A windy, winding way down south

I had most gratefully accepted the offer to set out along the sinous road which slithers Southward like a bathing snake alongside the crazy communist and his professedly insolent Dutch confidant. Our vehicles were revealed as the enormous bikes were unsheathed from their army surplus covers each with a cavernous side car adding to their magnitude. Our things packed away neatly into Gary's side car, whilst I was to ride up front with the irrefutably more competent and reliable Dutchman who owned the company Corner Adventures which provided tours around South East Asia, China, Tibet and Nepal. Willem's father has been a close friend of Gary's for many years, and so throughout his youth he had become accustomed to Gary's habitual haranguing and the two of them bickered incessantly much to my amusement.

We raced on out of town slicing through the warm morning air quickly leaving Gary lagging far behind! No match for our somewhat startling speed. I tightened the straps on my helmet and clenched my jaw in concentration as I adjusted to the pace and moderate g-force. Sitting in the sidecar was a sobering experience as the shallow sides suddenly seemed potentially inadequate at containing a human being particularity on the sharp bends, but I easily adapted to leaning with the bike and utilising some yoga influenced groundedness to thankfully keep me safely inside. We slipped our earphones in to enjoy solitary soundtracks, and whilst following my enquiry Willem simply shrugged his shoulders and admitted to listening to the Top 40, I employed a seasoned playlist of my most esteemed psytrance to provide a thumping bassline for the exhilarating journey.

With the wind rushing past my face and through my hair I couldnt help but succumb to an enormous smile in flighted felicity, floating my hands though the supportive walls of air as I gazed on at the beautiful scene at my fingertips. Huge rolling mountains dissipated and disappeared into the ochre glow of the hot dusty day, covered in thick, lush arboreal carpet glowing into the distance as green as emeralds under the suns resplendent rays. The road was reliable for the most part, save a few instances when cracks along the inner edge caused my driver to veer right in a grand quixotic maneuver, bringing the weight of the side car and its occupant rising menacingly into the air as we transferred momentarily to two wheels, much to my sudden surprise and delight. Every 30km or so we would pull the green flecked camoflaged beast over, suddenly plunged into silence as the winds ceased, whilst we waited for Gary to catch up, curving sensibly round tbe corner in his sand hued motorbike anywhere up to fifteen minutes later.

We stopped for petrol every few hours and were met by an excitable surge of children vying for a look at the vehicles and the white people that drove them and we tried in vein to communicate or simply resigned to juggling to impress them. Seeing the roads so close and intimately made the country inordinately more palpable and despite the fact that the estimated 4 hour journey quickly crept into 7 or 8 what with Gary's innate procrastination, and we descended into a more dark and ominous night setting speckled with the somwhat painful whip of rain drops, it was a marvellous journey. We stopped over night in Vang Vieng before departing for Vientaine at 9am where I alighted around lunchtime. I bid farewell to the intrepid and quarrelsome bikers and booked a bus to the 4,000 Islands of the Mekong river on the border of Laos and Cambodia.

After an excesively late overnight bus down to Pakse, 6 other travellers and myself found ourselves stranded at a dusty old bustop at 7 in the morning. My onward bus and boat ticket to the Islands was apparently an utter scam as no operatives could comprehend its purpose, so I felt a bit sore at having been had by the well to do and incredibly amicable man in the smart air conditioned office of Vientaine. I guess this is a heist locals pull regularly to helpfully fuel local trade for the onward travel operators using unsuspecting occidents good if not foolish faith, as I would invariably be forking out more to Southern taxi drivers and get to my final destination.

Precarious crampavan

However, in the early hours we found the next leg difficult to organise and aftwr mucn kerfuffle eventually found ourselves allowed reluctantly aboard a large canopied truck with two parallel benches running down the length perhaps designed for a maximum of 6 to 7 people on either side. Having forced a querulous and gratingly acerbic Loatian woman to move her handback and allow me to sit down, we watched as the truck filled with roofing tiles, potatoes, plants, fruits, shopping trolleys, clothes and probably the kitchen sink amidst a staggering 45 people at the journeys zenith. Compared with the spacious, blustery freedom of my cosy little sidecar, uncomfortable was an understatement. But the cantankerous old woman and I managed to settle our difference amiably trading sticky rice for my boiled sweetcorn, so all was well and I began appreciating the warmth of the albeit capricious people again.

The islands were a little haven of beach huts, gloriously laid back restaurant proprietors and hammocks, and a languorous day and a half quickly dissolved into sunrise yoga, swimming and late nignt hammock dwelling with an intrepid artist from Switzerland, an amiable Lesbian from Holland and a rabble of French invalids who had recently suffered a resonably disastrous motobike crash but were thankfully not seriously harmed and in fact remarkably jovial. Another horrendous journey to the border awaited me the next morning, followed by a further foisted ticket fiasco, before I found myself in Cambodia en route to Siem Reap to meet my university buddy Mia at 8pm. I was seriously ebullient to be seeing a friendly face amidst the previous few months of self appointed travel planning since Jack's departure. And while I adore nothing more than the independence of my own hapdash company and direction, my private moments are interminably dappled with ignominious intervals of flight fiascos, botched buses, taxi turmoil and general turbulent solitary travel, so the prospect of the scrupulously cautious and well organised travel partner I was heading to meet was as alluring as a recently laundered and sweet scented pair of fluffy socks to comfortably slip onto my battered and weary feet.

