Reggie Thomson’s Diary

The drivers changed at six, so I had to sit up again. We stopped at a restaurant with a large outside water tank. The drivers washed themselves, but I just dampened my cloth and wiped myself all over. After a cup of tea, they then drove on to Etah. From here, they said, I could take a bus to Agra. I thanked them, and wanted to give them each a postcard, but only the driver accepted.

Still weary, I sat down at a small shop for several more cups of tea, and a few biscuits out of a cookie jar. I was at the entrance to the bus station, and could read the word “Agra” in Hindu on one. I wrote a sign for Sadabad, which I managed by myself, though confirmed first. Presently, I picked up my bag and set off.

Round the corner, though, the clouds burst. I fled for cover, and pulled out my rainclothes, covering up the bag as well. When a truck came, I ran out with my sign. After three such excursions, a tanker stopped. I grabbed the rucksack and was waved round to the driver side. I had to sqeeze in behind him, as there were lots of other people in the cab, including a lady with a baby. We went some distance down the road, and a few people got off, while others came on. I wondered if he was wanting money, so asked if it was a taxi. The driver didn’t speak English and the gentleman beside me seemed weak. No, it wasn’t a taxi. “No money, OK?” I wanted to be quite sure. They appeared to confirm this.

I think we took a road not marked on my map, maybe through Tundla. At any rate, by ten I was in Agra. I thanked the driver, and gave him card, and asked him to sign the book. He wrote 30. It took a little coaxing to get a name, and then I jumped out. However, he came after me. I explained through a translator, that I had already confirmed “No money,” and as a hitchhiker, intent on travelling from Calcutta to the Calais for free, except for the boat to Brindisi, I didn’t wish to spoil the challenge here.

I walked down the road to Agra and the Taj Mahal, not quite sure where I was on my map. However, I went past an imposing entrance, and looking at the pages from the guidebook, realised that this was the predecessor to the Taj Mahal. Itimad-ud-daulah was also a masoleum. It was the first to use the techinque of carving the stones within the marble (pietra dura) - which the Taj so perfected.

I paid my entrance fee, and started taking snaps. It was excellent timing. There were few people around, and the sun came out. I examined it from a distance and from close up. It was extraordinary. I was so pleased that I had stumbled across it by chance, and my expectations for the Taj were greatly enhanced upon seeing this. The stonework was extremely intricate, though in places slightly broken, but except on close inspection, that didn’t detract from its appearance.

I was tempted to peer down towards the Taj Mahal, but I really wanted my first view to be a good one. It was out of sight, anyway, round the corner of the Yamana river, and two bridges blocked the view.

By the river bank was another sandstone building, and inside it some men were carving out replacement pieces of marble using an instrument rather like a bow. It looked very laborious.

When I’d finished, I went to the toilet and came out to wash my hands. A man approached, asking if I needed film. At the same time, a young boy with a skin disorder rushed to try and turn the taps on for me. The man shoed him away. I showed him my camera, and asked if he had my kind of “film” - holding it up!

From there, I walked across the bridge, and round by the impressive Agra Fort. My first glimpse of the Taj Mahal was through the trees, and good enough for a photograph (though not good enough for the homepage.) It was an emotional moment. I felt as if I had been travelling across Asia to this Destiny with Beauty.

A camel pulling a trailer went slowly past. I tried a few snaps, with the fort in the background. He offered me a lift - but I’m on a “walk or hitch&quot ; challenge. I might have bargained - a postcard for a rid e!

Closer to the Taj Ganj area, I went up a small hill to see what the view from there was like. This was the “Taj amonst the trees” view. Nearby some long-haired hippies (are there any other types) were playing a game. I made my own way to the hotel, avoiding all offers of lifts, or cheap hotels, and even the people who asked where I was going. My initial choice was the Hotel Kamal, but it was more expensive that it said in the book. I went round to the Hotel Raj, following my map and refusing to buy any of the water or postcards or trinklets that were offered.

A room on the top floor was only 60 Rs per night. I settled in, took a shower, and put my morning photos onto the computer. There was a small shop and restaurant just across the road. The menu was cheap, so I ate a very late lunch there. A copy of the Hindustan Times was on the table, giving me something to read while I waited. I explained I would go into the Taj Mahal to take photos, and was advised to do so just before five. At five o’clock, the entrance fee goes up from 15 Rs to 105. After a short rest, it was time to go.

The Raj Hotel is on the road leading up to the South Entrance. Inside, I took a few snaps of the courtyard, before joining the queue to go in. They searched my camera case, and let me through.

The standard tourist photograph is taken from the main gate (now the exit). I’m not really after the standard shots. I’m looking for something different. I decided that I would have to balance the Taj Mahal evenly on the frame, but could vary the lead-ins. There were so many people crowding round the famous spot, that I don’t even think I took a single photo from there. I tried getting close to the pool, and low down for stronger lead-ins. I couldn’t stay in that position long, as it would spoil everyone else’s “standard me-and-the-Taj” shot.

Closer in, I went for the tree-in-the-corner shot. As the sun began to set, the colours changed wonderfully. I didn’t go up to the main mausoleum, because I would have had to take my shoes off. I went round by the mosque to find my scenes. With the sun behind clouds, I took some more reflections, going as close as I could to the water. I don’t like these photos, because they lose the symmetry of the Taj. I spotted one location, using the curve of the pool as an edge and lead-in. It was too dark to make a good photo, but my intention for today was to find some good positions. The last photo was taken at seven-thirty. It was green! I think that was a digital camera effect. There was almost nothing on the screen when I pressed the button.

Back at the hotel, I sifted through the pictures, and began to make up some of the internet pages. I talked briefly to the English gentleman next door. He was working as a volunteer in Delhi, and gets Thursdays and Fridays off. Then I went across the road to get my cheap meal.

I was up very early - well, by 5.45. The front door was locked with a thick chain and padlock. Two people arrived with a guide, so I figured it would do no harm to wake up one of the staff, sleeping in the lobby. I think this is where they live - like the people in the garage outside Calcutta, they have no other “home” to go to.

So, I was down by Dasaswamedh Ghat by 6.15, but it was a cloudy morning. I paced up and down, avoiding those who could provide “special, cheap boats - only 200 Rs,” when the government approved rate is only 45 Rs. There was little to photograph, in the dull light. As before, people were rushing into dirty water to make themselves clean inside, brushing their teeth with sticks or polishing their brass with mud. I walked across the boats to take some photos.

One guru, on a wooden bench with umbrella, called me over. We started chatting. He runs a business in town, and isn’t worthy to be a guru, but he doesn’t do it for money. He never asks for money. I could see a little pot beside him though. Visitors were probably expected to put something in. Instead, I treated him to a cup of tea. It was two rupees per cup, and the tea man returned only four Rs change initially from a 10Rs note. He had offered the guru two cups, but that being refused, drank the second cup himself - and paid for it. It was in a tiny, clay cup which one is supposed to throw onto the ground and break when finished. I couldn’t bring myself to destroy. Reuse is better than recycle. I put it on the platform. The guru chucked it away for me.

