things witnessed (is anyone taking notes?)


a goat wearing a gold lamAY skirt - Varanasi
a goat wearing a fleece, zip-up. also Varanasi
a goat riding on top of a bus, Nepal

on the menu: "cloub sandwitch", "chicken lever on toast"
"dear guest please take care your bilonggists yourself"

in a womans' magazine:
'why do men cry? what it seemed to be a female prerogative since always now the male are also in question. the very famous dialogue mard ko dard nahi hota is proving wrong. despite their pretendings, tears are triggered from males eyes. is it a natural phenomena or something to be wary of?' (good question...)

in a bookshop in the predominately Muslim city of Bijapur:
'after secularism: what, what, what WHAT?'

Notes from street level.


so, i am in Delhi, searching inconclusively for The Perfect Cycle Rickshaw to send home (peddling tourists around sunny, flat Oxford? for ten bob an hour?? what a super fabulous wizard wheeze! well yes it would be, if i could find The Perfect One, you know, like the shiny pretty ones you find in...Rajasthan. yep, i am in the wrong state, drat and damn.) so in lieu of further searching i will sit in a street cafe, sip a lassi and watch the world wobble by. Paris this most definitely aint.


snake hipped youths in designer distressed denim and tight nylon shirts, women in day-glo saris. fruit vendors, chai wallahs, drum sellers and peacock feather fan sellers. rickshaws with quacking horns, cycle-rickshaws peddled by emaciated mustachioed men, and beggars. a man has just crawled past on all fours, his bony, oddly elongated arse in the air, his polio stricken limbs as thin and straight and brittle looking as twigs. he ambles lopsidedly past, beaming a toothy grin at me. Hasidic Jews, bearded Muslims. the usual crowd of dreadlocked backpackers, kitted out in Aladdin pants, wooden beads and 'Om' t-shirts. flea-bitten dogs lapping at fetid puddles. soothsayer, snake handlers and fortune tellers. naked bulbs hang from shop interiors festooned with colour. pale regal cows lope past. a dark, mangy cow attempts to enter the cafe and dribbles on the floor before being shooed - respectfully - away. (one cow, i noticed, had a fly covered cow-pat smack in the middle of its back...). vats of bubbling oil, the latest theme from Bollywood warbled by an undulating doe-eyed diva through a crackly transistor. it is all here in this carnival of creation. this great cosmic joke.

oh India, how do i love thee? let me count the ways. (how do i hate thee? let me count the ways...)

Conversations on the road: the semi-chronological, non-definitive list of significant persons met.


Tomas, Mumbai. Rosalyn and Sam, Lilly and Jacob, Pushpa, Jenny, Danny, Sam and John and their extended family and the 300 plus residents of Gomathimuthupuram. Br. George, Br. Martin, Sr. Savananda, Catherine, Chandru, Christoria and Mike who generally looked after me. Katie and Jo, Mysore. Dave, Andy, Kate, Omar the storyteller, Hampi. Yoga Mark, Jake, the Korean girl whose name i immediately forgot, Trivandrum. Dragan, Lisa, Katie, Jaques, Russ the conspiracy theorist, Ben, Marco, Cat, Uwe the Hun, Leon, Katarin and Yoko, Varkala. Laura. Br. Augustine. Vladamir, Pierre the Virginia Woolf expert, Ian, Marco n Lotte. Rosa n Eric, Queridah, Calcutta. Terry "eat my dust" O' Raaawk and Danny Boy. DJ Ben "it's all about karma". Hans and family. the woman on the bus who invited me home. all the students with their questions: "is love the same as compassion?". Tashi ands Soman-Lhamo. the nice Tibetan Muslim guy. George the journalist. Sunil the silversmith. Neve the Israeli. Orion. lovely John at the Marabar hotel on my birthday. Gabriel. Tibetan Kelly on the bus who invited me home. Raj of Dylan's. the German woman i had dinner with last night.


clouds and clouds of witnesses.

Dandelions in bullet holes.

hip hip huzzah!