The width of the magnificent Mekong bathed in a lustrous golden sunset

A big fan of Luang Prabang

After a cramped overnight bus from Vang Vieng I arrived bleary eyed in Luang Prabang, a province in the mid-northern Laos, and stumbled through the lovely quiet latticed alleyways of eccentric little wooden guesthouse builds. Nestled on the confluence of the Mekong and Nam Khan, the pretty rivers were visible from either end of the streets along the edges of the narrow jutting town. Stopping outside a gorgeous mahogany homestay I politely inquired as to the cost of a room with a camoflage clad caucasian lodger sat conspicuously with coffee in one hand, and a smashed honey bottle of honey in the other and was precipitantly met with a bracing barrage and the full force of an extrovert character. I set my bags down at a cheap but clean dormitory down the road and had precariously agreed to return for breakfast. The unorthadox and monstrously direct man and I set off to dine on the riverside battling consistently over what degenerated rapidly into stickly semantics, both as fervently grandiloquent as one and other. Breakfast was marked by the same ridiculous rigmarole and our increasing giggling audacity as we conversed at length with locals and I steadily discovered that Gary, his name was revealed to me after an hour or so, was a New York Irish IRA descendent in his forties who had beem adopted by gypsies now residing for the past 15 years in China having worked for a string of international corporate giants. As a fastidious communist, Gary had a wealth of impactive opinions on the left wing countries I was travelling through grounded in years of living in China, and offered some enrapturing tales of Burma and its deviant Wa state, as well as shedding light on the other Asian countries I was soon to visit.

I resolved to do some sightseeing, and had aquired Gary in tow, who uncompromisingly insisted simply that we have a fine glass of rosé on Luang Prabang's picturesquely quaint main central street hemmed with beautiful French-Indochinese architecture first. A good deal of time  and vociferous disturbance later we visited Wat Xiang Thong at the end of town, a historical Buddhist monastery which was enchanting and lively to look around, although the architecture was slightly underwhelming. Up close the temples seemed a little over-zealously restored and resultantly unfortunately came across sligtly crude. However, beside the white washed walls of the immacualte streets all the colours of effulgent hibiscus protrusions and gold hued gates and temples vibrantly effused life into every scene.

The centre of town was overshadowed by Phou Si, another cluster of tiny temples atop a mountain of stairs which zig zagged through the thickets of shady trees on the precipitous banks of its hill. The assorment of treasures we encountered there included a bizarre, slightly derranged looking idol dripping in gold adornments sat in a deep set small nook of a cobwedded cave beside a perculiarly barren room with a incesnce infused centre piece, before a walk way of naga snake heads which slithered along leading pilgrims past a collection of animated Buddaha statues for each of the seven days. The whole precipice was charmingly random and once the stinging beads of sweat had desisted and subsided from my eyes after the lofty climb, observing it all was a pleasure.

Attempting some artistic creativity with
my point and shoot

After passing through the National Museum, a rather un-tourist-friendly mish mash of semi-decadent items with few accompanying labels of explanation (save a proud moon rock relic dedicated by President Nixon which seemed to me an insignificant consililatory gesture for over a decade of senseless bombing) we chanced across another gentelman named Moses. Moses was a wonderfully warm Jewish New Yorker who's Polish parents who were survivors of the war had emigrated before he was born. Numinously, before the day was out, they had engaged in 3-4 additional, equally as animated discussions with other stranger New Yorkians who wandered with smooth regularity into our path, on the topic of the best bagel in town. Having visited for a week at 13, I was repeatedly exhempt from these discussions, and almost all the cultural references made by the exceedingly erudite men amongst themselves. Gary was a past and long term employee of both Nestlé and Monsanto, morrally bankrupt corporate world powers, and Moses was a real rocking hippie from the 60's who was part of the yoga western inception whilst in India with some of the revolutionary teaches and had completed ten Viaassanas arourd the world, a commitment I was venturing toward and so voraciossly inquired upon. So whilst feeling rather insipient, I was noneheless intrigued and encaptivated. Whilst gabbing of subjects beyond my comprehension, two of them allowed themselves to be conspired into a truck alongside myself and a random but friendly Indian man who wanted to see the nearby Kuang Si waterfalls as much as I did.

Through the jungle we came first across Tat Kuang Si and its family of protected Asiatic sloth bears. They are mercilessly exploited by some unforgivably supersticious Chinese for thier livers which are ground down and used to supposedly combat various ailements. After watching the bears play happily in their sizeable habitat I took short leave of the guys and their never ending conversing to climb up a precarious and steep muddy track to the top of the breathtaking falls seeing the water plunging out beneath my feet. Another Brit was at the top so after some daring photography over the edge, we hurryed sweatily back down for a dip in the brilliant blue waters. They were glowing with illustrous bright turquoise hues in the sunlight as if someone had adorned their floors to improve the spectacle and please the tourists, and were so wonderfully fresh and crisp we joyfully jumped from nearby trees in appreciation of our favourable lot before parting ways. My jnlikely companions and I wiled away the night scoffing street food, drinking, playing guitar, with more talk of bagels of course. It had been an envigorating day, but my brain was tired out, so I left Gary and Moses with another New Yorker who had stumbled upon the scene, as Gary's suspicions esculated that he was some ruthless eastern european arms dealers....

Vientaine et Vang Vieng

I heaved my pack onto my back and avoided the overpriced airport taxi by beginning to stroll the few kilometers into town. It was before 8am, but we were already steaming into disorientating humidity, somehow Laos felt more toasty than India, a suspicion which stifled me thoughput South East Asia. Thankfully a jolly Laotian pulled up beside me, in a new breed of tuk tuk I'd not yet seen (each country seems to have its own metamorphosed configuration), and took me into town for a fairer price. As a first ambassador for the country, my tuk tuk man was admirable. And the people of Laos did little to deter my esteemed opinion of them enforced by invariably joyful faces and hearty greetings that were perennially recieved. The first known record of civiIsation in Laos is apparent in the bizzare and numinous Plain of Jars in the central East, a stretch of many hundreds of enormous inexplicable stone jars containing relics from 2,000 year ago thought to have perhaps been used as funeral pyres.  the history is that of misappropriated people as firslt Vietnam and Thailand battled over land rights for many years before the 19th century when the French came bowling in, followed by the Japanese settlling in World War II, until finally the Prime Minister himself allowed the US to fly in Laos airspace in an attempt to shut off the Ho Chi Minh trail in the Vietnam war during which time over 2 million tons of explosives were dropped on Laos soil. Since the royal family were arrested and exiled to malaria ridden camps in the late 70's Laos is now a socialist state with a single party, and everyone seems ostensibly calm and happy.

