Urgh. Last night was awful. Freya was feeling fragile yesterday for the first time in this whole trip. She'd burnt herself on her face and shoulders from being in the sea so much. And then she had an unpleasant run in with a flying fish that had caught, in a horribly flappy panic, in her bikini top, when they'd collided in a big wave.
Funny that my hardcore little traveller should have her wobble at the beach. Absolutely nothing has phased her till now, but she's struggling with the whole mozzy thing. The thought of a bug landing on her when she's asleep and sucking her blood, has really got to her. And it's not like she's never seen them before.
As a consequence of her fragility she slept with Martha and me, leaving Hamish to sleep with Gus. Fine. Until sometime in the darkness when I was woken by the sound of a creature in the hut, rustling through our stuff. I willed it to be on of the skinny cats from the restaurant next door, but I knew in my heart it was far more sinister.
The squeaking gave it away, confirming my worst suspicions.
Rats! In my hut, right next to me, knocking things onto the floor, stealing our sweets (what were we thinking having food in here?!) and frightening me half to death. Spiders I can handle, even snakes aren't so bad, but rats... My mind was racing, full of all the rat horror stories I'd ever heard (James Herbert has a big part in this phobia). Then I remembered the night one fell through the roof of our Mexican hut, candying on me as I slept in a hammock. I thought about my friend Peter getting bitten by one on the nose as he slept on a boat last summer.
Hideous. And no Hamish to protect me. Instead, I was the protector of my two girls, especially my eldest who'd had such a tricky day. Somehow I had to find the courage, with a thudding heart, to get out of bed, turn o the lights and shoo them away.
I had visions of the night my friend Fay and I returned to our hut in Ko Samui. We had turned on the light and a crowd of cockroaches, who'd been hanging out on our bed, scattered in all directions.
Would it be like that? How many rats had gatecrashed my party? Had the squeaking been a mother saying,"Hey kids, I've got some snacks," as she'd scrambled down the rush matting.
Or was it a more terrifying call, "Oi! Over here everyone! Come and check out this place!"
Thankfully my footsteps were enough and how ever many there were (I think really it was just one, she says optimistically) had disappeared before I hit the light switch.
It didn't end there. It went on all night. I could clearly hear when the squeaking went down below (our hut is on stilts) and when, horribly, it returned. I left the bathroom light on, casting patterns through the woven rush, so at least I could see if they came close.
For ammunition, I had some face cream, deodorant and a bottle of moisturiser to lob at them if they came into sight.
Just before Dawn I heard the sounds of a neighbour sweeping the sand with a reed brush, signalling the imminent tart of the day. I breathed a sigh of relief that my nightmare in Paradise was almost over. Until tonight at least!
Monday, 28 February 2011
The Beach
I am so completely peaceful and happy and utterly blissed out just being here.
It's all I dreamed of. My whole body is relaxed. My mind is still and my heart is smiling.
It's all I dreamed of. My whole body is relaxed. My mind is still and my heart is smiling.
The Train to Delhi
We're back in India! I feel like we've been somewhere else for a month!
As the pink ball of sun broke through the dawn sky, we lay in bed on our sleeper train watching the world go by. We've seen buffalo for the first time in weeks, bullock carts and peacocks, piles of poo drying in the sun and women carrying water on their heads in metals matkas.
We've just done another overnight train ride. Everyone was gorgeous and mellow after waking up. Now the kids are monkeying around, making us SO glad we didn't get on that 30 hour train to Goa! Fergus is like a caged animal.
I was sad to say goodbye to McLeod, but of course, I was ready to go. In hindsight, I'd have left a week earlier, but then we wouldn't have achieved so much at school. If I'd been there without the kids, I could have done in it in a much shorter time. It was a fascinating experience for all of us and I did feel quite emotional saying farewell to them all, but for me, it put the adventure of travelling on hold. I'm so much happier now we're on the move again.
One thing is certain, there's no way we can wait another decade to do this again.
The kids keep talking about their gap year. For them, it's as expected a part of life as losing your milk teeth. Before we set off, I worried that they'd react against this experience and only ever want to go on a package holiday. But no. It's had the opposite effect. We have successfully introduced them to the joys of living in another culture.
Staying in McLeod for so long gave them the opportunity to form relationships with people; although on a very basic level, it gave them a very powerful insight. Both Freya and Fergus had a strong desire to go off, independently, and explore or buy things. They felt incredibly safe and secure there. Rightly so. It's probably one of the safest places on Earth.
