wider world, a rather distant place which in general holds little interest for them. The one major exception to this was after the Al Qaida attacks on the US, when many people in Old Manali were seriously worried about the firestorm that was about to be visited upon Afghanistan by the US military, a mere few hundred kilometers up the road. Prayers tend to be more concerned with things that affect peoples lives; rain, snow, harvests of grass and grain, and the health of family. In some ways, the valley seems separated from the rest of India and the world by a gulf far wider that the few hundred kilometers of the national highway.
By this time it was getting a bit late, and as nothing was going on and we had a chai invite with Totu-Ram the installation artist, we began to think about heading off. "Late" in this case meant 6PM, but time is extremely relative in India, and doubly so when you are in the distorted space time envelope of Left Bank Bus Time, a variation of the normal laws that govern the Universe that mean that however early you are you will miss the last bus to Manali, and with the additional side effect that there is never a rickshaw in Jagatsukh after 5 PM, except for those going in the opposite direction. On our last few trips to Jagatsukh we have been well in time for the last bus, but missed it anyway and ended up walking back the 6 KM to Manali in the dark. As Sajla is 10 KM, we really felt like catching a bus.
Before we went, we had a look at a second covered area next to the Vishnu temple, where a large crowd, mainly composed of women, was listening to a Pandit energetically reciting a mantra, and judging by his face and body language, very much oblivious to the crowd. Loki told us that the brahmin was reciting from the Bhagavad Gita, one of the holy Hindu scriptures, and that many of the pandits would take turns to do such recitations over the eleven days.
We got to Totu Ram's house and spent a few more minutes admiring his sculpture and taking pictures, saying hello to Shemshi, a woman from Manali who used to run a shop in the Manu market who had just arrived with her family and was on her way up to the puja.
There was no sign of Totu Ram, but while we were sitting there another woman came up and introduced herself as his daughter-in-law, who lived in the house next door. She told us to go on up to the first floor of the wood and stone house, where Totu Ram was apparently in his room. We climbed the stairs and removed our chappals. The old man was indeed in his room, but very peacefully asleep on his bed, so we started back down. No chance. His daughter-in-law insisted (against our protestations) that he be woken up to see us, and sent her son to wake him. He came out to the balcony looking far more chipper that I would have been if I'd been roused from a deep and pleasant afternoon kip.
He showed us into the simple room, with long carpets for sitting, several cupboards set into the wall, a small shrine containing a photograph of several local deities in a line and above that, an old single barrelled shotgun. We sat on the carpets while Totu Ram went off to the kitchen on one side to make some black tea, kept company by his grandaughters Sarita and Reena, who had come into take a look at us. Sarita is about 14 or so and attended the English medium public school in Aleo. She spoke really excellent english, and was full of beans, with a vivacious and outgoing character uncommon in the usually shy girls in the valley. Totu Ram came back with cups of sweet black tea and we sat talking about the puja, the village, and where we came from, and took a few digipix of the three together. Sarita provided an excellent translation of the tougher bits of the Hindi conversation.
An invitation for tea often entails looking at some family albums, and today was no exception, although Totu Ram had only two 10x8 black and white pictures; of himself and a foreign cyclist at Rohtang pass, and another of him and his wife seated with their grandson between them. The last picture, we were told, was taken in front of the dhaba he had run up at Rohtang some years ago, in the days when there were only half a dozen stone and tarpaulin dhabas at the pass, before the circus of dhabas and entertainments that currently services Indian tourists moved in.
He got out some of his treasured items that he had acquired over the years including a small and ingenious solid fuel camping stove, and a bottle of extremely dark honey, three years old according to the old man and full of medicinal value, which he poured a little of onto his palm and invited us to dab it with our fingers. It had a very deep taste, like normal honey but somehow richer and with an almost alchoholic aftertaste.