Another guru wanted to talk, and though also claimed he didn’t ask for money, desired to put a red dot on my forehead. I refuse to submit to the customs of other religions, and refuse to allow people to do something for me that could be called “work” and hence refuse to pay for anything I don’t want. I could tell he wasn’t really interested.

The sun was just beginning to rise above the clouds at eight, and the best offer I’d had was 80 Rs for a boat to myself. I told the guy I’d come back if I didn’t get a better offer. There were cheaper offers - but usually reduced from much higher initial offers. I didn’t wish to go with such people. I could have shared for just 20 Rs, but then it would be difficult to take the photos. Finally one man offered 60 Rs for the hour.

A bearded, guru-looking guy sat in the front of the boat. We went downstream first. The water had receded by about a foot in depth since yesterday. To go slowly, one stays close to the bank. I took lots of snaps, but couldn’t find a pleasing photo of someone bathing. Mud piled high in one of the Ghats caught my eye, and the photo made it onto the homepage.

We went down as far as the burning Ghat, which, I was informed again, was out of photographic bounds. Someone shouted at me for pointing the camera that way, but I was trying to take a photo of a cow on the steps beyond the Ghat. The rower had to work hard going upstream again. He told me that Indians are strong - they can drink the water of the Ganges and still live. We went beyond the Dasaswamedh Ghat until it was time to return, and the sun had become obscured by clouds again. As I parted with the agreed fee, he asked for a donation. I felt that if they wanted more money, they should have quoted a higher price in the first place.

It was nine, and time for breakfast, and a few milos. Whenever I eat at the restaurant, they never seem to have the correct change. They said I could pay when I checked out. I sorted out the photos, but had only one to add to my collection. I haven’t really done Varanasi justice, but Agra calls. I packed, and was about to leave, when I thought I should take a quick snap through the window. The netting adds a waffled appearance to the sky.

I took lunch there, having packed all my bags. Then I came to settle. Again there wasn’t enough change. I bought a roll of toilet paper to make up the difference. Just before I left, I went up to the top of the hotel for a bird’s eye view of t he golden temple. It doesn’t look particularly special, though photography was forbidden.

I purchased the shoes in the same shop - just 60 Rs, though a different salesman served me. I threw away the Indonesian pair. Then I marched to the railway station, refusing all offers. “Where are you going?” “Agra.” “I’ll take you - for ten rupees.” “Are you going to Agra? Ten rupees all the way to Agra?” The people around started laughing. I continued with my walk. There are large piles of rotting animal skins in the road, and a shoe industry along it.

I crossed the railway line, waving periodically to two children. Just the other side, a van stopped. I squeezed in the back, with my luggage put behind. The two businessmen were going back to Lucknow, I think, and the other two were probably just employees. We chatted a little, though it was somewhat cramped in the back. Further on, the businessmen changed places with the driver and companion, who didn’t mind squeezing in the back with me. They put the music on at such high decibels, I began to think it was a kind of torture. When we came to a traffic jam, they simply roared up the wrong side of the road, and weaved in and out of the oncoming vehicles.

At Allahabad, they stopped to let me out. I wasn’t quite sure where I was, and didn’t think to ask if they were going on to Lucknow via Kanpur. So, I found myself walking into town. I think there was a bypass shown on the map, but I had probably gone long past it. I stopped for a drink of Coca-Cola. As I came out of the restaurant, a gentleman asked where I was going. He told me, I should go the other way, and walked with me to the turn-off.

By this time, it was beginning to get dark. I noticed some people standing on the road corners trying to wave down trucks. It seems I’m not the only person who hitches here. “The bus is this way,” people suggested. I’m going by hitchhike. I walked on, confirming my route from time to time, when I encountered a bypass. A motorcyclist drew alongside. “It’s better that you take the bus.” He was the twenty-first person to say so. “How do you know it is better?” I asked. It was meant as a philosophical question - after all, how do we determine what is good, better and best for other people? “I was only giving advice.” “In that case, I can take it or leave it.” “Then you can go to HELL!” and he sped off in the other direction. I nearly retorted, “Is that where you’re going?” but it wouldn’t have been fair. Is it a part of Muslim culture to try and control? This area is predominantly Muslim, I think

A truck stopped. The driver took me on half-a-dozen roundabouts. I gave my card to an official looking person, then worked out that he was also hitching - a soldier who has the clout to demand that the driver stopped. They both signed the book.

In the dark, I prefer to wait under a light, so that my sign is easier to read. The next truck was going to Kanpur. Again, there was a soldier hitching in the cab as well, though only going a few roundabouts. I nearly threw my rucksack onto one person, lying on the rear couch. He sat up. After a while, I settled my baggage in behind the driver, and that was where I sat for most of the journey. When the soldier got out, I don’t think he paid anything, but I wasn’t quite sure.

When we stopped, they insisted on paying for my cup of tea. I was very grateful. I had been worried that they might want payment, since they had picked up other hitchhikers, but when someone buys me even a cup of tea (2-3Rs), I know they are doing it out of kindness, not for self-gain. Later on, when we stopped for a meal, I checked the price of chapati, and ordered four, with some curry. I got two portions of curry and ate handsomely. They paid the entire bill, and wouldn’t let me contribute.

The driver changed places with his second in command, and retired to the bunk above me. The young assistant sat by the door. I lay on the couch and got some sleep. The assistant began to doze, and since the door was wide open, was in danger of falling out. The driver had to prod him awake.

They had said they could take me on to Aligarh, from where I could easily get the remaining 80km to Agra. We would arrive early in the morning. That was excellent news - I’d only planned on getting to Agra by Friday. At a toilet stop, I brushed my teeth for the night, and got some sleep. If I’d gone by bus, I would be squashed uncomfortably on a single, maybe hard, seat. My luggage would be hidden away, where I’ve heard tales of other travellers simply walking off with it. No one would talk to me, let alone buy my cups of tea or meals. No, I had to reflect, it is BETTER by hitching.

I got some sleep in the back of the truck, which was just as well. We arrived in Varanasi at around 2 a.m. Jumping out, I was immediately surrounded by a group of people. My map covers the area, but to give them something to do, I asked for confirmation of the way to the Ghats.

Across the railway, which goes under the road bridge, I stumbled across a tea shop, and ordered a cup. The gentlemen took a lively interest in me, with translations provided by the shop owner, the only English speaker among them. I decided against finding somewhere to kip out for the night, and instead drank several more glasses of hot milky tea in this company. I even gave them a slide show on the camera.

Several rounds of toast sufficed for breakfast, and by quarter to five, I was winding my way along the narrow roads to the main Ghat, Dasaswamedh, avoiding the cows, goats, stray dogs and monkeys. Life was just beginning to rouse. I didn’t follow any particular road, preferring to “hope” that I would arrive, rather than plan or make sure of it. As the skies lightened, I was worried that I might not see the sunrise, so quickened my step.