We're passing through a village as I write. Children are playing on their way to school. Herons are picking their way through the litter in a waterlogged patch of ground. Buffalo and cows are tethered outside almost every square, concrete block that is home to two or three generations of family. Huge fat pigs are snuffling through the garbage piled on the edge of the settlement. Always there's rubbish. India must have looked so different before plastic raised its convenient, ugly head.
Between them, the cows, monkeys, dogs and pigs can dispose of all paper, card and other degradable waste. But the plastic, and the foil wrappers of crisps and snack packets, well they defeat even the hungriest scavenger. And then there's the water bottles. In any place where tourists pass through, we leave this indelible curse.
McLeod was brilliant for having all the water filters, but even so there were the usual piles of discarded bottles. The Clean Up Dharamsala Project is making great efforts to educate people about recycling and disposing of waste properly, but it's tough. They don't have refuse collections like we do. There's no council workers coming to sort the recycling, just volunteers and the odd skip funded by donations. Crazy really. Yet another thing we take for granted at home.
As the pink ball of sun broke through the dawn sky, we lay in bed on our sleeper train watching the world go by. We've seen buffalo for the first time in weeks, bullock carts and peacocks, piles of poo drying in the sun and women carrying water on their heads in metals matkas.
We've just done another overnight train ride. Everyone was gorgeous and mellow after waking up. Now the kids are monkeying around, making us SO glad we didn't get on that 30 hour train to Goa! Fergus is like a caged animal.
I was sad to say goodbye to McLeod, but of course, I was ready to go. In hindsight, I'd have left a week earlier, but then we wouldn't have achieved so much at school. If I'd been there without the kids, I could have done in it in a much shorter time. It was a fascinating experience for all of us and I did feel quite emotional saying farewell to them all, but for me, it put the adventure of travelling on hold. I'm so much happier now we're on the move again.
One thing is certain, there's no way we can wait another decade to do this again.
The kids keep talking about their gap year. For them, it's as expected a part of life as losing your milk teeth. Before we set off, I worried that they'd react against this experience and only ever want to go on a package holiday. But no. It's had the opposite effect. We have successfully introduced them to the joys of living in another culture.
Staying in McLeod for so long gave them the opportunity to form relationships with people; although on a very basic level, it gave them a very powerful insight. Both Freya and Fergus had a strong desire to go off, independently, and explore or buy things. They felt incredibly safe and secure there. Rightly so. It's probably one of the safest places on Earth.
We're passing through a village as I write. Children are playing on their way to school. Herons are picking their way through the litter in a waterlogged patch of ground. Buffalo and cows are tethered outside almost every square, concrete block that is home to two or three generations of family. Huge fat pigs are snuffling through the garbage piled on the edge of the settlement. Always there's rubbish. India must have looked so different before plastic raised its convenient, ugly head.
Between them, the cows, monkeys, dogs and pigs can dispose of all paper, card and other degradable waste. But the plastic, and the foil wrappers of crisps and snack packets, well they defeat even the hungriest scavenger. And then there's the water bottles. In any place where tourists pass through, we leave this indelible curse.
McLeod was brilliant for having all the water filters, but even so there were the usual piles of discarded bottles. The Clean Up Dharamsala Project is making great efforts to educate people about recycling and disposing of waste properly, but it's tough. They don't have refuse collections like we do. There's no council workers coming to sort the recycling, just volunteers and the odd skip funded by donations. Crazy really. Yet another thing we take for granted at home.
Monday, 21 February 2011
The end's in sight...
The end is so close I can almost reach out and touch it. When I close my eyes, I can feel the sand between my toes and hear the the waves lapping the shore.
Yesterday was lovely. We didn't have to go to school in the morning because it was a holiday, so I dashed into town with Freya and Fergus. It was brilliant to be out and about without Martha slowing us down! We bought lots of lovely stuff, making sure we chose each thing from a a different seller to spread our rewards around.
We came back home to collect Hamish and Martha then we jumped in a taxi and went to school. Even though it was a holiday, the year 8 and 10 classes were there doing revision classes. They have their board exams coming up next month so they are working really hard. We arrived just as their classes were finishing. Hamish set up cricket matches for the boys and Freya and I painted with some of the girls.