The streets of Vientaine, the capital, of Laos, were laced with a sapid spectrum of delicious street delacacies and I heartily consumed many sesame seed fried bananas, fresh fruit and steamed sweet corn before finding my way to the tourism centre. Although the food gave an impressive introduction to Laos, the small capital contained no real excitement and I was happy to head on out straight away in search of adventure. Like Malaysia, the approach to tourism was proud, well-developed and friendly. The staff in the information centre were beyond cordial if not jovially insufficient as the erroneous nature of advice I recieved sent me on several hundred sweaty metres of misinformation before I returned, with an admonishing look under the weight of my bags, for more accurate directions. Languishing slightly under the stifling heat I found myself on a bus heading North to Vang Vieng.

3 hours later I pulled up in a sleepy little town beside the Nam Xong river, a wide and picturesque trickle flanked by precipitous but steep, stout little green tufted mountains all around. Heading into town the guesthouses began to thicken, as Vang Vieng was once a popular haunt for backpackers looking to get slaughtered on the rivers in the infamous tubing culture, where rambunktious groups float on tractor inner tyres past beer bars and shot dispensers. It's not difficult to concienve how people began getting seriously hurt. The dangerous rope swings and perilous fusion of alchohol and water took its toll and the activity was publically outlawed, although it has unfortunatly began clandestinly creeping back. I couldnt help but plantitively percieve this dichotomy between backpacker convenience and the squandering of indigenous tradition with a certain sadness which I thought may well be trait of the smaller more busy routes in South East Asia when compared with the more rigorousoy rustic settings of India. However, best not to be overly sententious when the system clearly works for both parties providing and warm and cosy beautiful Eastern retreat for the world, and a reliable economical flux for a country which struggled after the 1997 Asian financial crisis.

                                                                The view from my room

A Belgian run Guesthouse at the North end of town supplied glorious river views of the lustrous sunset over the green capped hills, and despite a chilly shower installed more or less directly over the the toilet in the miniscule bathroom which slopped somewhat into the bedroom I was pleased with the settings. Waking up before the sunrise for a sweaty spot of yoga on the rickety wooden balcony was more than remedial. I wanted to venture into the greenery via suitable methods and so rented a bicycle for about 50 pence to head to various hills, caves and lagoons with the furthest an ambitious 8km away.

A most dubious staircase

This suddenly seemed slightly imprudent after I crossed the calm comely bridge and crashed perilously onto the rugged road which was my perilous path into the countryside. The cracked dirt track littered with small boulder-sized stony obstacles made for an batteringly bumpy ride, but I tried to form an approach with some yogi training to attempt to support some of my weight in a internal bandha muscle lock, lightly cupping the handle bars for vague steering and hoped to sail suspended over the uneven ground the best I could. Ultimate futile as I was destined to take an absolute beating, skidding ominously on the downhills. Before the day was through I'd cycled over 20 clamorous kilometres, climbed two small yet precipitous mountains, ventured into the darkest depths of an astoundingly large and silent cave alone, and taken a well earned dip in the bright blue

Mouth of the enormous Tham Phou Kham caves

lagoon before the gruelling ride back. The scenery was awe-inspiring, broken by reams of green tufted moundish islands, so unlike vast and pyramid shape mountains which make up most ranges although I am yet to learn why, replete with thousands of deep and perilous caves to intrepidly explore had my stay been more protracted. However, I was hurriedly heading North that evening to drift into Luang Prabang very briefly before turning on my heel and heading South through the country in order to meet my uni buddy Mia in Cambodia in a few days. I was unsure about making the trip 7 hours over night away from my ultimate destination in the South, but was spurred on by good advice it was worth the trip. It turned out that my return journey in two days made it all worth while.

Kempt Kuala Lumpur

I arrived in Kuala Lumpa in the early morning, and hopped on a bus from the airport before grabbing a monorail token ready to head into the city and deposit my bag. Arriving in south central India, Bangalore at the crack of dawn the previous day had allowed me a morning lazing in the Botanical gardens amidst rotund old gentlemen enthusiastically going about bizarre but admirable morning exersise routines running round sacred trees and swinging their arms frantically whilst I sat surrupticiouslt in the leaves and quietly practiced. This quick stop on the way to the airport had also given me time to briefly associate myself with KL geography before arriving which proved valuable. I had needed to hone in on destination in the actually quite large city, rather than just arriving at the airport slack-jawed and clueless, and so resolved to stay in a guesthouse for about £3 a night in Chinatown, where I anticipated the food would be good, the atmosphere interesting, but mainly the guesthouses cheap. Sailing in over the city on the monorail was a delight! If only London had transport with such a clear cut aerial perspective, I think commuters would arrive at work feeling considerably more elated, as the city looked bright and clean and refreshing from the sky. This is admittedly in direct contrast with the dusty cow strewn streets of India I had previously been resident witness to, and so the impact may have been intensified in me at this specific point in time. 

Arriving on ground level and hopping in a taxi to Wheeler's guesthouse opposite the Reggae bar, I found the city didn't disappoint and seemed serenely clean and calm even by 7am on a Saturday morning. I left my bag in my no frills room, a discoloured mint green cube with a old rickety bunk beg plonked at an irregular angle in the middle, and headed out for a mooch. Chinatown is the epicentre of cheap knock offs of perhaps the whole of Southeast Asia, and without really meaning to in minutes I'd bought a new casio to replace my malfunctioning model, a fantastic pair of convincingly crafted 'Ray Bans' fashioned surprisingly of real glass (which were inevitably dashed on a rock during a precipitous clamber up a mountain in Laos not 5 days later), and several bags of conveniently sliced cool Jack fruit and pineapple. I took a long sweaty pilgrimmage to the KL tower and resolved to ascend only half way past the Disney-esque entrance filled with glaring lights, obstreperous amusements, exotic animal enclosures and souvenier booths, largely as arriving at the top shafted you an extortionate £20, a third of my grossely misjudged budget for the three days. The views however, were uncontestably glorious and seeing the city from even higher was wonderful. A seriously extensive protion is covered in one of the largest man made city forests in the world, although ununfortunately it was close for maintenence until May. Next, I headed far North to the corner of the city to visit the National art gallery dripping in beautiful naturalistic art and an incredible exhibition called Absurd(c)ity, a fusion of old established and budding youth talent focussed on trippy and abstract themes which displayed contorted clows, weathered witches, and obscene optical illusions. It was brilliant! And most importantly, air conditioned. 