Nearing the Ghat, one person tried to deflect me with: “The main Ghat is this way.” I ignored him, confident in my map-reading. Arriving at the steps down to the holy Ganges, I started looking for suitable scenes. I was disappointed that it was not more photogenic. The boats cluttered the river, and bathers tended to be in large groups. Isolating one wasn’t really possible. When the sun itself made its appearance, the colours were tremendous, but the subjects bland.

Lots of people were washing themselves - men in skimpy nappy-like coverings, while women just went in in their sarees. They would dip under the water several times for a full immersion. Others were brushing their teeth using a twig. Still more, were drinking the muddy brown waters. A sadhu, or holy man, with smile, stick, and metal pot, held out the latter for me. I didn’t put anything in. A professional beggar.

Carrying the rucksack as I was, touts continually hassled me - to take me to a hotel, though I wasn’t ready to go, or offering me a boat, though I wouldn’t wish to take a boat and risk my rucksack, or even asking if I wanted a massage. Searching for beauty means rushing around to find an angle or a scene, then waiting for its subjects to be in satisfactory positions. I totally ignored the touts, but was concerned that I might be making it difficult to get one tomorrow. Some tourists got angry when prices quoted were way above the “official” rates of 45 Rs per hour.

Disappointed that I had no good sunrise image, I clambered round the mud and went for a general view. The half-broken vantage point was holy ground, necessitating someone to order me to take my sandals off. It’s impossible to see what is holy and what isn’t.

As I sought out some of the other Ghats further north, one persistant boy followed me. I had to flick him away to get rid of him. I didn’t follow the map - just used maze techniques to get to the next Ghat. The river was too high to walk alongside it. This Ghat, next to the Nepalese temple, was more to my suiting. A group of gentlemen were seated by the water’s edge, and being few in number, easier to isolate in my viewfinder. They didn’t mind posing, when I took a group photo. People refer to me as “Baba” or “Babaji” which is a term used for the sadhu, or holy men. The only qualification for the title is a beard and wild hair. I don’t even have the stick or orange clothes - but my shorts are orange.

In the Nepalese temple, one gentleman kept me right about where I was and wasn’t permitted to go. As a heathen, I could walk round the temple, but not set foot inside it. Down some steep steps was a tiny Ghat, where a gentleman was washing himself, and a lady polishing a copper pot. Brasso would have done a brighter job, but would not confer the holiness.

From the higher vantage point , the temple rule-enforcer informed me of a body floating down th e Ganges. In the photo, it is merely a blob amongst the trees. Before I left, the man began to demand a donation. “I see no donation box,” I replied, wary of the sorts of scams that had occurred in Indonesia. I left with my wallet intact.

Further along, I was “befriended” by someone near the burning Ghat. It is regrettable, but I am always suspicious of Indian friendship. Sure enough, this gentleman was only really interested in the commission he might obtain if I went to the guesthouse of his choice. He showed me down to the Manikamika, which is a burning Ghat. It is illegal to photograph this Ghat. The rule is not explained - just enforced. Is there a fear that I might catch a departing soul on film (chips?) and prevent its departure for Nirvana, thus condemning it to yet another tearful cycle upon this world?

There are huge piles of logs behind the Ghat. I went down to the waterside. Mud reaches far up into the buildings. As it is holy, mud, there is no need to remove it. It is little wonder that cleanliness has little place in Indian culture. It often seems that Indian people are unkempt, and their clothes untidy.

On the narrow road down to the burning Ghat, two disciples sat on a cloth with their guru. They were absorbed in following his instructions. I took several snaps, waiting for the gent on the right to move his face forward into the sunlight.

A body was wrapped and ready for the pyre at on end of the Manikamika Ghat. I crossed the concrete floor, avoiding small, smouldering piles of charcoal, and wondering if the heat would melt my flip-flops. Butter was placed on the body - to cover the smell of cooked flesh. Someone had taken it upon himself to be my unappointed guide. Then he started asking for money - a “donation” to pay for wood to burn the poor people in the hospices either side of the Ghat. After Indonesia, I am too much on my guard against thieves pretending to be officials. I told him I didn’t like to be pestered. “Just make a donation, and I’ll go away.” “You mean, I pay you to be quiet?” He went away, and for a few minutes, left me to contemplate the grim scene before me.

The body was lit. As the cloth caught fire, it exposed first the flesh, then the bones. Life is fragile.

I moved to a different vantage point. My “guide” spotted his opportunity, and again started demanding a donation. I didn’t reply. He began to get angry, and another gentleman, claiming to be an official of the Ghat started ordering me to leave. “If you don’t pay a donation, you can’t look.” I had to wonder that looking was such a crime. I waved him aside, and could see some other Indian onlookers with puzzled faces. It seemed to confirm my suspicions: these were thieves, out to con a Rupee or fifty from unsuspecting visitors. Still, it angered me. I’m glad I wasn’t seeking to take photos, for a disturbed mind is not conducive to the Search for Beauty.

I remained to watch another ceremony - a body being dipped into the holy Ganges. From my higher vantage point, I could see the face opened, and the relatives pouring in the required five cups of water.

Then, I followed the backstreets to find yet one more Ghat. As I was wending my way through the tall buildings, avoiding the horns and droppings, people would shout out, “Such-and-such hotel, this way.” When I went straight ahead, they would say, “No, not that way. You can’t go that way.” I was exploring. I can go any way I wish to. Even up dead ends. The way I took, however, lead down to the river by Scindia Ghat, where I found a few more photos.

It was ten, and in the absence of any sleep, I began to make my own way to the hotel of my choosing. Actually, I originally thinking of going to Kumiko’s House on the riverfront beyond the Dasaswamedh Ghat, because I might meet some Japanese friends there. However, Trimutri, next to the Golden Temple, was nearer and thus an easier choice. Yet another guide off ered to take me there, “just as a friend,” he said. I let him do so, telling him about my journey from Japan. At the doorway, he suggested we m eet up in the evening, but I had no need to do so, and wouldn’t wish to limit my options.

A dorm bed was only 30Rs, and so I inquired about a single room. At 40 Rs per night, it was worth paying the extra. The first room I was shown didn’t have a socket - an essential requirement. Next door was suitable. It was on the first floor (UK terminology), and had a clear view over the Golden Temple - except that it is currently under repairs. A deposit of 100Rs was required - puzzling me, since it is more than the cost of the room, but I was given a proper receipt. I set the batteries charging, and took a snooze.

I’d taken a lot of photos, and sorted out the best of them so far. Quite a few are of people, and the results are pleasing. People engaged in worship or religious activities often stay still long enough for me to work out what I want in a photo, or take lots to choose the best.

For lunch, I ate downstairs. The menu was cheap, though the food sometimes took a while to appear. I think they had to rush off to buy some of the ingredients. There don’t seem to be many other visitors. Early in the afternoon, a power-cut prevented me from doing any work on the computer. I showered in the dark, then went out to find some Milo. Near the police station, a chemist shop had the necessary powder. They also supplied me with some Savlon Antiseptic liquid. I wanted to put some into each wash to try and kill off the bugs that grew in Calcutta.