As our time comes to a close, I am pleased with the progress I have made. I've got an Eco project well under way. Monika, the science teacher has spent a lot of time with me and I think she understands the importance of environmental education. She will be a good leader and has taken it all on board. Teachers here aren't snowed under with loads of paperwork. They have been following the same curriculum for years, teaching the same lessons year after year. They don't know what it is to plan, assess and evaluate. During their free periods, they sit in the staff room and read the newspaper!
We have painted a fantastic mural on one of the outside walls that was really grotty when we arrived. This means we've left a big visual impact on the place. I've done some great teaching - the kids are like sponges, so keen to learn, though all so spoon fed they have very little creativity. I've shared lots of ideas for good practice with the staff that I have worked with and Sister Jancy. How far she can change this antiquated system is down to her.
Later in the afternoon, she came to collect us and take us to the convent, where we met the Mother Superior and several other nuns. It was pretty crazy. I felt like we were in the 'Sound of Music' except nobody was singing. Martha charmed them all and gave us respite in what was quite a strange, intense yet lovely experience. We all sat very still and very upright as Mother Superior asked us many questions about our lives.
They gave us a very warm welcome and though it felt somewhat awkward to be in such an old fashioned institution, there was an abundance of encouraging smiles from the sisters who all sat listening to us. They explained how their numbers are dwindling as no young blood is joining the sisterhood.
"Perhaps Freya will!" laughed Mother Superior, "That would be very good!"
Freya later told me how weird that moment had been and said, "It's no wonder no young girls want to be nuns. We live in a modern world and they don't,"
They are good people, with good hearts and I'm sure throughout the world they do wonderful, selfless work. But Freya's right in that thought. Their lives are so radically different to anything she has ever known. It's not part of our society. I guess the closest my kids get to this kind of charity is the concept of volunteering.
Freya has completely got the idea that we are lucky and we've come here to make the lives of these children a bit better. Gus can tell you that, but I'm not sure how much he really understands it. To him, the kids are just kids. Same as him.
We had tea at the convent which was delicious! We sat at a long refectory table, with me at the head. We were served by Sister Jancy, which felt a little strange. We had the most scrumptious coconut and lemon pancakes, followed by pakora and sweet coffee.
After we had eaten and the kids had broken the quiet, calm atmosphere with their laughter as they ran through the corridors and played Hide n Seek, we were taken to see the new auditorium they're building at the Sacred Heart School. It's immense, just like you would expect to see in a large secondary school in the UK, but the way it's being built is totally different.
The entire thing has been built by hand. Everything has been carried in on the shoulders of men, or, more likely, on the head of women. It has taken years, but is now near completion.
There is sound proofing on the walls and ceiling, huge arched windows, jagged scaffold poles dotted around precariously and a team of builders - whole families complete with kids - is living in a room under the stage! Their washing was strung on a line that stretched the length of the stage and they pee in the far corner of the hall - that was quite apparent.
A health and safety officer in the UK would have a heart attack. We entered via a concrete staircase with no sides, leading us up to the second floor. There were rocks, holes and rusty scaffold pipes strewn everywhere. The sisters just stepped gracefully over in their floor length robes. You had to see it to believe it.
As we finally shook hands and hugged Mother Superior and Sister Jancy farewell, I was struck by the brilliant opportunities we face almost daily. So much we all now take for granted, like letting the monks in the Internet cafe entertain / be entertained by Martha, as we get on with things.
We came home tired and happy. Hamish went down to town and brought us pizzas which we ate on the bed! We spend so much time talking, eating together, playing games, and watching films together.
Today we're taking a rickshaw to Dharamcot, our neighbouring village, to go to Rajesh's house. We're going to meet the cow whose provided our milk all these weeks.
Whilst I can't wait to get to the beach, I don't want to be so close to the end. We could have easily done this for six months...
Yesterday was lovely. We didn't have to go to school in the morning because it was a holiday, so I dashed into town with Freya and Fergus. It was brilliant to be out and about without Martha slowing us down! We bought lots of lovely stuff, making sure we chose each thing from a a different seller to spread our rewards around.
We came back home to collect Hamish and Martha then we jumped in a taxi and went to school. Even though it was a holiday, the year 8 and 10 classes were there doing revision classes. They have their board exams coming up next month so they are working really hard. We arrived just as their classes were finishing. Hamish set up cricket matches for the boys and Freya and I painted with some of the girls.
