The Baloch have been living in a state of siege ever since 1948, when their territory was incorporated into the nation of Pakistan. Under the thumb of Islamabad, their rights and autonomy have been deliberately ignored by the international community, which has its own agenda for the region. Balochistan declared its independence on August 11, 1947, three days before Pakistan.

The sound of the explosion hardly raises an eyebrow among the restaurant patrons. This is the dining room of the bus station in Khuzdar, a Baloch town halfway between Quetta and Karachi. After a couple of minutes, Abdulhamid, a local journalist, gets a call. Only now does the  busy lunchtime crowd pause.

Abdulhamid breaks the dining room’s silence. “It was a communications tower. No injured or dead,” he announces. It’s good news for Sattar, who’s sitting nearby. The guerrillas’ actions won’t keep him from opening his shop in the bazaar this afternoon.

“Whenever the BLA (Baluch Liberation Army) kills somebody there’s always payback in the bazaar. The army drives down Jinnah Road (the main street) and shoots at the people from their jeeps,” says the Merchant, as he uses his fingers to wrap pita bread around a morsel of beef. He explains that four people died that way last June 4th, and a dozen more were wounded. In addition, seven local students have “disappeared.” This was the army’s response after the BLA killed a Punjabi officer a few months ago.

Khuzdar is like lots of other Baloch towns in Pakistan-controlled Baluchistan. Viral graffiti with the initials of the BLA and BRA (Baluch Republican Army), accompanied by the slogan “Down With Pakistan” spreads across the walls of almost every building. On the other side of all these discomfiting acronyms in Khuzdar stands the Pakistani army, the Pakistani Police, the Frontier Corps (border police), the Rangers and other paramilitary detachments, simply called “scouts.”

“Whether the Baloch attack or not, the army fires their bombs and weapons in order to scare us. Their training camps are right next to our houses,” complains Sattar. “Have you seen the barracks they’re building now? Some say it will be the largest military complex in all of Pakistan,” says the trader before leaving for work.

Indeed, the new military site appears large enough to accommodate all 600,000 troops in the Pakistani army. It’s so massive, it has already ‘swallowed’ two mud-brick villages. The villagers, mostly shepherds, continue grazing their livestock inside the huge barrack walls that lead from the road into the mountains. They won’t be evacuated until the wall has completely encircled the area. But it’s just a matter of time before yet another settlement of displaced persons  sprouts up in Khuzdar’s outskirts. Just like in Quetta–head to the settlements around there and ask  people how and why they came to live in the suburbs of a city, which is itself already a huge slum.

Other explosions

“Punjab (Pakistan) treats us like animals,” explains Sirbaz, a trucker who has stopped here on his way to Karachi. This man, around forty, is originally from Dalbandin, a town which lies very close to the place where Pakistan tested its nuclear weapons in 1998. They were five explosions in the Chagai hills–explosions the local people will never forget.

“My sister has skin cancer, and so do two of my brothers. There are also plenty of people with eye cancer, and malformations are not uncommon among newborns,” says the trucker. Islamabad has used every means at its disposal to prevent any investigation into the impact of the nuclear tests on the local population. But today, everyone understands that the radiation, at some stage, reached the underground aquifiers–the only water resource in this arid region.

“If you pass by Dalbandin and the surrounding area, stay away from the water.” Shirbaz warns. “Do not even use it to wash your face.” After lunch, tea with milk is served–yet another British colonial legacy of the region. No one among the elders doubts that life here was much better in Balochistan under British rule than under Punjab’s. “What do people in Europe think about what is happening in Balochistan?” asks Atik, another passenger on the road to Quetta. As he waits for my response, he gazes at me steadily with the eye they didn’t burn out with a cigarette while he was in prison.

Trekking in the Himalayas goes wrong as the group get mugged by Maoist rebels.

‘How about it?’ I cried, ‘Come on, I need a break, I’ve been here in Iraq for nigh on two years’. The other end of the phone went quiet, then a confused female voice came back, ‘Yeah, but why Nepal? And why six weeks?’ ‘Because I’ve always wanted to trek in the Himalayas and when I was at Heathrow the last time I flew to Kuwait, I absentmindedly looked through the travel guides at Books etc and saw the Lonely Planet Nepal guide. I bought it to read on the flight and was hooked! Plus you need at least a month to have a good trek and to see the other sights’

That was how my fiancée and I decided to take six weeks off to explore Nepal. It was true I had been working in hot, dusty and flat Iraq and was in need of a good break. Where better than high in the snow-capped Himalayas?