He began taking in Hindi about his water feature, parts of which we had trouble understanding till they were translated by Sarita. He had plans to replace the small god statue on the front with a larger one which was currently under construction. He described what the statue would be like when finished; slightly smaller than a normal palki, and with faces representing three gods, Vishnu, Ganpati and one we'd never heard of before that started with 'atara' (18) and seemed to be local in origin. As all this was translated, we got the slight impression that there was a punchline in here somewhere, and there was. The statue was half complete and sitting in a blue shed we could see opposite the house. The total cost would be 20,000 rupees, and the old man enquired via his grandaughter whether we fancied loaning him the money for the remaining work, strictly repayable. I've been asked for loans before; ten pence for sweets as a kid, a tenner for beer as an adult, but ten grand for building a god was as unusual as they come. Regrettably, we had to tell Totu Ram that our paise were getting a bit khatam, and that we couldn't oblige. He looked sad for a moment and then the conversation moved on to other things. I think his statue was more than a tourist attraction for his sculpture; it was something of a life work.
He got down the long barreled shotgun for us to see; a massively heavy weapon that must have produced quite a kick when fired, and a leatherman multi tool that some other tourist had given him sometime in the past. Then he got up, opened one of his cupboards and rummaged around, clearly looking for something, and on finding it, came back over and presented us each with a Kulu cap with slightly different decoration on the front. They were both a good fit, although, as they are always worn by men in the valley, the sight of Kirsten in one was slightly odd. We vainly checked ourselves in an old car wing mirror that was lying around, and the old man looked suitably satisfied at our evident pleasure.
Time was getting to the point where the Left Bank Time Warp would make even walking back a pain in the arse, so we asked Totu Ram what time the last bus should be. He squinted at his watch and said in about 10 minutes, so we decided to head off, with Totu Ram accompanying us as far as the road. The only vehicles around were those chartered for the day by families from Manali; no empty rickshaws waiting for a fare. The old man checked his watch again and said that the last bus should be due soon - at 7PM. I looked at my watch; 8PM. When I pointed out that it was now 8, Totu Ram looked at his watch, finally realising that it was over an hour slow. OK, so no last bus then. We shook hands and said our goodbyes to the Sculptor of Sajla and walked off on the (too damn) long road for Manali, with that 'not again' feeling, confident that an empty rickshaw going in the right direction was as likely as US foreign policy heading in the right direction. Midnight was looking like a comfortable bet for dinner in old Manali.
Whether or not the Vishnu Yagya has a profound effect on world peace remains to be seen, but it must have done something to the properties of the Left Bank Bus Vortex, because, not more than three or four minutes into the walk, a local bus came hammering round the corner, the driver evidently trying to break the time trial record for Naggar to Manali for knackered buses. He was going so fast, it took him 100 metres to brake to a halt after seeing us. We ran, and leapt aboard the open back door, surprised to find the bus half empty. Local faith in the last bus concept was obviously as shaky as ours. The driver was off again, going hell for leather and leaning on the horn to warn anything in his path that he was serious about making last orders at the Manu market chai shop. This must have been the 7 pm 'last' bus, evidently well delayed and the driver extremely keen on finishing work.
Manali town was quiet, as it has been since the end of the Indian summer tourist season, a fraction of the number of Delhi-wallahs promenading on the main street in among the Leh bound trucks and bleating rickshaws. We had a 'really last' chai in Manu market, and took the back way home via the orchards rather than argue the toss with the rickshaw drivers.
On the way we bumped into Shemshi and family again, just getting out of their Tata Sumo after returning from Sajla. We were invited into the house for the 973rd chai of the day. No problem, my limit is 1,000. We sat talking to her and her sister, and Shemshi's incredibly bright 9 year old son, who attends the Christian Mission run Daystar english medium school and has an insatiable appetite for geography. Not only an appetite, but a real memory, and after getting over a bit of shyness for the next hour we chatted about the layout of the world. The only question I asked that phased him concerned the whereabouts of Turkey, otherwise he managed to tell me a few things I hadn't known. Seeing a diagram of the solar system in a book, I pointed to a planet and asked which it was. Apart from a small disagreement over which one was Uranus and which Neptune, he ran them all off in order, with a bit of detail on each. He was surpised to learn that the first man on the moon was not an Indian, however.
Shemshi asked if we were going to Old Manali, and when we said we were, told us 'her driver' would take us up. We are not used to such offers and said we'd walk, but she was not having any of it. The Sumo was her husbands business and the Punjabi driver was waiting in the next room for us. More goodbyes and we headed off to Old Manali in a style to which we are not generally accustomed, a relaxing end to what, two hours before, had looked like a long and tedious walk home.