As our time comes to a close, I am pleased with the progress I have made. I've got an Eco project well under way. Monika, the science teacher has spent a lot of time with me and I think she understands the importance of environmental education. She will be a good leader and has taken it all on board. Teachers here aren't snowed under with loads of paperwork. They have been following the same curriculum for years, teaching the same lessons year after year. They don't know what it is to plan, assess and evaluate. During their free periods, they sit in the staff room and read the newspaper!
We have painted a fantastic mural on one of the outside walls that was really grotty when we arrived. This means we've left a big visual impact on the place. I've done some great teaching - the kids are like sponges, so keen to learn, though all so spoon fed they have very little creativity. I've shared lots of ideas for good practice with the staff that I have worked with and Sister Jancy. How far she can change this antiquated system is down to her.
Later in the afternoon, she came to collect us and take us to the convent, where we met the Mother Superior and several other nuns. It was pretty crazy. I felt like we were in the 'Sound of Music' except nobody was singing. Martha charmed them all and gave us respite in what was quite a strange, intense yet lovely experience. We all sat very still and very upright as Mother Superior asked us many questions about our lives.
They gave us a very warm welcome and though it felt somewhat awkward to be in such an old fashioned institution, there was an abundance of encouraging smiles from the sisters who all sat listening to us. They explained how their numbers are dwindling as no young blood is joining the sisterhood.
"Perhaps Freya will!" laughed Mother Superior, "That would be very good!"
Freya later told me how weird that moment had been and said, "It's no wonder no young girls want to be nuns. We live in a modern world and they don't,"
They are good people, with good hearts and I'm sure throughout the world they do wonderful, selfless work. But Freya's right in that thought. Their lives are so radically different to anything she has ever known. It's not part of our society. I guess the closest my kids get to this kind of charity is the concept of volunteering.
Freya has completely got the idea that we are lucky and we've come here to make the lives of these children a bit better. Gus can tell you that, but I'm not sure how much he really understands it. To him, the kids are just kids. Same as him.
We had tea at the convent which was delicious! We sat at a long refectory table, with me at the head. We were served by Sister Jancy, which felt a little strange. We had the most scrumptious coconut and lemon pancakes, followed by pakora and sweet coffee.
After we had eaten and the kids had broken the quiet, calm atmosphere with their laughter as they ran through the corridors and played Hide n Seek, we were taken to see the new auditorium they're building at the Sacred Heart School. It's immense, just like you would expect to see in a large secondary school in the UK, but the way it's being built is totally different.
The entire thing has been built by hand. Everything has been carried in on the shoulders of men, or, more likely, on the head of women. It has taken years, but is now near completion.
There is sound proofing on the walls and ceiling, huge arched windows, jagged scaffold poles dotted around precariously and a team of builders - whole families complete with kids - is living in a room under the stage! Their washing was strung on a line that stretched the length of the stage and they pee in the far corner of the hall - that was quite apparent.
A health and safety officer in the UK would have a heart attack. We entered via a concrete staircase with no sides, leading us up to the second floor. There were rocks, holes and rusty scaffold pipes strewn everywhere. The sisters just stepped gracefully over in their floor length robes. You had to see it to believe it.
As we finally shook hands and hugged Mother Superior and Sister Jancy farewell, I was struck by the brilliant opportunities we face almost daily. So much we all now take for granted, like letting the monks in the Internet cafe entertain / be entertained by Martha, as we get on with things.
We came home tired and happy. Hamish went down to town and brought us pizzas which we ate on the bed! We spend so much time talking, eating together, playing games, and watching films together.
Today we're taking a rickshaw to Dharamcot, our neighbouring village, to go to Rajesh's house. We're going to meet the cow whose provided our milk all these weeks.
Whilst I can't wait to get to the beach, I don't want to be so close to the end. We could have easily done this for six months...
Sunday, 13 February 2011
The kids' blog
For those of you with kids, you might find it interesting to show them the blog that Freya and Fergus are writing. Here's the link:
Http://freyaandfergus.blogspot.com/
Http://freyaandfergus.blogspot.com/
Another rainy Sunday
It's raining. Again.just like last Sunday. It's cold, wet and windy. Amazingly, I don't feel as depressed by it as you might expect. I've been out shopping with Martha, carried her and the provisions up 142 steps in the driving rain, then done the washing on the blustery balcony. Martha, who never has accidents, wet the bed last night. Brilliant timing.