‘Isn’t there a war on there?’ asked V in the next phonecall home to England? ‘It’s only a small skirmish between a few Maoist rebels and the Nepali army. It’s nowhere near where we’ll be going’, I replied. ‘But Michael Palin was there and he nearly got kidnapped by these Maoists’. ‘Good God! How many tourists do you think will be there same as us? Worse case scenario is that we do meet them and they charge us $10 as a “donation”. Well, I got my “worse case scenario” with the Maoists all right – they robbed me and nearly did kidnap us, here’s how it happened…

After a week seeing the sights in Kathmandu we met up with a good local trekking company and booked a guide along with one porter for our trip. The Sherpa guy, who owned the company, warned us about the Maoists and made us up itineraries so we could show the Maoists where we were going, and they wouldn’t charge us more than once.

First of all we attempted the Annapurna Circuit trek, which was hard going. After 5 days we cancelled the trek, there had been severe snows high up in the Thorung La pass. People were heading back down towards us from Manang, where rooms were filling up with frustrated trekkers unable to carry on. They were prepared to wait it out, we weren’t. Besides, news was coming down of a huge avalanche that had killed 6 French climbers and 11 Sherpa porters close to where we would be trekking. So instead, we took a car to Pokhara, hung out on the lake for a week and then went for the Annapurna Sanctuary Trek. This would take us two weeks, starting from the hills just north of the beautiful lakeside town.

Initially the trek went fine. I kept checking my Garmin GPS to see how far we were going each day and our exact altitude, but my guide, Dhendi, said, “It’s ok to use it here, but when we get close to Ghorepani you will have to hide it. The Maoists will take it from you”. I was a bit miffed at this and we had a long conversation about the Maoist problem. Thing was, I had a satellite phone with me too, which Dhendi didn’t know about, and this was to prove dangerous in the extreme. The Maoists like you to “donate” stuff like that to their “cause” I just didn’t think about the phone being a problem and forgot about it.

It started to go wrong while we were trekking up to the base camp. We had started out at Sarangkot and by the time we reached Ghorepani in 3 days, spirits were high. So much so that V wanted to borrow my satphone to call her mum back home. The main reason I had the phone was because my fiancée suffers from chronic asthma and, Annapurna being so hilly and remote, we had helicopter evacuation included as part of our insurance package, in case she had a severe attack.

After she made her call I went outside to ring home quickly too. A Tibetan trinket seller spotted me and said ‘You should hide that here, the Maoists will take it off you’. Straightaway, I put it in my pocket and thought no more about it.

Next morning we arose at 04:30hrs to climb Poon Hill, where you can watch the sun rise on the Dhaulagiri and Annapurna Himalaya. It was fantastic and as we descended for breakfast, the Maoists appeared – Small, puny, weasel-faced and the complete opposite of the short and sturdy Tamang and Sherpa porters, who work for a living. They had the look of corner boys the world over; nothing more than punks. Street criminals.

The going rate was $15 per foreigner, I was polite but unfriendly – why should I be anything else? But some idiot trekkers were all ‘Namaste! Hello!’ and fawning over these wasters like they were old school friends. I can never understand people being so enthusiastic about being robbed for the privilege of walking up a hill.

When we got back to the nice warm lodge for some masala tea and Tibetan bread our guide came in visibly shaken, he said ‘Big problem’. I looked outside and hanging about on the benches was a gang of about 15 Maoists. ’What’s wrong Dhendi?’ I asked. ’They saw your phone yesterday and they want it’. I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘What the fuck for? What have I done wrong?’ ’Big problem, they will kidnap us if you don’t give it to them, and give a big beat up for you’.

Now, I can handle myself: I’m 6′1″ and I’ve had a few scraps in my time. I looked at them (they were throwing furtive glances in at me, not one of the little wankers over 22) and thought I could chin at least 4 of them, but 15? I went from anger to despair, to acute embarrassment, what have I done wrong? How can this happen?

The Nepali army can never catch these Maoists, who appear from the bush, demand free food off the very people they purport to defend, and then melt away whenever the first Royal Nepal Army chopper appears over the tree line. They scare away the lifeblood of the locals – the rich (in their eyes) trekkers. If a lodge owner doesn’t at least even tacitly co-operate with them they will close him down and he cannot feed his own family. After a Mexican stand off of over 2 hours which even included V showing her medication and Doctors note to prove we needed the phone the Maoists were adamant. My guide Dhendi was nearly crying and began telling me he had children etc. ‘Fuck it’, I thought, ‘This is getting out of hand’.