PRESS RELEASE Jury decides - not-guilty: intention to damage US bombers destined forIraq was lawful. This afternoon, Tuesday 22 May, at Bristol Crown Court, the trial of two Oxford peace activists Philip Pritchard and Toby Olditch (known asthe 'B52 Two') concluded with the jury returning a unanimous verdictof not-guilty- in less than three hours. The two were charged with conspiring to cause criminal damage at RAF Fairford in Gloucestershireon 18 March 2003 when they tried to safely disable US B52 bombers toprevent them from bombing Iraq[1]. The court heard the two men actedto prevent damage to life and property in Iraq, and war crimes by the aggressors [2].The trial started on Monday 14 May 2007. This is the second trial for the alleged offence; the first in October 2006 ended in a hung jury,after 12 hours of deliberation spread over three days. The two accused were facing up to ten years in jail. There are two other similar cases awaiting re-trial, due to hung juries, at Bristol crown court. The two activists maintain that war crimes were committed in the bombing as cluster bombs, which spread unexploded bomblets that kill and maim civilians (like mines) were used, as were 'bunker busting' bombs tipped with depleted uranium that fragments, spreading radioactive toxins which are harmful to civilians. During the trial the prosecution accepted that even delaying the bombers would have prevented civilian casualties, as it would have allowed those fleeing cities more time to escape. In his hour and a half summing uptoday, Justice Crowther explained the legal tests that must be met for the prosecution to succeed, he reiterated the facts and summarised the evidence. A document 'steps to verdict' had been provided to assist the jury.Toby Olditch said "We're overjoyed, and thankful for the good sense of the jurors, for the wonderful support we've received, and for the commitment and expertise of our legal representatives. But hundredsof thousands of Iraqi people have still suffered as a result of the Government's actions. It shouldn't have come to the point that people had to take direct action to try to check the abuse of executive power."Phil Pritchard "I am delighted that the jury have returned a unanimous not-guilty verdict. Our action in trying to prevent illegal attacks onthe people of Iraq in 2003 is vindicated. I hope war of this kind neverhappens again."


PhilipPritchard is 36 years old, and a self employed carpenter and father.Toby Olditch is 38 years old, and a self employed builder. They both live in Oxford. The defendants were represented in court by barristerEdward Rees, Q.C. from Doughty Street Chambers, London. Their solicitoris Mike Schwarz of Bindmans & Partners, London.[1] The two men were arrested inside the perimeter fences at RAFFairford in the early morning of 18 March 2003, just two days beforethe bombing of Iraq started. They carried with them tools to damage the planes, nuts and bolts to jam the aircrafts engines, pictures ofordinary Iraqi civilians and paint symbolizing blood and oil. They also carried warning signs for attaching to any damaged planes which would help alert aircrew to their action. The two men acted nonviolently in a way which would not result in harm to anyone, including the military personnel at Fairford. They intended to stay with the planes and tell the operators what they'd done.[2] Civilian casualties in Iraq since the invasion are estimated between 68,796 (Iraq Body Count) and 650,000 (Lancet October 2006). More bombswere dropped in the initial 'shock and awe' attack on Iraq than in the whole of the first gulf war.

Love begins with a question. in this case it was

"what is this music playing?"

it was addressed partly to myself and partly to the people i was eating at the restaurant with. the question was met with blank looks. just then a voice pipes up from behind me. it is oddly nasal.

"it's Loudon Wainwright the Third"

i turn around to find the source of the voice and am met with an unlikely hybrid of Tony Blair-on-acid and Woody Allen.

"Hi - i'm Ben and i'm from Portland, Oregon, U.S.A. who are you?"

...

fast forward three and a half months and i have just waved goodbye to Ben at Kathmandu airport. so, Ben - travelling companion, dal-bhat gobbler, haggler extraordinaire, teacher-friend, late-night whisperer of Leonard Cohen and general all round precious stone, Godspeed and thankyou for the memories.