We're cooped up in this tiny apartment, with three kids and a mattress propped up in front of our little radiator. Oh and Martha's just posted something into one of the ventilation slots on said heater, so part of me is waiting for the smoke and flames.
Poor old Freya is now full of cold and feeling grotty. Throughout everything, she is the one whose always stayed upbeat and cheerful, consistently skipping her way to school when Gus has been positively dragging his heels.
But in spite of all that, it's OK. Yesterday was not a great day. Hamish and I had simultaneously lost our joy and enthusiasm for the whole thing. We'd had a disaster with booking our trains for the next leg of our journey. Last Sunday, we'd checked the times and had decided which routes to take. Hamish was going to book it on Monday, but the storm left us with no electricity. The modem played up for the rest of the week and we didn't feel the urgency to book online in an Internet cafe - we didn't want to put our credit card details into a computer there.
When we finally got back on line on Thursday, it was too late. All the trains were full. This sent us both into a spin, but for very different reasons. Hamish decided that if he couldn't look after his own family, then he shouldn't be working in the travel business anymore. Dramatic, I know, but things can get a bit intense when you're travelling. I meanwhile felt, irrationally I admit, that I was trapped, never to leave these cold, harsh mountains, never to sink my toes into the warm sands of a Goan beach.
All sounds a bit silly now, but at the time, it made us both miserable. This compounded my gloom - we hadn't come all this way to waste a single second feeling rubbish. We were meant to be savouring every moment. I didn't want to be willing the days to pass, but that's exactly what I was doing. At least for 24 hours.
I also found myself questioning my own part in all of this. I came here to try and make life a bit better for the kids at St Mary's, especially those who live in the hostel run by a mean minded Buddhist monk, and who only get to see their far away families in the summer holidays. And all I could think about was how I was going to get to the beach.
McLeod is full of well intentioned westerners doing volunteer work. I was comparing myself to them, resenting their earnest selflessness as they willingly gave up their time for the benefit of others. I was wishing I was surrounded by the colourful wasters with their sparkly bindis who line the streets of Pushkar, instead of these sincere, drably dressed do-gooders, with better hearts than mine.
In addition to all this negative thinking, I was also sad to be missing a close friend's 40th birthday. I should have been dancing the night away with some of my oldest and most treasured mates, instead of being stuck here in the cold.
I'm happy to say that, a day later, and despite the dreary weather, a poorly Freya and a soggy mattress, our spirits are restored. The kids, picking up on our darkness, were brilliant. I am so filled with respect for them, for their responses to every situation we have exposed them to. They have their moments of bickering and getting frustrated with each other, but that's it. Nothing else has phased them. Not going to school where the kids speak a different language and the teachers pull your hair, nor the long journeys, nothing has been a problem for them.
So much so that we actually planned to do a 30 hour train journey. I'd never in a million years have thought we'd have considered it. This was the train that we couldn't book and we were all disappointed to miss out on the adventure.
The alternative is to take a flight to cover such a huge distance. Before we set off, this was always our plan. But since we've been away, our perspectives have changed. We were all excited at the prospect of cosying up in our carriage, reading books, playing chess and Pooface (our child's version of a favourite adult card game!), watching films on the iPad and seeing the world go by as we passed through a large part of India.
Ah well. We'll know for next time. It's still pouring down with rain. We can't go out and explore our surroundings. Instead we have to continue the exploration into our relationships, working out how to be that 'Happy family', even in the rain.
We're cooped up in this tiny apartment, with three kids and a mattress propped up in front of our little radiator. Oh and Martha's just posted something into one of the ventilation slots on said heater, so part of me is waiting for the smoke and flames.
Poor old Freya is now full of cold and feeling grotty. Throughout everything, she is the one whose always stayed upbeat and cheerful, consistently skipping her way to school when Gus has been positively dragging his heels.
But in spite of all that, it's OK. Yesterday was not a great day. Hamish and I had simultaneously lost our joy and enthusiasm for the whole thing. We'd had a disaster with booking our trains for the next leg of our journey. Last Sunday, we'd checked the times and had decided which routes to take. Hamish was going to book it on Monday, but the storm left us with no electricity. The modem played up for the rest of the week and we didn't feel the urgency to book online in an Internet cafe - we didn't want to put our credit card details into a computer there.