My cash was running low since I’d left most of it with my passport. There was enough for an ice-cream. Then I took a fancy to a Coca-cola, and had to count out the coins - just enough. In a shoe shop, I tried on various cheap sandals. The Indian roads had wrecked my Indonesian pair, with stones getting stuck in the foam like the tread of the tyres on the trucks. I need a tough cheap pair. I promised to come back later, when I had some money.

Varanasi is a veritable rabbit warren, and though I was sure I could just follow my nose back to the hotel, I ended up the wrong side of the Golden Temple. That meant going through the passage way beside it. Foreign infidels such as myself are not permitted to pollute the holy ground, but I understood from the guidebook that the passageway was the closest we could get, and my hotel, whose name I had yet to memorise (the one near the Golden Temple always gave the correct response) had the best views. I was allowed through.

When I wanted to go to Asi Ghat, the other end of town, to take some sunset photos, I thought I might just go past the Golden Temple again. This time, I was stopped. I don’t really know why. Maybe it was just traders, trying to get me to look at their wares and part with my money. A third person then asked if I was at the Trimutri Hotel. “Had I signed in?” Well, no, I hadn’t. &quotThey are waiting for you.” It seemed improbably, for I had walked past the office several times. I returned, and indeed there was no trouble, but I signed the book as required.

I chose a different route - I have no desire to photograph ugliness, and branded the Golden Temple guardians as such, staining the Holy Ground with their character. On the way south, I took a snap of the crowded roundabout with rickshaws. In one of the streets nearby, I was suddenly hit on the leg by a moped. It was just a graze. The driver didn’t even stop. It seems that Indians have to push their way though the crowds, and the aim of a moped driver is to see how fast you can go through the throngs. Often the pedestrians, too, will push me aside, and I notice that few of them seem to “give way.”

Dirt and dung are everywhere. The houses are not well-kept, and people line all the streets. Asi Ghat, when I got there, was nothing special - more steps and mud, and people trying to get me into a boat. Sunset added little to the atmosphere. I walked back, taking a different route. It lead me over a s mall tunnel that brought water into a deep, dark pool, where, it seemed, people would do their washing. I presumed this from the vast sheets spread around the ground, and piles of dirty clothes everywhere, though no one was washing at the time.

Yet again, I was “befriended.” This gentleman wanted to show me the looms where silk is woven into exquisite patterns. I said he could have ten minutes of my time, because I was keen to get home and do some computing before my eyelids demanded to cease blinking for the night.

He took me through lots of windy roads. There were thousands of looms - I’m told over 40,000 people work in the silk business in Varanasi. Of course, he wanted me to see the silks in his shop. Well, I could spare another five minutes, but I’m not interested in buying. For that reason, I wouldn’t sit down. Some of the material looked very good. It was a pity I paid so much for rubbish in Indonesia, when I could have had quality in India. Still, I won’t buy what I don’t need.

It gave me an idea, though. Wouldn’t it be possible to sell quality products on the Internet? Is there a market for people like me, with a digital camera and knowledge of computing, to create homepages for people in developing countries, to bring buyers and suppliers closer together across the world wide web? I continued with the gentleman, not because I wanted to buy something, but because I wanted to think of the possibilities.

Maybe I would buy a tie. I sometimes buy ties in England, but if I could find quality silk ties in India, I could perhaps buy direct. His shop didn’t sell ties. He would take me to another, nearer my hotel. There was a back street that lead all the way. At first, I wasn’t sure if I was going the right way, but he assured me it would take me to the hotel. He was puzzled that I should walk on the wrong side of the street. “If I walk this side, I can see if a bicyclist or rickshaw is going to bump into me - and jump out of the way.”

He walked very fast. I’m not normally slow, but I could hardly keep up. It puzzled me. If someone may want to purchase something from you, you should walk at their pace. In the end, I nearly left him by the Golden Temple, when he disappeared for a while. He returned and said he could take me to another shop that sold ties. There, too, I refused to sit. Not that there was much room to - we had to jump over the piles of materials stewn all over the padded floor. Anything that is trampled underfoot can hardly be highly valued. These were Indian values, I presumed.

When the ties eventually appeared, they were of very poor quality, all crumpled, and none had any style. I would never buy a tie like this, even though they protested that it was quality silk, and would of course be packaged in a nice box. It wasn’t good enough for me, and I’d spent an hour and a half with this guy. I found my own way back to the hotel, and was too tired to type.

The main electricity was working in the morning, so I did some more typing. Now, I am just one day behind. After a shower, I packed everything away. I was about to walk out of the monastery, but thought I should take a brief peek in the main hall. Inside, a notice said that it had be inaugurated by the 16th (I think) Dalai Lahma of Tibet in 1998.

I ate lots of samosas at the stall just outside the monastery, while I wrote my sign. I needed lots of food, because I don’t eat much when I’m on the road. A gentleman helped me with some more of the destinations I need.

I had hardly walked a hundred metres, when two men on a motorbike said they could take me to Dobhi. At first I didn’t think there was room, but at a squeeze, I fitted on the back. It was a little uncomfortable, but they took me all the way to the Bodh Gaya junction. They might even have email addresses, though they didn’t write it in the book.

A taxi even offered to take me all the way to the Grand Trunk Road at Dobhi for free, but it wouldn’t be fare on those who were paying for the privilege. I declined. Instead, I had to walk a while. Finally, a small minivan stopped for me. The passenger, whose English was quite limited, needed to confirm the meaning of “hitchhike” with his driver. Even in Hindi, it is maybe hard to understand. For some reason, the tree-lined road up to Dobhi seemed longer than when I came.

The next truck to give me a lift didn’t have a cab - just a windscreen. I’m glad it didn’t rain, though I kept the rain-cover on the rucksack. At one point, after we had stopped for a cup of tea, I did the “assistant’s” job of removing the stones from the tyres. There was an amazingly beautiful beetle or flying insect on one of the wheels. I wish I had taken a photo of it.

We encountered another queue. The driver pulled over into a garage. I think he was waiting for a colleague in a similar open truck to catch up. I figured it would be easier to walk to the front of the queue. When there were no oncoming trucks, I would make my way down that lane. At one point, the original truck went past me - on the other side of the road. It was clearly a queue-jumper, and when it pulled over to let the oncoming traffic past, I ran up to it again. Light trucks can easily go onto the verges without getting stuck.

As we approached Dehri, there was a huge bridge. I think I should have jumped out at the beginning and walked. The sun was low in the evening sky, and reflected off the river. Along the banks, were thousands of white pampas-like grasses. The bridge itself is over 3km long, and was reduced to a single lane by roadworks.

Near the Dehri end, I jumped off, and continued to walk. It wasn’t long before I got a truck that would take me to Sasaram - and indeed, was going on to Varanasi. The driver refused to let me pay for the cup of tea that I had, and later even paid for a meal. It was very kind of him.

Trucks in India are mostly made by the Tata company, and are all orange. On the back is written: “Horn Please” “Limit 40km,” and “Use dipper at night.” Given the overpopulation, “Use condom at night,” might seem more appropriate.