I had taken the sim card out upstairs. They weren’t getting that too, with all my work and personal numbers. I had thought about disabling the phone, but Dhendi said they would punish me for that as well. I guessed they wanted it working so they could sell it on the black market. So, I strode into the dining room and slammed the phone on the desk beside the head weasel and marched off to our room in a god almighty rage.

An hour later we went down for tea and they appeared again. This time they wanted the sim card. Dhendi said he was told they had an old revolver and a shotgun hidden on them. This time I stuck to my guns, they weren’t getting the sim, if they wanted it they would have to fight for it. I couldn’t win but I would be the best second place they had ever seen, I can tell you.

They offered me some money for it, a few hundred rupees – no chance – me taking their money was acceptance of the fact that they took my phone by menace, no way. I told Dhendi to translate to them “Stick your fucking money up your fucking arse”, but I know he didn’t say that exactly! They decided for whatever reason to let it go – probably because the whole scene was prime entertainment for all the locals and trekkers in the village. It wouldn’t look too good if the “defenders of the people” started working someone over with the odds heavily in their favour. Commies like to see themselves as David to the West’s Goliath.

When we finally left Ghorepani my fiancée was spent, she had had enough of the trek and I had to leave her with our porter in Chomrong while I went up the potentially hazardous route to the base camp. She wouldn’t go without the peace of mind the phone gave her.

Now you can say what you like about it being their country etc. etc., and I’m a rich western capitalist who was just lightened of his bourgeois toy; the consumer in me was outraged by losing private property to people who see property as theft. Well that may be true, but before people think these guys are the darlings of the left like the Sandinistas, Che and all the other half-baked reds that’ve ever picked up a rusty shotgun against the oppressor, just remember – they’re not fighting the army. When that lot turn up they run away. They demand food off local people who first have to pay someone to carry that food up mountain paths from the lowlands. Tourism is the sole means of making something of yourself in this poorest region of one of the poorest counties in the world. The Maoists are destroying that industry and therefore wrecking the livelihood of the very people they say they are the armed wing of.

But isn’t that what Maoists are all about? Didn’t Pol Pot turn the clock back 500 years in Cambodia? The Communist Party of Nepal wants the country to fall into ruin so they can come in and rule it like every other despot the left has thrown up since Karl Marx wrote his unworkable nonsense.

Nepalis on the whole are peaceful people. The locals in the trek area (I can only speak first hand about the Annapurna area) are either lodge workers, porters or subsistence farmers. They have no interest in bringing the kind of strife that armed resistance to the Maoists would incur. The local Maoists are disliked but the people are quietly opposed to them. I think comparison to the Sicilian Mafia would be appropriate, only the Maoists hide in the hills and are nomadic in small areas – they move from village to village sponging off the people.

Maoists have a lot of support, I was told, in poor rural areas where tourism isn’t a factor. But there are also stories of village “Death Squads”, trained by the army to root out and kill Maoists in their village areas, but that drew a blank on the faces of people I asked in our region.

The west Annapurna area particularly suffers from the Maoist problem. I met trekkers who had been held up for $50 apiece, trekking in Dhaulagiri. The Dolpo region has stories of $100 demands. The areas affected are where Gurung and Tamang Hindu castes are concentrated. The Everest region, for example, has a Maoist presence south of Lukla, but none north, where the population are 97% Sherpa and Buddhist. Most trekkers tend to fly into Lukla to avoid this as well as have a less physical hike to the Everest Base Camp.

I also heard anecdotal evidence about a group of French Annapurna trekkers, who, because of the language barrier, didn’t understand the Maoists demands for money. One of the French throttled a Maoist. The commies disappeared and then returned in big numbers, whereupon they kidnapped the French after hitting the “throttler” with a heavy bench. The ordeal lasted only a few hours, but they really are nasty little bastards. A South Korean in Ghorepani was punched and kicked to the ground, I was told, when he stupidly took a snap of one of the Maoists. His camera was taken off him too.

Nevertheless, I still would recommend a trek there. When I talked to other trekkers they were amazed we had even met Maoists. Some had seen none for over a month. If I had known beforehand about the dangers in having comms kits like GPS phones etc., I would’ve been more discreet, but there you go – put it down to rotten luck.

Nepal is a wonderful country. Go there and enjoy it, and spend as much money there as you can. That will help the people there much more than “donating” money to the Maoists. And if you feel the need to be robbed of your hard-earned dollars, don’t smile at the filthy monkey who’s stealing from you.