When we finally got back on line on Thursday, it was too late. All the trains were full. This sent us both into a spin, but for very different reasons. Hamish decided that if he couldn't look after his own family, then he shouldn't be working in the travel business anymore. Dramatic, I know, but things can get a bit intense when you're travelling. I meanwhile felt, irrationally I admit, that I was trapped, never to leave these cold, harsh mountains, never to sink my toes into the warm sands of a Goan beach.
All sounds a bit silly now, but at the time, it made us both miserable. This compounded my gloom - we hadn't come all this way to waste a single second feeling rubbish. We were meant to be savouring every moment. I didn't want to be willing the days to pass, but that's exactly what I was doing. At least for 24 hours.
I also found myself questioning my own part in all of this. I came here to try and make life a bit better for the kids at St Mary's, especially those who live in the hostel run by a mean minded Buddhist monk, and who only get to see their far away families in the summer holidays. And all I could think about was how I was going to get to the beach.
McLeod is full of well intentioned westerners doing volunteer work. I was comparing myself to them, resenting their earnest selflessness as they willingly gave up their time for the benefit of others. I was wishing I was surrounded by the colourful wasters with their sparkly bindis who line the streets of Pushkar, instead of these sincere, drably dressed do-gooders, with better hearts than mine.
In addition to all this negative thinking, I was also sad to be missing a close friend's 40th birthday. I should have been dancing the night away with some of my oldest and most treasured mates, instead of being stuck here in the cold.
I'm happy to say that, a day later, and despite the dreary weather, a poorly Freya and a soggy mattress, our spirits are restored. The kids, picking up on our darkness, were brilliant. I am so filled with respect for them, for their responses to every situation we have exposed them to. They have their moments of bickering and getting frustrated with each other, but that's it. Nothing else has phased them. Not going to school where the kids speak a different language and the teachers pull your hair, nor the long journeys, nothing has been a problem for them.
So much so that we actually planned to do a 30 hour train journey. I'd never in a million years have thought we'd have considered it. This was the train that we couldn't book and we were all disappointed to miss out on the adventure.
The alternative is to take a flight to cover such a huge distance. Before we set off, this was always our plan. But since we've been away, our perspectives have changed. We were all excited at the prospect of cosying up in our carriage, reading books, playing chess and Pooface (our child's version of a favourite adult card game!), watching films on the iPad and seeing the world go by as we passed through a large part of India.
Ah well. We'll know for next time. It's still pouring down with rain. We can't go out and explore our surroundings. Instead we have to continue the exploration into our relationships, working out how to be that 'Happy family', even in the rain.
Friday, 11 February 2011
21st century India
Things have changed here so much since my first trip to India. My initial impressions of Delhi were dominated by the young women who wore western clothes with attitudes to match. Even those who still wear traditional clothes are carrying around babies dressed in jeans. Change, of course is inevitable, but in a country whose culture is so very strong, I wasn't expecting it to be so rapid.
Life has changed at a fast moving pace the world over. As a teacher, I am educating kids for jobs that might not yet exist. So why is it so surprising here? It's because technology has made such advances and in spite of that, so many of the old ways remain. In Britain, society moves on, developments ripple through all aspects of our lives. For us, technology reaches all of the populous.
Martha is not yet three, and she has already received and sent her first emails (with help, obviously -she's not quite that bright!) For us, mobile phones, games consoles and the Internet are available and used by every generation. I saw the other day that Facebook's oldest member is 103 and uses the site to communicate with her 13 grandchildren.
And similarly here in India, I see mobile phones everywhere. So is the Internet. When I first travelled, the only means of communication was handwritten, on airmail paper (my kids wouldn't even know what that was) and a visit to the local Poste Restante. Then came the fax machine, but you had to know someone back home who had one. It wasn't until I went to Brazil in 1997 that I received my first proper email communication.
But now, every cafe in town has free wi-fi. Travellers are tapping away at their laptops, notepads, Blackberrys and iPhones. And so are the locals. There is one Internet cafe which I pass every day. It's got a funky interior and a wall of windows. It would be at home in any city in the world, except sitting at the row of computers, or relaxing on the multicoloured chairs, there is always a handful of Tibetan monks, fully robed and highly IT literate.
Gets me every time - a monk with a laptop! But the really crazy thing about it all, is that right next door is a building site, where Indian women are hard at work, mixing sand and lime with heavy spades, loading it into large bowls which they carry on their heads to where the men are laying bricks. It's always the women who have the worst jobs. They look so thin and delicate, but their petit frames belie their great strength. Some of them have babies strapped to their backs. No amount of technology is ever going to change their lives.