There wasn’t a sunrise, so I just lay in until about eight. I had switched the fan off around five, but when I got up, I realised that there was no electricity. I think they only use the generator in the evening. So, I just ate my Milo raw. I didn’t set off until around ten. I went straight to the Mahabodhi temple, ignoring all rickshaw drivers, and also ignoring the many beggars and cripples.

The sunlight came and went in brief patches. However, it was difficult to take a photo of the whole stupa because it is so tall. A gentleman wanted to tell me about the seven famous places. I decided to discover them for myself. Most seemed to have a sign in English explaining what the Buddha had done at those places. I took snaps of them to remind me.

I didn’t find the statue of Buddha inside to be particularly beautiful. Indian images don’t seem to appeal to me. Often Chinese or Japanese art seems more attractive to me. I think it is because of an Indian lack of attention to detail. Inside, the illumination lights stuck out into the photo, and the flashing leds around the Buddha’s head looked like the work of a junior high school physics project. Outside, I noticed that the painting on the walls splashed over onto the ground. The stupa itself was covered with images of Buddha, but the railings around were very simple and unattractive.

I walked round to the tree at the back. Here, Buddha had sat contemplating. I think I summarise his thoughts as “Desire is the root of all evil.” He only found enlightenment when he realised he was desiring it too much, and gave up his desire. I couldn’t help contrasting this with Christian teachings on desire: “Eagerly desire the greater gifts,” (1 Cor 12:31) and “Each one is tempted when, by his own evil desire, he is dragged away and enticed.” (James 1:14).

Desire is what motivates people to rise with a better job, to a better position. By telling people not to desire, aren’t you just condemning them to stay where they are? If you are poor, it is just your lot in life, and you must accept it. I wonder.

There were several monks in recitation under the tree, and a stern looking European. I couldn’t really find a good angle to photograph it. The photo I have on the Internet is one of interest, not beauty. A gentleman told me it is the fourth tree - the others were cut down but sprung up again from the same root. I doubt his story. The guidebook gave a different one - the a sapling was taken to Sri Lanka, but when the main one died, they brought back another sapling.

I took more photos. At one point, I saw a monk walking round the stupa. I thought he was just going round and round, but maybe it was a different monk. I waited for him to come a third time, but he didn’t.

The Mucalinda lake contained dirty water and some ugly-looking fish, that contrasted with the beauty of the carp in Japanese temples. People would throw rice in for the fish to jump at. The lilies were the best part, but too far away to photograph.

The Buddha is reported to have said that only by one’s deeds one becomes a Brahman, not by birth. It is strange that there should be a desirable goal, when desire is villified.

I came out of the temple and retrieved my shoes. I gave a whole rupee to the guy looking after my sandals, but I could see that he probably expected more. The shoes only cost about 30 rupees, and I need to buy new ones. Just as I had handed over the money, the sun broke through. I thought about carrying my shoes around with me, but decided to put them back in the boxes. I only got about ten minutes. Even so, I didn’t get a good all-in photo. There is an ugly metal box, maybe housing an arc-lamp, on one of the pillars. I really should have waited for the right people to pass by, but then the sun would have come. The shoe-man got an extra 50 Paise.

I didn’t eat at the previous restaurant, but went to a small house selling samosas. I ate eight of them, and took several cups of tea. Outsid e, several other foreigners were eating, too, but t hey had brought their own plates. Was I wise to eat of the dishes provided?

Back at my room in the monastery, there was little to do, since the main electricity hadn’t been restored. I cut up all the remaining pages of my namecard, wishing that I had printed more of them. If I run out, I will photocopy the postcards in black and white - I doubt if I will find a colour copier. I should have done some sewing - I need to repair the rucksack and my raincoat.

When the Nepali man walked by, I went out to talk. It was raining slightly. I discover that he is originally from Tibet, but his family have lived in Nepal for a long time. He would like to go to Japan one day. I encouraged him to try - maybe applying for a scholarship. He thinks that Chinese people are kind - only the government is a problem, whereas Japanese people are harsh. I had the opposite opinion, gauging from what people have told me about travelling in China.

Soon after he had returned to his duties, running the monastery, the electricity generator was switched on. I sorted through the photos, but I don’t have what I was looking for. I chose a few for the homepage, but they will probably be deleted when I thin down the page after a month or so. Then, I started to catch up on the diary.

For evening meal, I went round to a nearby hotel, and ordered something cheap. All evening, I typed at the diary, getting almost up-to-date. I didn’t go to bed until after eleven, though most of the monastery seems to sleep after nine, when the main gates are closed.

A guy was staring at me at five, but I just turned over and ignored him. Sometimes the stares are quite hard. If I find them so, I’m not at all surprised that the Danish lady was troubled by Indian men all the time. I didn’t get up until nearer six, packed my bags and headed on.

People stopped to peer at me from their doorsteps. A motorcyclist went past and stopped. When I reached him, I chatted and explained that I was going to Bohd Gaya. He asked someone to write the words of Dobhi (Doohi on my map) and Dehri. My pen has started to leak, but he had his own in his bag. I’ll need to buy a new one, or find out where I put my green one.

I didn’t have far to walk when a truck stopped. It was an aviation fuel lorry, so the cab was smaller. It was a bit of a squeeze fitting in. For most of the journey, I was trying to keep my rucksack from interfering with the gear stick.

Being a smaller truck, we proceeded at a good pace, though slowing to almost a halt at any bumpy patches. We overtook many other trucks with lots of peeping. I remember seeing a man with an enormous foot - probably elephantitis. There were several trucks in the fields, or even on their sides, almost blocking the road. Still, none of them caused the jams of Memari or Calcutta. The weather was kinder, and the sun even came out. I saw someone dancing on one leg, waving a sword. He seemed to be dancing round his cigarette lighter. Maybe it is a revered possession.

There were the usual stops for removing the stones from the treads, and for cups of tea, which the driver insisted on paying for. I learnt that they are going on to Nepal, to Katmandu. There was another tanker travelling with us. Sometimes, we would stop and talk to an air fuel tanker coming the other way, and get peeped at furiously from behind.

One town seemed to sell nothing but swords and hatchets. It made me wonder what it must have been like to hitchhike in Roman times - travelling on the back of chariots.

For lunch, I had some rice fried together with a curry. There was plenty of it, and it was a welcome change to the bread. Finally, we got to his turn off at Bahri. We stopped just on the crossroads, while the assistant wrote his name in the visitors’ book.

I was about to go to a restaurant to write the sign for Dobhi, but the truck behind had noticed my large Gaya sign, and waved me over. Hitching doesn’t seem so difficult. The driver didn’t speak much English. At one point, a tanker tried to overtake from behind, just as we were about to overtake another truck. There was lots of peeping. After the tanker went by, the driver picked up a metal bar and brandished it like a sword. These guys would be more in place on horses, with swords and sabres, than behind the wheels of trucks.