I rode the monorail back down south to centre of town arriving at the tourist information centre to find out if there were any performances in the evening I could catch. Malaysia had a notably more regimented and sensible approach to tourism than I had found in India, as it seemed very much embroiled in the city culture rather than left precariously to the mercy of ferocious rickshaw drivers and tatty laminated sheets of misspelt attractions. I'd already sourced a detailed city map from jolly attendants at a mall information booth, and the staff at the main tourist board were so friendly and informative. Despite the increased expense apparent in this city, it felt more agreeable to be helping to fuel local economy within the well-structured, well organised, and gracious tourism industry. I headed to see the sunset with a few cocktails and some baked camembert with cranberry jelly under the glistening and iconic Petronas Towers before returning to the tourist centre and family market to see a fantastic Malaysian dance performance, infused with Portuguese, Chinese and Indian styles from settlers in the past. After a satisfying stint of subtly inebriated raucous applauding, and quietly considering joining the jovial 2 year old happily dancing along in front of the audience, I reserved my better judgement and instead instigated the stagger home a little more effected by the several small cocktails than I'd perhaps anticipated given the 4 months of moderate abstinence. 

The next morning I took another immaculate, timely train service North to check out the Batu caves. Named after the Batu river which flows near 0by, the 400 million year old limestone caves became a Hindu site of religeous worship, and are now accessible by 272 concrete stairs past an enormous golden deity statue which stands proudly outside littered with grabby and boisterous macaque monkeys the locals gleefully feed despute warnings on the saftey of their young children. The site was suitably attuned to steadily drain the day trippers' wallets and more exotic animal enclosures vyed for tourist's Malaysian ringgit, and so after gawking at the enormous caves whilst recuperating from the rasping gasps of breath endured during the lofty climb, I headed back into town and chanced across an F1 street display of some seriously loud racing cars. After a disgracefully long and perpiration infused trek to the largest udercover free-flying aviary in the world, I snoozed in the vibrant and well kept park outside the Petronas towers, which rung with the pleasant din of children and families playing in the awesome water park nearby. I bumped into a gregarious Malaysian I'd met on the stumble home the night before, who had offered me directions back to Chinatown via his favourite Malaysian side street restaurant where I ordered the most delicious local rice delicacy served in a hollowed out pineapple, and who fortuitously arrived in perfect timing once again to direct me amiably to the Science centre in the Petronas Tower.

I was on my way to Dialouge in the Dark, a deeply moving awareness raising exhibition which leads visitors blindly into the dark, to experience an ephemeral glimpse of living life without sight. We bumped our way through a mock park, via a busy vegetable marketplace and along a rickety bridge, before ordering coffee and cookies in the pitch black by which time we found out that our spritely and most inspiring young guide had been blind since birth. The touring exhibition which has visited 150 cities in over 25 countires has provided jobs for over 6,000 visually impaired staff members and raises money for 3 reputable projects. It was a surprisingly moving journey that stirred deeply, and had me walking tearfully around the park outside closing my eyes periodically to judge likelihood of surviving without sight, and like many millions of visitors before I found myself in a dreamy reverie revering my eyes gratefully.

Heading for the airport on the last bus of the evening, I'd opted to arrive devillishly early for my 7am flight the next day. I had unpleasant premonitions of an otherwise troublesome fare to the airport in the early hours resulting in turmoil and possible missed flights given my luck, and so resolved to diversity the uses of my yoga mat and set up camp to doze in the corner of the check-in lounge ready for my alarm at 5am. I had inordinately enjoyed my whisk through Kuala Lumpur, impressed and encouraged by the cleanliness of the city and the ostensible joy of the people which was a stark contrast from the harsher environments of India I had left behind. I did however also somewhat miss India, its relentless chai stops, crumbling pavements and cracking the exterior of its people to find the convivial head bob endemic only to that country. But onwards and upwards, South East Asia beckons...

Auro-what!?

We landed in Chennai without problem, and I said a fond farewell to Cammie as she headed home for a ten day family sojourn before retuning to ANET for a final 6 weeks - although she has lived in India all her life she still retains a French passport and so is warranted to undergo the same visa restrictions in place on the Andaman Islands as any foreigner staying for no more than 45 days at a time. I imperiously avoided the hectic and bedraggled streets of Chennai and resolved instead to head South toward Pondicherry for 6 days whist awaiting my flight from Bangalore some 8 hours West. A seriously local bus station brought me crashing back to the crushing stares of a hundred prying vouyers as I waited for a bus on hopeful information from a dubious director at the airport. As the beaten up old bus, displaying typically extensive battle wounds, flecking paint and absent windows, crested the horizon and plundered toward the lay-by entrance, a precipitous dash of bodies shoved me along and happily both myself and my backpack were resultantly held fortuitously upright by the wall of clamorous commuters. I even somehow managed to merit a seat for the 3 hour journey. With a backdrop of the lustrous setting sun illuminating the dusty road with unexpected beauty, I settled happily into my book and awaited Mamallapuram, a travellers haunt on the way to Pondicherry. I mainly stopped off as I was asleep on my feet, and as it turned out this relatively prosaic town scattered asunder with elderly tie dye garbed travellers and substandard touristic tat only held my attention for one brief evening anyway. So in the morning, after a fruitless wander to the dirty beach, I boarded another bus to head a further 3 hours South to Pondicherry and had decided to explore and reside in Auroville, an epicentre of international experimentation into social unification founded in the 60's by the mysterious 'Mother'.