It seemed to weigh heavily on him, this bespectacled middle-aged man opposite me. Alternately hunching his shoulders when lapsing into deep thought, and then rising up again when making a vital point, he would continue to talk, at times lowering his voice to a whisper, conscious not to allow his voice to reach the surrounds of others seated nearby. After a conversation would die down he would smile rather sadly, shake his head and then look down and away.

“They do not know,” he said on more than one occasion, looking around at a bunch of young Japanese travellers seated nearby. “They do not believe me.”

We had started talking sometime before, as most of us travelling are inclined to do, about our travel plans, across a table crowded with guidebooks and water bottles in our hotel in Lahore. I had said that I would be going to Iran next, after some more time in Pakistan. He had been to Iran seven years ago, he told me, particularly remembering the hostility he had witnessed in the north towards what Ayatollah Khomeini had brought about in the country, resentful of the fact that the society which Khomeini wanted was not similar to theirs. He was planning to return there on this trip to see the changes, but first he was toying with the idea of going to Afghanistan, a little unsure of the safety situation that would await him.

“They have AK-47s. What can you do?”

I nodded, telling him about the recent news report quoting the Taliban as saying that they would be deliberately targeting foreigners. A little later he leaned towards me.

“We have done some terrible things. But we do not want to say. Why?”

He had earlier been conveying to me a meeting with an old woman he had once had whilst travelling in China, who told of being a seven year old when she was beaten up, during the Nanking Massacre of 1937, when hundreds of thousands were murdered.

“Just seven,” he repeated. “Why?”

Japan has never completely apologised for the atrocities it committed in the twentieth century. Relations with Korea and China, amongst others, are strained in part because of the way in which Japanese textbooks have treated their past actions, or rather, have not, and it is this culture of denial that troubles him so. That Emperor Hirohito was rehabilitated by MacArthur, even if for political reasons, and many were never held responsible for what they did, is unforgivable in his eyes.

“Those responsible should have committed suicide,” he suggested.

He saw the future as quite grim.

“We can never go forward. There will never be any trust between us,” he continued, referring to Japan’s aggrieved neighbours.

The potential threat of nuclear war also bore down on him, with nuclear warheads aimed at Japan from China and North Korea. The memory of Hiroshima and Nagasaki still, of course, lives on in Japan, and the thought that Japan can come under attack again is now a constant source of worry; this is understandable, due to recent tests conducted by the Stalinist North Korean regime in the vicinity of Japan’s waters.

But it was the past he wanted to talk about most, recounting discussions he had had with some South Korean’s whilst in that country, as they recalled terrible things afflicted upon their female relatives by the Japanese army.

“I believe them when they tell me what happened. Why did we do this? It is so crazy……There are those who say we are not responsible, we were not there. But it was our country; our country. We must talk about it. Why do we not?”

For him, it is the conservatives in Japan who refuse to accept that Japan’s glorious military and imperialist past (as they see it) is over, that are the internal obstacle for Japan truly moving on. I asked him about the controversy a while back over Prime Minister Koizumi’s visit to the Yasukuni shrine to pay his respects to Japan’s war dead. The Shinto shrine, built in the 19th century, is home to the souls of millions of war dead. Its significance lies in the belief that once a soldier has been enshrined there, he becomes a national deity who looks over the nation; a guardian angel of sorts. However, it is the inclusion of fourteen convicted class-A war criminals there that has raised the ire of Japan’s neighbours. Koizumi defended his visit, stating that the convicted war criminals were sentenced to death. But this was not good enough for him.
“It should not happen. How can he do this? We honour our dead, but not those people.”
He feared that Japan’s militaristic past was not truly behind it and that his people were too easily influenced by the government, a government that was unwilling to face its problems head on, including its closed political system and its disastrous banking policies, the country mired in debt.

Interestingly, he suggested that the presence of the United States military in Japan should continue. Pointing to a full water bottle nearby that had been under the sun the whole day, he said: “It is like that bottle over there. If you take off the cap, you never know what might be released.”

Before he got up to get some dinner, he concluded, somewhat regretfully,
“Both sides from World War Two have their own version of history. But they never meet. They never agree.”
And then he shuffled away down the stairs, the weight of his country’s past seemingly all on his shoulders, a past he had nothing to do with, but nevertheless still with him, following, like a ghost.