However, they also bought me a glass of tea when we stopped, and wouldn’t let me pay for it. By four thirty or so, I was in Dobhi. This time, I had asked them to sign the book, and handed out name cards before we got there, so I was quickly out of the truck. I held out my sign, and a policeman drove by on his motorcycle. He stopped, and I wondered if there would be “trouble.” I don’t think he spoke English.

A little further on, a rangerover stopped. I sat in the back, but they immediately turned round. I asked what was happening, and apparently, the policeman had waved them over. They all piled out to talk to him. However, we soon set off again. They explained that the policeman had originally told them that they couldn’t pick me up. There will soon be an election in this region, they said. Was that to explain why the police were touchy?

The road was very pleasant, through trees planted on either side, with rice paddies beyond. I would love to have taken a photo in the early evening sun. There were dark clouds in the background. I took off my raincoat, and the cover of my bag, retrieved my camera and repacked everything. I should have put on my trousers, too.

At the junction, I jumped out . It was only three kilometers into town, so I turne d down offers of lifts in rickshaws or mini-taxis, even though the price was only Rs 10. I took a photo of a cow, and thought about taking one of the huge piles of cow dung on the road. The sunlight was fantastic, so I stepped up the pace a little. Some people tried to attract my attention, but I pressed on.

In town, just as the sun was setting, I met some other tourists, and inquired where the Mahabodhi temple was, and where they were staying. They had a room in a Tibetan monastery for only Rs 50 per night. I walked on to the temple, but just as I got there, the light failed. The man on the gate wanted me to pay Rs 10 for the camera “compulsory donation,” but I said I would come back tomorrow. I nearly changed my mind, thinking I should get a preview to give myself an idea of what to photograph, but didn’t.

Lots of people tried to get me into their rickshaws to take me to hotels charging Rs 300. The prices came down as I went past them. One guy walked with me to the Tibetan monastery, but there was nobody in the reception room. Someone came up to tell me that they were full up. I went back out, and the same gentleman was waiting. He said I could go to another Tibetan monastery for the same price, and came with me to that one. Inside, I met a monk who showed me to a clean room, which would cost only Rs 50 per night.

I was starving. The gentleman was waiting outside with his rickshaw, but even though he offered to take me for free, I turned it down. It is his business, and the shops are nearby. I can walk. In a small shop, I bought some water and a Cadbury’s Picnic bar, chatting briefly to the foreigner waiting for a phone call. He told me of a restaurant nearby, but I had to ask directions again, as I took the wrong road.

There were lights in the restaurant, but it was lit by a gas lamp. It amused me that I had come to the place of ultimate enlightenment, to discover that it had been plunged into darkness by an electricity power cut! I ordered a chicken masala with butter nan and a fruit curd. It wasn’t very good. The naan bread hadn’t risen - maybe they forgot an ingredient in the dark. Only the curd was good.

Back in my room, I was pleased to see that the electricity was working - they have a generator. However, I had more pressing things to do. I needed to wash my coat and some other clothes. I also needed to remove some more of the tar dots on my legs. My shorts are very dirty, too.

By nine thirty, I had everything hanging up on my cord, and the fan blowing. I was too tired to type, and anyway, I wanted to get up at five in case there was a good sunrise. The temple faces east. The bed is somewhat hard, even when I put the two mattresses on the one bed.

I ignored the morning call at 5 a.m. and didn’t get up until after six. I couldn’t believe it, but the queue of trucks was still outside the garage! Now I see what Indian organisation is like.

It was still raining. I had to figure out a way of taking a shower in the rain. I went out in my shorts, changed in the toilet, and kept the shorts and the towel in a plastic bag while I washed myself. The tar doesn’t seem to come off with soap.

I was ready to leave around seven. The boss wasn’t up, but I gave the staff a namecard and a large photograph. They woke up the boss, and he signed my book, adding a short message. He offered me a cup of tea. At the time, I didn’t know how much a glass of tea cost - I later learned that it is usually Rs 3. I put my glasses into my camera case, and noticed that the Calcutta mould had got to my camera strap.

Hardly had I stepped into the road, with my new sign in Hindi, than the first lorry pulled over. I was very surprised. Maybe that’s the difference the sign in the local language makes. I haven’t really noticed many roadsigns, so I think I will just have to ask people to write them for me.

There were three people in the cab. Still, there’s plenty of room in these trucks. I was quite surprised that one of them asked the driver what was written on my sign - even though it was in Hindi. I think I’ve read that the literacy rate in India is only about 60%.

The windscreen had two, fist-sized holes in it on either side. Later, when another gentleman joined us from the truck behind, I was told that they had been held up and robbed. I didn’t ask exactly where. We stopped for a drink, and they bought me a glass of tea. It was very kind of them. In Japan, one feels that well-off people can easily afford to treat someone to a meal. However, if the average income is just fifteen Rupees per day, three for a cup of tea, must be quite a lot.

We turned onto one road that had a toll tax collection area. This road was in a much better condition, though still only had two lanes - and this is the main artery from Calcutta to Delhi.

Around 10.30, we pulled over to stop. I didn’t need the toilet, so just sat in the cab, wondering what the hold-up was this time. I tried scratching some of the dots of tar off my legs, but each dot takes a lot of scratching. Some of the larger blobs just got stuck in the hair follicles. Maybe I will have to cut them off.

I waited for an hour before I realised I was in another of these queues. We moved up a little, and some trucks weren’t ready, so we were able to overtake them. The driver couldn’t tell me how long it would take. I decided to walk, so got them to sign my book, and handed out namecards - one for each of them.

It was a huge queue. I didn’t count, but there must have been over a thousand trucks. I walked up to the Memari toll-tax collection point. Another road joined from the right. It, too, was backed up as far as the eye could see. Maybe the problem was at the junction. It wasn’t.

I thought it would be best to get something to eat at a little “hotel” by the junction. Instead of seats, there are “beds” with woven cords to sit on. I had some more bread (maybe chappati) and curry, and a Pepsi. This time, I checked the price before I ordered - again just two rupees per round of bread. I had four, and the total came to just 20 rupees. One man had sat near my “bed” and had taken the map out of my carrying case. I went to take it back, but he refused to let me. I was surprised. It was as though he felt he had an automatic right to handle other people’s property without their permission. He wasn’t trying to steal it, though. I was just worried that, since it was damp, it would tear very easily.

I continued to walk. There were only a few trucks going the other way - a batch or so at a time. Finally, I thought, I met the queue the other way. A lorry had run off the road and was partly blocking it. However, the queue for this side con tinued. Later on there was a patch of very poor quality road , with huge potholes. Traffic here was reduced to a single file. Even this wasn’t the end of the story. The railway crossed the road, causing another jam. Then there were the impatient drivers, who were sometimes able to pull over onto the hard shoulder when someone came. If not, there was a lot of shouting and arguing before anyone moved.

I stopped in a small village for a Pepsi. I think many of these villages exist to serve the trucks that rumble through them.