                                                                                        Some surprisingly alright pictures from Mamallapuram

An unnerving Hindu effigy on the dirt
track to Auroville. Wasn't sure what
to make of it.

Inaugrated in 1968 by a gathering of some 124 nations and representatives from all Indian states, Auroville is the dream of French born Mirra Alfassa who either named herself or was bestowed the title 'The Mother' and followed in the footsteps of her Indian guru Sri Aurobindo throughout the 60's. The site was handed over to the democratic union of internationals and environmentally conscious 2,000 current inhabitants, although the initial estimations of Aurovillians in '68 was a whopping 50,000, with a view to become a global inspiration for a society based solely on love and sustainability as a place to "realise human unity". A confusing map I picked up from the Visitor's centre, a once futuristic now tired building nestled in a small gathering of hemp threaded clothing boutiques and white walled exhibition galleries of positive affirmations and tbe mother's preachings, denoted the various little factions of Auroville all bestowed various positive and perhaps contrived titles such as Certitude, Perseverenve and Kindness. To be honest, if I were to have conceived of a haven of environmental green living, I would have built its neighbouring establishments much closer together, as the sparse and sporadic nature of the various hippy communes were several kilometres apart along difficult dirt tracks encouraging residents and visitors alike to make use of the many surrounding motorbike hire stalls to make a full exploration. I initially resolved to waft carelessly around on a bicycle, but the proximity from my dormitory on the outskirts of the commune to its centre, and the requirement to head 16km back into Pondicherry to receive a series rabies jabs made this a bit of a pipe dream. So I rented a small motorbike, checked my mirrors (or more accurately mirror singular as the left one had fallen off), tightened my laces, and tried not to think of my carbon footprint.

My slow little bike and I trundled merrily to town enjoying the cool wind against my skin as opposed to the searing midday heat and rivulets of sweat I would be suffering with had I rented a bicycle. Pondicherry has a small and diverse centre of several disecting busy commercial roads selling reams of milk sweets, fruits, fish, watches, saris and books. In the more tranquil North of the town, with its calm wider streets, was nestled the french colonial quarter comprised of neat little buildings adorned with crumbling palid walls, iron wrought window guards and pretty street signs reading rue rather than road. I had a consultation with a friendly female doctor in a private hospital and bought jab one of 3 to fight any harbouring virus from the dog bites, before returning 3 days later for the second installment at the unbelievably crowded and dilapidated public hospital under its collapsing roof and flaking painted walls amidst hundreds of hot and sweaty visitors sitting bare footed against the walls in huge ever growing ques.

Bizarrely, a portly civilian laden himself with my situation and made it his duty to rush me past the hundreds of women queuing to my abject embarrassment, however this whole fiasco resulted in several trips up and down the stairs as noone knew what slip of paper I needed scribbling on by what overworked GP for which overcrowded department before the rabies nurse left at 10:30am. Anyway, long, hectic story short, I was jabbed after a small school uniformed girl in looped plaits and awaited my final installment in Laos.

The following three pictures were sourced from the
extensive Google achives as cameras are
predictably not permitted beyond the gate

Back along the dual carriageway out of town and down a random, inconspicuous and under signposted little track at Auroville I had booked in for a 'concentration' at the esteemed Matri Mandir, a giant gooden orb which supposedly constitues the spiritual and structural centre of Auroville, a "symbol of the Divine's answer to Man's aspiration for perfection". An ambitious blue print of artistic community buildings on display at the town hall fanned out from around the central golden 'pupil' like the outer contours of a giant psychedelic eye as perceived from aerial view in plans and models, but in actuality developments are still very much embryonic if not currently unstarted and not a single building currently stands to realise this innovative design proposed in the 1960s. Much like many of the righteous environmental measures which have been professed since Auroville's inception, such as a huge water purification pipe running from the sea several kilometres away, electric car transportation and several other outlandish recycling schemes. The Matri Mandir is an enormous golden ball, a building that was alledgedly envisioned by the Mother in some lucid trance, and is comprised of 2,000,000 gold leafed mosaic pieces arranged onto hundreds of small and large discs which cover its imposing spherical outside. Orchestrated entry was only permitted after sitting through a 25 minute short film about the origins of Auroville, which skimmed over functional information such as the achievements of the organisation, the funding structure and survival, the funding of the opulent Mantri Mandir or the school curriculum and oppourtunities for young people, all lost in a flimsy and garralous superfluity of professed creativity and free will which to me seemed devoid of any certifiable evidence of what Aurovillians actually do. The anciet and eccentric British guide Gary, a die hard Aurovillian resident, showed us through the lush and marvellous extremely well-kempt gardens of the Matri Mandir, which were nurtured abundantly by lavish diurnal spray systems from a never ending supplies of water. It was odd to me that the buildings were strewn so distantly from one and other requiring the running of a petrol powered machines bobbing dangerously over unmarked, coverted speed bumps no one had got round to painting for the safety of the inhabitants, yet many Indian workers were hired to maintain the decadence of the one central garden. However, one is gravely forbidden from entering the park for recreation, perhaps reading under the enormous and beautiful Banyan tree to the North of the Matri Mandir, unless one holds an Aurovillian resident card. During a run in with a guard during such an attempt a snooty young mother rebuked common travellers for our trespassing. And even residents are not even permitted to enjoy the lushious grassy and shaded respite of the garden at their free will without prior notice to the gate guard during short, specific preordained intervals throughout the day.