'what is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they reced on the plain 'til you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too huge world vaulting us, and it's goodbye. but we lean foward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies'
-from On the Road, Jack Kerouac.

it has been quiet on the word front of late, i know, but not for want of reason. i have been trekking you see, high into the Himalayas, right into the lap of those mountains that were like creatures of prey: watching, waiting. our 15 day expedition took us it seemed all the way through the seasons, from the steamy jungle of valley to soft floored pine forests, across vast plains open to the sky and barren moonscapes silent but for the roar of a distant waterfall (like a thousand hands clapping). as we climbed higher the air grew thinner and the trees scarce.we set out for our goal - Thorong La - the highest pass in the world at 5000 metres - before dawn and it was like something out of a Greek myth - a line of small dark figures, some with torches, winding upwards through the mist. the mist cleared, the sun shone, the mountains glowed for us and we reached the top, collapsing for a while before the descent (what goes down must come up - thanks be to Goodness). i remember Philip Pullman remarking mysteriously that he had 'seen many landscapes' (as if to explain something of his books) and i feel like i, too, have seen afew lanscapes recently. the world is more strange and lonely that i knew. what are we at the foot of a mountain? or in the shadow of an urban skyscraper? we equal very little. mountians are my Cathedral now open to the seasons and the changeable sky.

to skip a chronological beat back....

i should mention the time i spent in the bosom of my wonderful, big-hearted mother. we met in Delhi - she groggy with jet-lag and endless sleepless, sermon-scribbling nights, and me with guts-a-grumbling ominously. and there began two weeks of smart to very smart hotels, smooth airconditioned passages through knots of chaos and traffic, a Damascene conversion to bananas on Mater's part, gin, food and...shopping. dear Mum, like a dog in a field of lamposts, just couldn't get enough of that shiny multicoloured stuff - "stop the car! i can see Rajasthani brollies!" etc.
all was well (no arguments! minimum nagging!) and it was good to have a fresh perspective on things. all was well, that is, until it came to our final night together in Mumbai. there i was, lounging by the turquoise roof top pool of our ridiculously flash hotel, when she calls me over. there is something she wants me to see. i slope over to where she is standing looking, from the roof of the hotel, across at the slums of Mumbai. there are tears in her eyes. immediately adjacent to this cluster of grey is Mumbai airport. we watch as a plane trundles up the runway and circles a roundabout. the noise is deafening. "how do they manage to get a baby to sleep?" Mum shouts over the roar. we watch in silence for a while, until two tall frosty glasses of 'Mumbai' Sapphire arrive at our table. the circle is complete. it has take the luxury of a five-star hotel to set us apart; to cause us to remember something we had forgotten we knew. it was the usual story: we had grown accustomed; our sight was dimmed; our imagination stunted. but here it was - like a slap in the face! us! them! rich! poor! my mind registered with inescapable clarity an idea that had been lying dormant (in the antechamber of my mind). India has changed me, but not for the better. i have undergone a change of heart, but it has been a hardening, a sealing over. it is part survival, part cowardice, part confusion, for in India, where does love begin, and where does it end? love in India is like a snowflake in a ocean of need. my Missionaries of Charity experience was a drop in that ocean and, dare i say it, and i speak only for myself, knowing my own motives, an example of cheap grace. the people who haunt me are a couple who i have never met, who took their young children to live, permanently, in the slums, somewhere in South America. it is a kind of staying awake in Gethsemane. the warning words of Arundhati Roy sang in the dusk light over that little roof top scene: do not complicate what is simple. do not simplify what is complicated. the bush is on fire. there is an arrow of stars in the sky. is anyone awake? is anyone taking notes? i only know that i am too good at shoving this thing - this question mark that hooks and seals my fate - under the carpet. paying off the Hound with the bloody bone of token gestures.


......


i remain ensconced at the foot of the Himalayas. my body is adjusting to the cold. the sun shines today, and i have sloughed off some layers, like a snake shedding its skin. i walk in the mountains, i am wide-eyed at the thunderstorms. i take in alot of movies, the odd cooking class and daily conversation classes. we have been doing Haikus:


when His Holiness
walks into Dharamsala
classes are empty.

Kate is back in the frame. she sits and makes her jewellry, i sit and read a book. it is all very agreeable. next stop, Nepal, for the visa run and i daresay some trekking.

and in other news, happy happy congratulatories to Stuart who is with child! (or to be more precise, Stuart's soon-to-be Missus, Emma)
may it be the fattest, happiest baby the world has ever known, and may your partying never, ever be diminished!