An open water trough meant I could try to remove some more of the dots of tar. It wasn’t successful, but at least I washed off the dirt. Some people came up to talk, or watch. One spoke English quite well, and translated for the others. I explained “hitchhike,” and he said he would help. Given that there aren’t any buses for people to flag down, I took up his offer. At least, I didn’t have to continue walking. A number of trucks approached, and a few stopped for him. Many weren’t going as far as I wanted - Dhanbad or near Gaya. Sometimes the trucks behind blasted their horns impatiently - having been held up for maybe as much as a day, a delay of an extra minute was intolerable.

Finally, one truck driver agreed to take me. I wasn’t quite sure how far he was going - perhaps as far a Dhanbad. I thanked my assistants and jumped in. The driver and his companion didn’t speak any English, so it was a quiet journey. We were also going quite slowly, so many trucks went past us. We would stop every few hours for a rest or a cup of tea. A small glass is only three rupees. The assistant would check the tyres for stones. The countryside was mostly flat rice paddies.

We didn’t encounter any other huge queues. At one point, we pulled up behind some other stationary trucks, but I could see a railway crossing a short way ahead, so there wasn’t long to wait. In the afternoon, when we stopped, I began to think I would be better off continuing to hitch. I asked the assistant to sign my book, but he didn’t seem to understand. I wasn’t even sure if he could write. Then, I tried to give him a namecard, but he refused to accept it. Just then, the driver returned, and we set off again. Maybe I should just stick with this truck, however slowly it is going in my direction.

As it became evening, I tried to settle down and get some sleep. We seemed to go past lots of built-up areas. Along the sides of the road here, were hundreds of trucks, parked up for the night. The second lane of a dual carriageway is not yet complete, so the trucks used it as a parking area. I sat up when we went through a town, trying to work out the name of it from the billboards or shop signs. I wasn’t able to read the small print without my glasses, which I’d put inside my camera case.

At 1.30 a.m. I was roused. This was Dhanbad, I was informed. This time, I managed to persuade them to write something in my book, but I was quite puzzled that the assistant referred back to some Hindi on a previous page. I wonder what he wrote. The driver accepted a namecard, but not the assistant. I wrote the sign for Gaya on a single page, put on my coat, and then jumped out.

This stretch of road was an unfinished dual carriageway. I started walking. The trucks were travelling quite fast, so it was necessary to find a garage, I thought, where I could stand in light, and where I might get shelter if it started to rain again. At one point, a truck did slow down for me. I asked if they were going towards Gaya, but someone inside just shook his head. On I walked, thinking I should have said Dehri or figured out the name of the town on the junction to Gaya. Gaya is about forty kilometers off the main trunk road.

It was time to look for places to sleep for the night. Behind me, there was a large thundercloud, and I was worried it might start pouring down again. One building had a partially covered area in front of it, but I went on. There were some plastic-covered stalls on the unfinished lane, but I wasn’t sure they would be good protection. I continued until I reached a garage. There was nobody in the reception area, and it was all locked up, but just in front of the window was a large bench that I could sleep on. It had a roof that might just protect me from some rain. I settled down, noting the time was now 3.30 a.m. I had thought about climbing into a Landrover, but refrained when I noticed a head in the back - the previous hitchhiker has got there first!

When I was packing, I noticed that the pipe by the side of my bed was leaking slightly. The water hadn’t quite reached my rucksack, luckily, but it had seeped up the legs of my trousers. I decided I wouldn’t wear them, since it was so wet. Today, I would try hitching in my shorts and flip-flops. Maybe it will be better for my feet, and easier to dry out the shorts.

I still have the diarrhoea. It’s too bad. I’ll just have to live with it.

I took my last meal at the Blue Sky Cafe - banana curd and a pancake. As I was about to set off, the skies opened. This time, there would be no retreat. I will just get wet. First, though, I needed some more money, and figured it would be better to change money here than get caught in the middle of nowhere without Rupees. I changed a further 100 US$, since I have gone through about 80 in the two weeks so far. By the time the lady had sorted me out, it wasn’t raining quite so hard, but I still had to wade through the flood water to get away.

I’d packed my camera into the rucksack, so wasn’t able to take any photos of the Howrah bridge as I went across. It wasn’t that photogenic, though. On the other side of the river, I didn’t stop to find the bookshops, and purchase a map in Hindi. It was still raining, so I didn’t feel like stopping. It was perhaps a big mistake. I removed the sign for Howrah, just leaving the Bally sign. When I got to a small shop, I stopped to write Chunchura, some forty km up the road.

Further out of town, there were noticeably more cows. It was a long stretch up to Bally. As always, it would have been better to take a bus there, but I refused. I had to walk all the way to the next bridge. There seemed to be more traffic from this point - mostly trucks. I trudged on. My feet began to feel sore. I’m not used to walking with sandals, and the road is full of loose chippings. When the pain began to register, I took off my sandals, and was horrified to see them covered in tar. There were small, jagged pebbles jammed into the base, and some even poked right through. I tried scraping my feet to remove it, but it did little good. At a bridge, I took of my sandals and scraped them along one of the concrete rails. It got rid of some of the stones, but not much of the tar. I don’t remember going through a tar field.

Luckily, someone in a small mini-van stopped. He could take me a little further on. It was good to be out of the rain for a while. I opened up the back windows to let some breeze blow a little sweat out of the shirt. It didn’t do much good. The mould on the inside of my raincoat has bridged the lining, and now means that rain comes through, or is it the sweat that can’t escape. Anyhow, the raincoat won’t last much longer. Maybe just enough to get me home, if it isn’t too cold. When I took out my wallet to give the driver a namecard, he laughed and said: “It’s OK. No money.” Hmm. It makes me think that sometimes people may expect to be paid.

I took a drink of Pepsi to give me an energy boost. Then, I continued to walk up the road. I can’t remember how long it was before a truck stopped. I think I had to walk some distance, maybe an hour or so. The driver didn’t seem to speak any English. He seemed to be going in the right direction. I don’t even have my camera to show people. It is half-way down my bag, which I keep wrapped in its waterproof cover. That’s an extra security measure.

The road is shockingly bad, for a trunk road. It has lots of potholes that have to be manoevered round, or, if someone is coming the other way, one has to crawl through them. Some of the holes can be quite deep. I was fairly comfortable. The truck is quite spacious, and since there was only one assistant, I had the bottom bed to myself. The bed above is quite low, so I had to be careful I didn’t hit my head when we went over some of the bumps.

We came to a stop around five-thirty. There was a huge queue ahead. At first, I used the waiting time to scrape the tar off the soles of my flip-flops. This worked, though ten ded to take lumps of flip-flop off at the same time. After cleaning my shoes, I decided it would be better to walk. There were trucks coming the other way, but only in short spurts - maybe ten or fifteen at a time. It would be best to walk up to the point where the two queues met, and hitch from there.

I gave the driver a namecard, and he signed the book. Then he pointed to my wallet, and seemed to indicate that he wanted money. He even brought some money out of his pocket. I just pointed to the namecard, repeating the word: “present.”

It was quite a long walk in the dark along a bumpy, potholed road. At one point, someone started to chat. He said I could sit in his cab and wait, but I thought it best to get to the head of the queue. This side didn’t seem to be moving very fast. However, I asked him to pick me up, if he went past.