Anyway, the Matri Mandir is definitely, categorically not a place of worship for herself, her values, or any devotional religious or secular constructs as profanely professed by the Mother herself. Howeeeever, Matri Mandir by direct translation does perplexingly mean Mother Temple. Our guide explained that the golden casing really did very little to maintain the cool interior of the ball as many mistakenly think, and is in fact purely for aesthetics. Similarly, the 12 towering columns in the central room which do not quite meet the root, are actually not for structural integrity of the centre and are an unknown and mysical addition simply seen by the Mother in her transcendental trance. 12 is a very sacred or perhaps more accurately salient number in the Aurovillian cult or tradition, although references to the numerical networks and patters of these importqnt numbers were brief and underdeveloped. Upon entering the completely silent Disney's Epcot-esque golfball you were in the centre of the cavernous space aglow with frivilous and futuristic walls of red hued back lighting which climbed the impressive walls like a convincing set of Star Wars. Guided by sentinel speechless old hippys dotted at various intervals we were directed to remove our shoes and don thick white socks to ascend one of the entwining and spiralling helix staircases into the central chamber.

The central concentration hamber

A prestine enormous and minimal dark cave, which embellished the spacey Millenium falcolm ambiencemof the place, had at least 40 meditation spots extending out around a central skylight which gave way to a beam of sunlight that shone directly down through a prodigious glass orb that scattered reflections of the clouds across the hazy survace of a white plateau which then trickled the light down under the enormous golden ball to a smaller crystal in the middle of a white water feature underneath. The large mixed group of tourists of sat for 15 minutes in either quiet, disiplined meditation or disinterested uncomfortable slants observing the silence broken monumentally by the smallest sniffle or most clandenstine cough which sent sound waves echoingly menacingly around the space. The floor was covered in a thick, white cushioned carpet, hence the bizarre socks and stern instruction to deter from prostrations particularly if harbohring painted bindis as they'd found these murderous to remove in the past.

12 outer petal rooms named after various meritorious attributes radiated out around the ball providing other rainbow coloured space age rooms to sit and meditate in during prebooked concentrstion sessions which I heard were less bizarre than the group induction. Being in the central chamber had had an adverse anarchic effext on me producing a dastardly desire to sprint and dive roll over the big light crystal purely to stir and see the abhorrence from the eldery guarding residents. I desperately sought a park or communal grassland to sit and read or hula hoop in the following day, but aside from the scrupulously maintained Matri Mandir garden, locals of 3 and 30 years could not managed to guide me to such a place as they absent mindely searched the recesses of their cloudy memories for places of communal congregation, nor seemed phased at its absence. I chanced across the botanical gardens, a forgotten tangle of scrub land and faded, ghostly signs which once displayed a visitors' trail, plant properties and latin derivatives when the dream of aauroville was new and vibrant. The devilish desires returned as some other visitors in my dormitory and I consired breaking into the main gardens and enjoy the soft grass at sunset in protest of the Draconian and esoteric regulations. I was vying for a well-timed streak of defiance, but we resolved to abstain as, although we were leaving in the morning, one girl aspired to stay for longer and volunteer her time so we relented on her behalf. 

In the evenings we gathered fruits and exquisite bakery items for extensive communal feasts and fruit salads, and I hooped the nights away with two Slovak enthusiasts with whom I exchanged many tricks to the soundtrack of guitar mastery from incredibly talented Israelis and Indians.

Melina and me

A little bit disillusioned toward the end of my stay in the furtive Auroville with its unremitting residents, I did however merit a disgracefully cheap dentist check up and polish with a reputable Indian dentist for 280 rupees, or the equivalent of a meagre £3. So whilst Auroville was comprised of the unimpressively elitist confluence of a cultish cohort with a cloudy concept, I found a great dentistry service, and the deals in some ways inspiring. Plus several of the delightful debauchees from my dormitory will be attending Boom in Portugal so the saga continues...

Island Hopping

The sleepy yet ridiculous reality of the heavenly nature of the islands is best exhibited in the bizzare beadledom and officious officialities of the local regulatory commisions. Securing a fare on one of the dilapidated ferries, aside from the haunting tales of an only recent tightening of the safety reins given the solemn sinking of a commerical ship only 3 weeks previously, is utter madness. One must arrive at the ticket office at any one of the opening times dictated by the befuddled locals, which ranged anywhere from 6:45am, though past 7:30, casually on via 8 until the final, reluctant arrival of staff around 8:45. I can't help but admire the unfailing conviction of all Indians in the realms of direction giving and advice mongering as regardless and often entirely devoid of any accuracy, information is unequivocablly conveyed in no uncertain terms to the trusting traveller who then must piece together a web of facticious responses and select their chosen path none the wiser. The recalcitrant glare of the unenthused ticket officers behind the thick, cloudy barrier of glass was met with a massive disorderly rabble, in which I hadbecome inextricably sandwiched, trying to chaotically organise themselves into one of the two ques which was further segregated into gender specific rows that clashed tumultuously, unlike the calm waters lapping the shores beyond the office. This bizarre and outlandosh approach to your conventional que caused a battle of the sexes at the front of each double line as each vyed violently for a place in front of the tiny window to gain the attention of the officer. The glass itself was only vaguely translucent given the myriad of ancient sticker residule from old, pallid, yellow hued scraps of paper with various inane instructions scrawlled atop, and lengthy ridiculously formal letters addressed to the likes of Chief Examiner of the Protocol of Island Transportation Division Department Executive Manager which contained such beweildering jargon infused discourse I was certain that very few had ever  othered to note such notes in their staggering verbosity, let alone comprehended them. 

When I finally arrived on Havelock Island, diver's paradise, halfway up the main bulk of the Andaman Isands and about 40km from the East coast, I excitedly booked myself onto two dives with the venerable Barefoot team and headed happily for the beach under what must've been around 35 degree heat, coconut in hand and sweaty smile on my face. Fruit was the unfavourable absence of life at ANET as the only rare treat was India's tiny bananas at breakfast which contain small but suprisingly hard black seeds. Something about the pulpous texture of a banana is so incongrous with a sudden hard pip that the experience leaves me feeling uneasy. How I'd been missing the melange of papaya, pineapple and melon of the mainland and so had been induldging heartily since emerging out of the jungle. The fine white sands were more or less deserted further along from the crowded and shady retreats of the Indian tourists, and I bathed in the crystal clear presence of the gently lapping bath-warm sea under cover of the shady canopy of more enormous littoral trees which towered above gently shedding leaves to provide soft bedding on the sand. The romantically named beach 'Number 7' is the bizzare colloquialism of Rangahar beach as named in local vernacular, although why the visiting masses can't refer to it by it's proper name is anyone's disillusioned guess.