Nor will it reach the life of the ancient man who crouches opposite, wrapped in a blanket that hides all but his face, as he waits for someone to buy his small collection of vegetables.
We sit outside the cafe, the epitomy of 21st century life, run by uber cool Tibetans, total dudes, sipping machiatos and eating chocolate brownies, as a cow wonders by and stops to munch a piece of newspaper from the side of the road. It's soon followed by a small herd of goats on their way to somewhere, clearly known to them.
Smart Toyotas drive through the dusty streets, frustrated by the speed of a man pushing a hand cart that is his mobile sticker shop. Iconic Royal Enfields roar past wrinkled Tibetan ladies as they spin the prayer wheels outside the temple in the high street.
It's such a cliche to talk about the contrasts in India. We've heard them all a million times before: the difference between rich and poor; the colours and the darkness. But I wonder if anything is as crazy as seeing past and present moving so comfortably into the future. Everyone accepts everything as normal. Nothing is remarkable enough to turn heads. Like the camel carts walking the wrong way up the fast lane on our drive back to Delhi. And the fact that in our apartment we have a squat toilet and a modem. For the people who live here, it's just not extraordinary. Which I guess, just adds to the fascination of the visitors. And maybe it's a big part of the reason that India is so magic.
Life has changed at a fast moving pace the world over. As a teacher, I am educating kids for jobs that might not yet exist. So why is it so surprising here? It's because technology has made such advances and in spite of that, so many of the old ways remain. In Britain, society moves on, developments ripple through all aspects of our lives. For us, technology reaches all of the populous.
Martha is not yet three, and she has already received and sent her first emails (with help, obviously -she's not quite that bright!) For us, mobile phones, games consoles and the Internet are available and used by every generation. I saw the other day that Facebook's oldest member is 103 and uses the site to communicate with her 13 grandchildren.
And similarly here in India, I see mobile phones everywhere. So is the Internet. When I first travelled, the only means of communication was handwritten, on airmail paper (my kids wouldn't even know what that was) and a visit to the local Poste Restante. Then came the fax machine, but you had to know someone back home who had one. It wasn't until I went to Brazil in 1997 that I received my first proper email communication.
But now, every cafe in town has free wi-fi. Travellers are tapping away at their laptops, notepads, Blackberrys and iPhones. And so are the locals. There is one Internet cafe which I pass every day. It's got a funky interior and a wall of windows. It would be at home in any city in the world, except sitting at the row of computers, or relaxing on the multicoloured chairs, there is always a handful of Tibetan monks, fully robed and highly IT literate.
Gets me every time - a monk with a laptop! But the really crazy thing about it all, is that right next door is a building site, where Indian women are hard at work, mixing sand and lime with heavy spades, loading it into large bowls which they carry on their heads to where the men are laying bricks. It's always the women who have the worst jobs. They look so thin and delicate, but their petit frames belie their great strength. Some of them have babies strapped to their backs. No amount of technology is ever going to change their lives.
Nor will it reach the life of the ancient man who crouches opposite, wrapped in a blanket that hides all but his face, as he waits for someone to buy his small collection of vegetables.
We sit outside the cafe, the epitomy of 21st century life, run by uber cool Tibetans, total dudes, sipping machiatos and eating chocolate brownies, as a cow wonders by and stops to munch a piece of newspaper from the side of the road. It's soon followed by a small herd of goats on their way to somewhere, clearly known to them.
Smart Toyotas drive through the dusty streets, frustrated by the speed of a man pushing a hand cart that is his mobile sticker shop. Iconic Royal Enfields roar past wrinkled Tibetan ladies as they spin the prayer wheels outside the temple in the high street.
It's such a cliche to talk about the contrasts in India. We've heard them all a million times before: the difference between rich and poor; the colours and the darkness. But I wonder if anything is as crazy as seeing past and present moving so comfortably into the future. Everyone accepts everything as normal. Nothing is remarkable enough to turn heads. Like the camel carts walking the wrong way up the fast lane on our drive back to Delhi. And the fact that in our apartment we have a squat toilet and a modem. For the people who live here, it's just not extraordinary. Which I guess, just adds to the fascination of the visitors. And maybe it's a big part of the reason that India is so magic.
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