You never know what you're going to get when you leave the house up here, and sometimes, like today, what promises to be an average day just turns up full of strange surprises that make up a day more enjoyable than the sum of its parts.
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July 7, 2004
ShockWe have recently met two people who returned to Manali after a long absence, and found it interesting to see their reactions to all the changes.
My own experience is of gradual change as the largest gap between visits was 4 years, so for me its just been more of the same; a few more concrete guest houses, better food in a larger number of restaurants, more of the beautiful slate roofs replaced by tin, more of the people I know married and with kids
But after a 14 year gap, Robert from France was more than a little shocked and unhappy at the changes. We met him at the house of a mutual friend who he knew well on his last visit. He had actually struggled to find Thakur Dass's house given all the changes in the landscape and concrete paths that have been added to the village. The metal bridge that now spans the Manalsu has replaced the picturesque wooden bridge from his previous visit, and the road is now tarmaced and the view of the river from the roadside almost obscured by the new concrete shops and restaurants that line the way up to Old Manali. In 1990 the world wide web, now so popular with travellers, was merely a idea in the head of Tim Berners Lee. Robert is now planning a trek up to Ladakh to try to find some of the peace and natural environment he feels Manali has lost.
Bonello, an Italian acupuncturist who lives in Switzerland, is more accepting of the changes, even though his last visit was 40 years ago - by far the most historic traveller experience of Old Manali we have encountered. On his 1964 trip, there was no road at all to the village, merely a path. Television would not come to Manali for twenty years, the HP tourism Clubhouse had not been built and electricity was thin on the ground. For that matter, a great many of my friends here were not even born, and those that were wore short trousers. There was not a single guesthouse or cafe, so he stayed entirely in local homes - all slate roofed before the advent of the now ubiquitous tin sheeting. Bonello says he cannot even remember the layout of the village as it was then, it has changed so far beyond recognition. Most of New Manali (known locally as "market") didn't exist; it was literally a small bus stop and veg market. One of Manali's oldest restaurants, Mayur, was started in 1970.
And, he says, the travellers have changed. In his day, most were on the hippy trail, and whereas now the travellers scene is dominated by Israelis, in the early sixties it was predominantly Americans, some of whom were apparently given to carrying guns they had acquired on the overland trip through Afghanistan, occasionally pulling them to give them the last word in disputes with Indians over money. Nice.
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A very Indian traffic jam(This entry was started in July, but only just finished and published. After a few weeks I'll move it and put it where it belongs here on the July archive page).
Traffic jams are scarcely a phenomena unique to India, or indeed worse in India than anywhere else - Bangkok's gridlock always seems far worse than the Delhi traffic which does at least move. But India, with the swirling mayhem of its roads, inevitably has to has its own unique take on this blight of the modern world. This is usually the ability to manufacture traffic jams with no obvious cause, or to produce them in places where realistically no traffic jam should exist, and from a bare minimum of raw material.
In theory it only takes two vehicles to have a proper traffic jam in India, and I have seen blocks with only three or four cars that have taken half an hour to unpick. A high degree of selfishness on the part of at least one driver is also essential, and this vital ingredient is likely to be provided in spades by most of the participants in proportion to the size, shininess and newness of their cars......
To read the full article, click here.
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July 6, 2004
Chai crawl in Jagatsukh (This entry was started in July, but only just finished and published. After a few weeks I'll move it and put it where it belongs here on the July archive page).
A few days after watching the rice planting in Jagatsukh, we printed the pictures off and headed over to deliver them to the women. This is always a barrel of laughs, because addresses are not exactly "22a Temple street, Jagatsukh, J21", but more like "near the temple store" if they are specific, and more likely to be vague, as in "lower part of the village", which obviously leaves some vast scope for error. Having names and pictures in hand is far more helpful, as people generally know each other.
The pictures we give are almost always inkjets run off from our rather aging digital camera, and hence not usually large, about small postcard size, although the prints are good quality and far better colour than is possible in Manali from negative film. People are often quite taken and want a bigger print, which is where it gets entertaining, as to explain why involves a brief lesson in digital image resolution (or lack of) in our (mainly Kirstens) very inadequate Hindi. OK for asking where .....
To read the full article, click here.
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