Seriously sweaty
approaching devastating
high season hear

I headed for some lunch in the sleepy market infused streets of what could be percieved as the centre of the island and trundled off to beach Number 3 several samoas heavier. I passed some fishermen and their sons who were quite expertly practicing well exectued backflips, applauding racously at necessary intervals, before I headed round a deserted corner aside the water edge which was dappled with a length of beautiful mangrove trees. No sooner had I finished filming that days 5 seconds of film, a project inspired by a yoga disciple I'd met in Goa aimed at capturing the spectrum of bizzare and beautiful goings on of this trip ready to be stitched together and watched back in their entirety, than I suddenly became the focus of a fast approaching pack of angry dogs.

A solitary stroll by the tangle of mangroves before
the incident

I raised my arms and gazed fearfully forwards knowing it best to avoid the eye contact of territorial dogs, but the damage was somehow inexplicably done and I was immediately set upon from all sides. My lungi wrap-around sarong was ripped off and a few painful nashes to my calves left me instinctively screaming for help. To my tearful relief, a group of young boys closed in moments later with paniced looks across their faces before two more men came running from the other side of the beach. One way to interact with the locals I suppose! The beastly pack scattered and the group examined my legs and resolved with compassionate, conciliatroy exchanges of concern, in the complete absence of a shared common language, to escort me immediately to hospital. They  seemed wary given the blood speckled appearance of my legs and our walk together was speechless but the sweet, deferent boys dutifully and quietly hurried me the 5 minute hobble to hospital and then their concerned faces filled the doorway to the dusty old, almost deserted nurses' office in the eerily quiet state building. I was touched by their warmth and gave them a gracious, valedictoty high five each before they reluctantly left me. The nurse cleaned the 3 or 4 surface wounds and doused me in staining iodine. The bites were far less savage than could have been the case, and I was incredibly lucky and indebted to the local kids for ensuring the whole fiasco transpired without serious scathe. An incipient yet insidious bruise from a paricularly healthy bite on the inside of my right calf left me hobbling for a few days and unable to dive, but the waves of consternation took an evening to subside and after the stout character building experience I ultimately resolved to transit only when accompanied by a respectablely sized stick in future.  

Although I had been assured vaguely in an offhand and disinterested manner that rabies was non existent on the islands, there seemed no definitive reference on the internet, and so when back on the mainland several days later I sought a programme of jabs to ensure I didn't catch the rage and return home a foaming beast. However, until then I was stranded on the small and snoozy islands without the consultation of a more laudable medical establishment as ferries were booked up from Havelock to Port Blair for the next two days, on an isnald of non-existent internet connection. So I was utterly alone and decided jovially to spend my potentially last remaining days as a sentient, healthy and sane being on Niel, the next island along and more placcid smaller brother of Havelock.

I found a small, humble cluster of huts and occupied a beautiful wooded, rustic haven of my own before borrowing a friendly Uraguayian's bicycle for a slow and languorous exploration of the island, given that my calf muscle was still rock solid and as black as the heart of the unfriendly beast who inflicted it. Neil was a true paradise of sedative tranquility and I found myself alone, undisturbed all day long save a quick pancake with a jovial Israeli and until a communal dinner with the other residents before an early night in my wicker hut with my book. 

I woke early to head back, via some typical travel time turbulence on Indian transportation, for the final day at ANET before hopping on a flight to Chennai which by chance was happily the same as Cammie's. Whilst my stay at ANET wasn't the enlightening introduction into environmental sustainability and management I had been hoping for, I learned so much and had such a flipping beautiful time on the archelagio of islands. I do however look forward to hearing about the developing initiatives of the organisation which to be fair is still very much in its primary years of expansion having been revived in 2009 since its humble roots in 1990. The last two years only have seen the company staff and protocol expand dramatically into the education sector, working nationally with schools, children and students whilst taking on interns and volunteers, and next year the art department will add a further faction to the community spirit being nurtured there. So it was a valuable experience to see and feel the blossoming of such an inspriring organisation and I will take alot away with me for future thought having witnessed the behind he scenes nature of a great ethos. Well, onto the mainland for a final few days in mother India, unnervingly making flight amidst world news of a mysterious unaccountable plane which diverted from the flight route between Kuala Lumpur to Bejjing, on a mystefying and inexplicable diversion hundreds of kilometers over to the Andaman Islands before its signal was lost for 4 days, which I believe is now drastically descending into the weeks. Fingers crossed our flight path withstands and the missing plane is found soon.

Another on ANET before absconding the Andamans...

After the school group left, and happily we could stop ascending to the roof top of the library every 5 minutes to retrieve my light-up frisbee, the pace didn't really pick up as expected. The heat of the day, the luxurious shade of the trees and the clockwork nature of the meals at ANET caused the first 6 days to slip laxcidasically by in a waft of book reading, sketching and library dwelling. I was finally given a project to design and articulate a guided tree walk for visitors, gratutiously utilising my degree whilst tackling some botanical knowledge in the process. I loved ambling along the jungle dirt tracks and precariously climbing trees to retrive samples of their tropical leaves or inviting flowers, whilst matching

Some sort of scandent species. If I had my
booklet, I'd impress you with the Latin

their characteristics against the verbose musings of the euphuistic botanist Parkinson using an archaic dusty version of his Andaman Flora I found in the library. Researching with the abominable internet connection caused progress to venture down a less than expedidious path, but after unabatedly battling on for a week I had finally gathered all the necessary information to compile. The next step was to tackle design software PhotoShop and InDesign to edit photos and order the chaos into some sort of coherent booklet form. The deeply and divinely sarcastic Aditi from Bangalore arrived in the nick of time to share some pearls of PhotoShop wisdom whilst providing regular cutting remarks on my performance. Padi as she told me she prefers to be know to friends, which was a joyful revelation given the ostensibly harsh and mocking ambience of most of our previous interactions, helped me cut some of the photos of tree bark, boughs, leaves and flowers I'd been gathering to include in the booklet.