Cross late in the afternoon from Pakistan into India through the Wagah border point, complete immigration and customs formalities, walk a further couple of hundred metres down the road and you’ll find crowds of people, predominantly Indians, assembled outside a large closed gate. They are not touts awaiting tourists leaving Pakistan; you’ll find them a few metres further along the road, near the food stalls and tables and chairs adjacent to a few convenience stores. Rather, these are tourists waiting to witness the famous flag lowering ceremony that takes place less than an hour’s drive west through green countryside from Amritsar, a major tourist destination in western India, most legendary for its (Sikh) Golden Temple.

After being let through a small side gate, and with a couple of hours to spare before sunset, I made my way to the food stalls and took a seat, grabbing a bite to eat as well as changing my Pakistani rupees with eager moneychangers. With the dearth of tourists entering and leaving Pakistan, the main business of the shop owners is aimed at the aforementioned Indian tourists milling around, champing at the bit for the show to begin, as well as chomping on samousas and sipping soft drinks, all the time battling the incessant flies. There was a contagious electricity in the air, as families and friends, variously decked out in saris, turbans, western-style clothes and baseball caps, chatted amongst themselves. Hindi music pumped out from a sound system nearby. The excitement picked up a little later on as people began to wander over to, and gather around, a couple of television sets set up above the sandy ground, exhibiting a DVD available for purchase; a patriotic-documentary on the upcoming ceremony, plus other popular tourist attractions in the region. A man high on the occasion, and clearly having imbibed too many Hindi music videos, took centre stage, blocking my view of the television, and began to bump, grind and writhe to some Hindi pop classic, his stomach catching up half a second later. Beads of sweat quickly appeared on his forehead. Another man joined him, to the roaring approval of the crowd. The spectators began to clap, slowly at first, but then with a sense of coordination. Those who were seated got up out of their chairs, nodding approvingly. The Wagah Fever Dancers, taking this as a signal to up the tempo, rocked on, sweat by now swimming all over their faces and snaking around their ears, singing out to all. The crowd then joined in the vocal extravaganza, building up to the climatic chorus. The dancers had reached their zenith but continued to push their tiring bodies. Hoarse from shouting my approval, I sipped my drink. Alas, it had to come to an end; I ordered another one. Finally, the song faded and the spectators, after much effusive applause, drifted away, just in time for me to see the end of the DVD as the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the Indian flag swirling in the breeze on top of a flag pole.
The rattle of opening gates an hour later was the signal for us to make our way down towards the ceremony’s waiting area, first passing through security checks, then standing around on either side of the road. A border guard, dressed in khaki uniform with a beret on his head, took a whistle from a shirt pocket and placed it in his mouth to organise the sprawling crowd into a group. But what is the point when standing in a queue in these parts is a sign of weakness; the whistle was not to see the inside of his pocket again. The order was then given to make our way to the arena near the border gates. The chase was on for the best seats. A mass of people roared around a bend to the right, transforming into a running queue, Indian style, and then turned left towards the spectator stands specially built for the occasion.

Across on the Pakistan side could be seen the Pakistan stands, holding hundreds rather than the thousands that can be accommodated on the Indian side. There are in fact two separate stands, segregating males and females, divided by a cream coloured fort-like structure with domes on either side, a mural portraying the founder of Pakistan, President Jinnah, in its centre, with the Pakistan flag towering over it. Some spectators, unable to find a seat, leaned over white railings, flags in hand.

Music pumped out from large speakers across the road from us, as we sat and waited. Border guards, some with huge moustaches, directed those people who continued to throng along the road below the stands. Several men and the occasional woman, danced on the road with large Indian flags in their hands. The guards stepped in when the right balance between order and crowd excitement in the stands was disturbed.

The stands soon began to fill up. The result of India’s movement towards a free market economy, with its attending burgeoning middle class, was highlighted by the ubiquitous display of newly acquired digital cameras, as friends and family posed for photos, with huge Indian flags their backdrop, swirling onto the heads of spectators nearby. Others chatted amongst themselves. If I was on the Pakistani side I would certainly have by now been flooded with questions along with much pumping of hands, yet there was no acknowledgment of my presence from the Indians around me who are much more used to western tourists than their neighbours. I felt the same way towards this new anonymity as I did to the steaming hot summer that had enveloped me ever since I had left those cooler parts of northern Pakistan; when it was cold I wished it was warm, but when I reached the warmer climes, I wished it was cold again. The assembled spectators soon became restless. A hefty and boisterous man seated in the row in front, who had earlier berated an older married couple next to him to move along and make some room for him and his friend, only to mock them afterwards for doing so, joined in the party atmosphere, shouting his encouragement to its vanguard down by the border gate.