The problem seemed to be caused by a lorry that had come off the road trying to get round another that was stopped in the middle, presumably for a burst tyre or the like. A breakdown truck was already tugging at the truck in the mud, so I figured it wouldn’t be long before the two lines were moving again.

Not many trucks went by as I walked along the queue stretching the other side. I could see that one of the problems was that some truck drivers were too impatient, and started to overtake the whole queue. I realised that they would just get to the front of the queue and block the road so that no one would be able to get past. I came to a garage, and decided it was time to get something to drink. The garage didn’t sell drinks, but they did have a toilet and some taps to wash the dirt off my legs. I went across to a small restaurant. At first, I only had a Pepsi, but then decided to order some food - by pointing to someone else’s dish. The gentleman said it would cost 2 rupees, but I thought he was trying to say 20. I had a total of six pieces of bread, and he topped up my bean curry. In the end, he charged 30, but I later had doubts that it was the correct price. Still, it was very cheap compared to a restaurant in Calcutta.

I was about to pack up and leave, when a man in flowing red robes, with a beard as long as mine, called me over to join him. I could see that there was still very little traffic flowing, so agreed to join him. He spoke English quite well, but it took some time before I began to decipher it - I’m still not used to the Indian accent. I explained that I was hitching across Northern India, and told him some of the cities I would go to. He was particularly interested in Varanasi, and tried to tell me where I should go. He also warned me to watch out in Varanasi: people there would quote 150 rupees for something that costs only 15.

He asked what I thought about Pakistan. I haven’t yet been there, so answered evasively, since I wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at. He then said that Pakistan had invaded Indian territory, crossing the border into India. India would never do such a thing. I started to say: “What is a border? I don’t understand the word: ‘border.’” He wasn’t listening, though, or maybe he didn’t understand. Anyhow, he continued to berate the Pakistanis. I get the impression that the guru is there to lecture, expecting others to listen.

“Look at me! I have nothing, and yet I am happy.” I didn’t argue this. I noticed that the people around him gave him cigarettes, and lit them for him. Later, he coughed and had to go outside to spit out the phlegm. Then he tossed the butt onto the ground. I guess he does the same for less bio-degradable litter, too. I wondered how it was possible to be happy, when the world is slowly being strangled by humanity, and when there are so many people in destitution? Maybe happiness is blind, just like love.

He mentioned something about staying here and going on in the morning. It somewhat appealed to me to stay with a guru, so I said I might. Actually, he said he would ask the garage owner if I could sleep there for the night, which wasn’t so appealing. I gave him a card and wrote my parents address on the back. I also asked him to sign my visitor’s book.

There still wasn’t much traffic at nine, but I went back to the road to hitch. A crowd gathered round, mostly the truck drivers and their assistants. At least here in India it is pretty obvious that I’m not going by taxi or bus. There are so few. The only real way to travel in India is by train. Maybe 99% of all traffic is truck, with the other percent taxi, normal car and bus. So, they started to flag down the trucks. Most stopped, but none said they could take me on to Barddhaman or Dhanbad.

The garage owner suggested I waited by the garage. There was no traffic, so I went over. He offered me some tea, but I had already brushed my teeth for the night. He said I could stay there, and that it might be dangerous to hitch at night. He also told me that no truck driver could read English. I asked him to write the Hindi for the next few places - Barddhaman, Dahnbad and Gaya. I wrote my sign, but just as I had finished, the rains began again. I took it as a hint that I should spend the night there. Anyway, at least I knew I was near a toilet, if I needed it in a hurry.

I slept on a table with some cardboard boxes squashed on top. It wasn’t long enough, so they put a bucket on a chair, and extended the cardboard over it. I pulled out my blow-up mat, jumper and coat. I was a bit surprised to see that my coat had the black fungal growth in some parts. I think the air in Calcutta must have been very bad.

The others were chatting just outside, which meant I struggled to get to sleep. Even when they stopped at one o’clock, I then had to listen to the music on the radio until I was sufficiently tired at maybe 2.30 that I just dropped off. I wish I were normal, like everyone else, and able to sleep through any noise.

I was planning on visiting the doctor, if the diarrhoea continued. It did, but since the rain hasn’t stopped, I didn’t go. The electricity failed early in the morning. I was left with nothing to do. I wandered round some of the bookshops, but didn’t buy anything. The lack of electricity meant that the water pump wasn’t working - nothing to flush the toilet with. I started collecting the rainwater in a bucket.

There’s another guy from England in the bed opposite. He’s been here before, lived in Australia for a while, and had a Japanese girlfriend there. We chatted about the conspiracy theories - the blocked drains caused by the rickshaw drivers so that we either take a rickshaw or get our feet wet; or the liason between the people who sell toilet rolls and those who provide contaminated food.

Eventually, the electricity returned. I wrote some emails in the afternoon, after eating my doggy-bag pizza. I chatted to one Japanese man who has brought his own computer, telling him that he could use the computer room next door and connect directly onto the internet, if he wanted.

In the evening, I caught up with the diary. Then I wanted to update the homepage, but the computer next door was in use. I went round several times, and at 10.30, decided to wait. However, the hotel manager waved me over, and started pulling out telephone cables in the office. I was eventually connected, and able to get all the Happy Birthday emails from unknown people who have found my name on the internet birthday lists. Not as many as last year, though. I wonder if it is considered as spam by many people.

The other guys in the room were interested to see my photos - the short version (favourites) first, and then if they wanted, the longer version.

It was a gloomy morning. I took a cup of All Bran along to JoJo’s and poured some sweet lassi over it. Let’s hope it does the job.

I couldn’t settle to anything. The thoughts of the past few weeks have been pushed aside, and I don’t know what to do next year. I read a little from the bible. Funny, there’s a book on the floor entitled: “How do I know what God wants me to do.” I don’t know how it got there, but it seemed appropriate to browse through it. I wonder why God didn’t write a book like this, instead of a bible. In the bible, all sorts of clues are hidden all over the place, and have to be delved for, like a treasure island with a cryptic map. It’s most unsatisfactory for modern man. What if God had written this book and made it available to the people in the bible - surely they would then have avoided all the pitfalls and lived perfect lives. Ah! My cynicism shows.

There was another thunderstorm. I went out for a Blue Sky meal - treating myself to Chikken Tikka. I even bought a newspaper for 1.50 - but it had so little international news, it was hardly worth it. In the late afternoon, I went for a walk. I don’t think there’s anything more to see. One walk round the block, and one has seen all there is of Calcutta - poverty, grim, street vendors, shops, crowds.

When I got back to the hotel, I met some other fellow-travellers on their way out for a pizza, and asked if I could join them. The English guy has bed-bug problems, so often sleeps in his hammock. Christian is from Norway, and Yosuke is from Japan. The restaurant was a touch expensive, but it was my birthday (though I didn’t say so), so I felt I could splash out. I couldn’t manage a whole deep pan Indian-topped pizza - I had to have a doggy bag. Still, the food was good.

It was pouring with rain as we came out.