After 2 weeks of much toil and trouble with the seemingly nonsensical functions of Windows' maddnening malfunctioning software, I had finally finished, and was pleased with the professional look of the final product. I layered the background beautifully with the help of English art therapist Ruth's leaf prints which she had been creating to build an art library whilst volunteering to assist with ANET's launch of an art department. Her Switz husband Klas, an architect trained in Scotland where they met, had been helping construct a little tree house up in the canopy of a small banyan tree near our volunteer tent which was a fantastic and exciting achievement and venue of ensuing star gazing evenings. Before the two left for the next leg of their 6 month break from work we trudged through the jungle up Mnt. Harriet North of Port Blair, cunningly entering the national reserve under the beguiling guise of students which exultingly saved us over 9/10s on the fare.

To begin with it took some time to settle convivially into the castaway community as, besides the difficulty of pronouncing let alone remembering the plethora of unusual names of the mostly Indian cohort, the majority of researchers were embroiled in the depths of their thesis studies, dissertations or university granted investigations and so had little time or energy for engaging passers by. Supplement this with the sometimes seemingly unmannered social interactions of Indian people as perceived by the bubble wrapped, soft and blithering politeness of the English, and I felt a little isolated to begin with. However, I quickly settled in as other volunteers, interns and dive master aapirants flooded in, amd I grew accustomed to the scathing remarks from Aditi, warded off the dark and often aggressive sattire of Nitya to enjoy the the dynamics of the jungle dramas. 

Ruth, Klas and me recuperating after a grueling dive

During work on the tree guide, the days happily remained blissfully relaxed with daily yoga on the wooden boarding of the library veranda, performing diurnal sun salutations to mark the passing of each gorgeous day with the help of ship shape Canadian yoga guru Zan and her hardcore yet soothing style. Ruth, Klas, Zan and I went on a few dives to Cinque Island some 40km south to an astounding underwater universe alive with sundry scores of species darting about their daily business amongst bright coral of all shapes and colours. When out of the water, and breaking from the internet and InDesign battles, Zan and I crafted jewelry from the beautiful plumage of an unfortunate Andaman Cuckoo dashed on the road (surely nothing says enironmentally conscious like such dedicated recycling devotion), practiced yoga and desecrated our clothes with scissors to suit our rustic setting with bedraggled raiment. Some of the other 

Padi, Thitlet, me and Indu a little smug after our
ray encountees

volunteers and I verntured off on a dive less far afield a half hour boat ride from the coastal doorstep of the jungle. We swam beside an enormous manta ray even before descending into the warm depths, felicitously flapping along after the blissful beats of its enormous wings. When we descended to the sea bed we found a beautiful chamelionic colour shifting camoflaged octopus and a gargantuan blotched sting ray far bigger than me relaxing beside a rock.

 

When I'd completed the tree guide, the slightly shambolick organisation of the volunteer project left me without any idea of the location of the ANET elders, let alone any further projects to take up, and so I began helping French-Indian Cammie with a mangrove fauna data collecting project, with the help of the new volunteer and slightly soporific Nick from Leeds. This was made all he more fun due to the timing of our morning endeavours coinciding with high tide which provided wet marshy, clay pits to squelch up between the toes during investigations. Plus the added bonus of wallowing in the glorious sun shine and the advancement of my tan having spent many days mostly under the canopy of the trees. It was cool being able to tag along with various researchers and volunteers helping and observing ongoing projects. Strolling onto New Wandoor at night with ANET's dedicated chefs slash Sea Krait monitors, as well as John, ANET's meek and modest longest standing affiliate whose roots are amongst the Karan people who migrated to the islands for work. He was a deep source of botanical knowledge on the islands and their flora and fauna and was leading the Sea Krait monitoring. Around

My personal favourite marrying of photo and caption.
Hung beside a close second which was a similar out
of focus, dusty shot of a grumpy looking pair in ragged
tracksuits in front of their wooden home labelled
laconically: 'A Local Couple'

this time I also had to venture to Port Blair to renew my visa for an extended 15 days. A chaotic occurence that took two attempts, tackling the 50 minute hurtling bus ride either way into the dizzying hectic hive of the costal town. It did however afford some enlightening visits to the Cellular Jail, where horrific incacerations of Freedom Figters were exercised before India's independence, which apparently warrants a tree narrating the grisly history lugubriously during a decadent but heavily dated and uninformative son et lumiere, plus a sweep through the ancient Anthropological museum which given the history of the Islands was vastly interesting to ponder, if perhaps not a little underwhelming in some displays.

During my last few days at ANET I was able to exersise one of my favourite new hobbies sketching birds of the subcontinent, and began a speices library to help visitors spot and identify 26 common birds likely to be darting through the trees around ANET. On

A Stork-Billed Kingfisher
nestled inconspicuously
in the middle of the branch

Valentine's day I also went out with some of the researchers to take part in the international Backyard Bird-watching event which had the whole world embarking on a quick count of speices in their home environment to help gather data on widespread international environments. So having completed a few various projects of my own and assisted whoever and whatever was in need in the sleepy recesses of the ANET remit, I began to pack up my things in the final week, and was getting ready to depart. Having been left very much to our own devices, which was probably a good lesson in focus and motivation, the days at ANET had been a blend of some self-imposed hard work, self-exalting diving trips to the sea bed and self-directed expeditions of discovery around the beautiful bucolic surroundings. I'd learned so much about the endemic and continental flora and fauna as well as some local history and so took a few hedonistic days off in the paradisiacal islands just North of Port Blair before I flew back to the mainland.