As the sun began to set, the guards hurried up the latecomers with a fortunate few being allowed to stand on the other side of the road opposite the VIP stands. Ritualistic cries in Hindi of “Long live Hindustan…Long live Hindustan…Death to Pakistan” continued to echo out intermittently from various spots in the stands. The assembled crowd responded emphatically, more with effervescence than belligerence, which belied the frequent strong feelings of animosity and distrust that many Indians hold towards Pakistan and its people, although it is not as manifest as the rhetoric emanating from their government. I had the feeling that this day the assembled crowd, on balance, was more interested in exultations of being Indian, than an overt release of antagonism.

At last a small group of Indian Border Security Forces lined up on the road. They were strikingly attired in khaki uniforms, complete with black shoes, wide belts, multi-coloured cravats, black turbans with multi coloured striped headbands supporting gold tassels that tickled their left ears, peacock-like red fans rising imperiously from the tops of their heads, with medals attached to their shirts over their left pockets, name badges pinned on the right. After a signal they proceeded to march, with a mixture of pomposity, goosestepping and high kicks that ended in thuds on the ground so forceful that I instinctively did stretching exercises. Their opposite numbers, the Pakistani Rangers (who were similarly attired with the exception of their black hue), expertly mirrored these pouting and provocative manoeuvres, with their air of hostility and condescension towards the other side. A guard revved up the crowd from the front of the stands. After a bout of this synchronised taunting, they made their way to the massive metal grilled gates with much gesticulation and fuss, and flung them open. Opposing officers briefly shook hands and then the flags were slowly lowered in theatrical fashion. The flags were carried away and the officers then returned to shake hands ever so briefly and aggressively, as if each other’s hand was burning hot. The gates were slammed shut.

I had heard that usually, after the ceremony was over, crowds would swarm towards the gate, shouting and waving their fists towards the opposing side, less than demonstrative spectators being whistled at to increase their intensity. That didn’t happen the day I was there, with the spectators clearing the stands, some milling around below, and others wandering back towards the buses and cars, satisfied at the just completed show. While it doesn’t take one long to surmise that the Indian and Pakistani governments have been inefficient at providing bread for their citizens, they sure know how to put on a circus.

I found a friendly, but basic guesthouse near the Taj Mahal. I only planned to stay one day there, but it wound up turning into nearly a week. The admission price to the Taj was extremely steep – a whopping 750 rupees. I debated whether or not to go, but then decided you can’t go to India and not see the Taj. So I went and it was breath-taking. If your not impressed by it, I think you would be hard pressed to find something that would.
Anyway, it was really hot in Agra at mid day it got up to a whopping 112 degrees! At night I would lay in bed consumed by sweet watching the fan above move at a snail-pace speed. Staring at it, I would try and will it to go faster, but to no avail. All it seemed to do was move hot air from outside, in.

Every evening I would go for a walk in Agra, all the while getting bombarded with merchants and beggars. Beggars with leprosy shoving half a limb in your face, gaunt and emaciated children holding babies – both strongly resembling those TV commercials for the charities asking for a dollar a week to save some starving child in Somalia or some other third world nation, but the worst were the mutilated children. It might not have been so bad if I did not know the origins of there injuries. You see in India, begging is big business, and children seem to be a cash cow in this industry, but children with deformities and mutilated bodies are by far the most prized commodity. Many parents even mutilate the own children pouring kerosene on them and burning their bodies to resemble that of a mutant, or cutting off limbs and mutilating the faces.

But the business goes far beyond that. It is not merely a one person or family vocation but there are whole organization dedicated to this profession. With hundreds of employees! The boss, better known as the "Beggarmaster," employs hundreds of beggars, mostly children, and in return they are looked after. This entails, a reserved place on the pavement, protection from cops (cops will be paid off to leave the specified beggar alone), theft prevention, food, shelter, and a cut of their day’s earnings. Beggarmasters even buy children with leprosy or who have been mutilated from families in need of money.This is why I never give to beggars in India – to encourage such repulsive behavior would be immoral.

Anyway, getting on with the story. I was walking down a street and receiving the usual accosting form the locals when a child, no more than eight, came up to me and stuck his hand in my face. His face was burnt so bad his skin had melted down his eyes giving his whole face a drooping, liquid look. His hand and arm looked like the texture of raisins. "10 rupee…. 10 rupee," he mumbled, moving his drooping face in one fluid motion – the skin so taut from the scaring it seemed to hurt for him to talk. I stood there for a minutes looking at him playing a number of scenarios in my head that could have led to such a horrific display at present. Upset I shut my eyes and shook my head "Na’, Na’…Chello! (no, no… go away)" I said waving my hand in dismissal.

But the child persisted (as they always do. Usually the fist word you learn in a country are "hi" and "thankyou," but in India it’s different. The words of necessity are no and go away). Tired from the days heat and the constant overload of the senses, my patience was worn thin. He followed me for a good block or so, magnetically pulling other beggars with his display of persistence, raising their hopes to get a cut from the foreigner’s pockets. I turned around to find a dozen starving and mutilated children accompanied by a few suffering severely from leprosy.

"CHELLOW…CHELLOW," I screamed in frustration, but they would not leave me be. So I turned and started to walk fast, then faster, darting in and out of alleyways. Soon I stopped and turned to look. They were gone, but I then realized, I was lost. ‘Shit’ I thought – sun is set and it will be dark soon. This ought to be interesting.

I aimlessly scurried through the labyrinth of allies and side streets, but to no avail. Nothing seemed even vaguely familiar and night would not make it any easier. With no street lights it would be like being going blind through a gauntlet of cow shit, beggar, muggers, merchants and every other raisin under the sun.
After about 20 minutes of this I entered another alleyway and was approached by a healthy man who stuck out his hand and demanded "Baheish!" This is a rude beggar I thought. So I said, "no," and walked away, but he came after me and cut me off in my tracks. I stopped and gave him a dirty look. He reach in his pocket and pulled out a little knife and pointed it at me and demanded again "Baheish!" Shaking my head in disbelief at my luck thus fair on this trip; I smiled and made a motion for my rucksack like I was going to give him his money. But instead I pulled out my knife which dwarfed his and in the best Aussie accent I could muster, quoted the famous line from Crocodile Dundee – "that ain’t a knife, this is a knife," and smiled with victory. (I had grown a bit too confident and cocky from my provisos conquests in India).

But the response I had expected (the turn tail and run) from him was not there. Instead he had a smirk of confidence and was no longer looking at me, but past me at something behind me. I turned and saw 5 more men all with knives – around me! "Well, didn’t see that one coming," I thought. "BAHEISH, BAHEISH," he demanded once more with an air of confidence. "Dat too" he said, pointing to my knife. I was weighing my options and narrowed it down to three choices and outcomes. I could:

A. Give him my money and my knife, leaving me defenseless, and broke. Thus if, after they had both, they required more of me I would have no chance in fending them off. With my knife I at least had a prayer.

B. Take my chances and fight my way out of this. But this didn’t seem likely to be successful given that the numbers were not on my side.

C. Give them some money and keep the knife. Just in case it came down to that.

I chose the latter.

I reached in to the outer pocket of my rucksak where I keep pocket changed for rickshaws. And handed over 60 rupees. His lips winced tightly and his face seemed to morph almost instantaneously into pure rage. "GIVE ME ALL BAHEISH!!!!!" He yelled.

I lifted my shoulders and turned my palms to the sky as if to say that was all I had. He lunged for me and ripped my rucksack off my shoulder. Spilling the contents on to the floor, he bent down and searched throw the scattered items frantically while the others looked on in anticipation.

But all he found was two books, half a roll of TP, press ID, unsent postcards, one bandana and a melted tube of chap-stick. He then, more angry and frustrated, began to search my rucksack itself, throwing out old receipts and scratch paper with e-mails scribbled on them. I began to get nervous. I had a lot of money in my rucksack, but it was in a hidden compartment I had made for it. Would he find it?

Then he stood up with my bag and angrily throw it to the ground. Then came so close to me I could feel his breath on my face. He stuck his knife in my face and then yanked my knife out of my hands. ‘There goes that idea,’ I thought. He then began repeatedly yelling "BAHEISH, BAHEISH" as he patted me down and searched my pockets, but to no avail. Then he stopped at my waist feeling my belt. ‘Oh fuck,’ I thought, ‘he found it’ (I wear a belt that looks and functions as a normal belt but on the inside there is a zipper and a hidden compartment for money and travelers cheques.) He began to undo my belt. And whipped it off me so swiftly that I stumbled to keep my balance.

He eyed the zipper with anticipation and opened the pocket . His companions drew a breath in unison and silence set in. His eyes got big and I knew I could kiss that money good-bye. He waved above his head triumphantly four one-hundred US dollar bills. His friends ran over to him, each jumping to grab the money and look at it, overcome with joy of there conquest. I was completely ignored.

I took the opportunity and grabbed my rucksack and throw what I could back inside and bolted down the alleyway running the labyrinth once more, with no idea were I was going. I ran for what seemed forever. Lungs burning, legs shaking, and out of breath I stopped and turned around to see if they were still there – no, thank God. But I was still lost and now $400 and 60rs poorer than when I started.

All the light that had been there was now gone it was pitch black and I was alone and desperate. I frantically looked around for anything familiar, but to no avail. I collapsed to the ground near tears. But, blinking hard I fought them off. I sat there in the dirty alleyway blinking. Then closed my eyes and thought. I tried to retrace my steps but that was useless. I began to feel upset again and then gave myself the pep talk that had be come oh so common in India.

‘This is a small obstacle, you’re smart, strong, you can figure it out. You wanted to travel and knew what could happen. Suck it up. Don’t let them win. Stop being a little bitch, get off your ass and find your way home!’ And with that I stood up and began to walk toward a light in the far off distance.

Well to make a long story short I finally found my way back to my guesthouse – four hours later. Tired and angry, I flopped on my bed forgetting it was a hard wooden platform with a thin pad on it and smacked my head. I lay there in the sweltering heat. I was overcome with utter frustration and fury. India was starting to chip away at the strong, independent, tough girl persona I had for so long clung to with such vigor.

The next day I went out window-shopping at all the marvelous marble shops in Agra (Agra is world famous for its marble art). Anyway, I came across a little shop and the owner stated to talk to me. Normally I would have just walked away, but his English had a touch of California accent to it and I was curious. We talked and it turns out he used to live in Berkeley. We exchanged stories about Telegraph (a street in Berkeley made famous in the 60s). We went into his shop and looked over an array of things. He of course showed me the expensive stuff, to which I baulked and said, "Listen mate, I may be American, but that don’t mean I am rich". I winded up buying a silver ring with the star of India stone for a friend back home in Chico.

I put on the ring and went back to my accommodations. I had planned to leave the next day and had not made it yet to the train station to buy my ticket and had so many things still to do. Normally I go to the train station myself instead of going to an agent who charges commission. But since I was running behind schedule I conceded and asked the guy at the guest-house to get the ticket for me. I also don’t like to tell the place where I am staying when I am leaving. Because at one guesthouse I stayed at the guests would set up a train or bus ticket with the lodging and almost every time they would wind up being horribly sick the next day – thus unable to travel. Therefore having to pay one more night’s stay and pay a doctor that the lodging got a kick back from for giving him the business.

But I had grown to like the people that worked there and thought that I was safe, – how wrong I was. I asked him how many rupees it would cost at the train station. He replied 180 and then I enquired about the price with commission, he said an extra 5 rupees. I paid him and went out to run some errands. That night I woke up hotter than normal, my skin felt like it was on fire, my head was spinning I sat up and was over come with nausea. I barely made it into my wash bucket. I sat there throwing up all the contents of that night’s dinner at the guesthouse and when that was done with, began dry heaving. My head pounded and my stomach was in knots, making sound that were not encouraging.

I had to go, and now! I didn’t have time to run to the bathroom down the hall. I stood up shaking yanked done my pants in an urgent manner and let loose in the wash bucket already partly full from vomitus. For the next four hours this rotation of excrement continued. My head felt like it was in a vice and someone was drilling a screw between my eyes and then pounding a hammer into the sides of my temples. I was in hell. I was shaking and couldn’t stand to save my life. My strength had gone and I was weak and becoming delirious. Finally, when I had no more left in my digestive tract, I crawled back to my bed but was unable to pull my self up onto it. I sat there in near tears, wanting death to come and end this miserable suffering (like I said I became delirious).

The sun soon rose and made the room even hotter than before. I retreated under the bed to the cool concrete in the shadow below. I laid there in the fetal position, sweating profusely, shaking uncontrollably. Overcome with fever my brain started to betray me and I began to hallucinate. Like a troll under his bridge, I refused to abandon the cool sanctuary. I looked at my watch – 7:32am. My train was due in a little less than 9 hours. I had still not packed and was supposed to attend a bride viewing at 1:30. I lay there staring at my bucket of bile cursing the guesthouse and my stupidity for trusting them.

I rolled over and inch my way to my bag and pulled out my med kit. Took my temp and lay there with the thermometer sticking out of my mouth, waiting. 102 – "great," I thought sarcastically. I crawled over to the side of my bed again and reached up and felt around for my water bottle. I found it and began to gulp it down. No sooner did it enter my mouth that it came right back up. I was seriously dehydrated, my mouth was parched and there was a dried mucus membrane around my lips. I remembered a German I met in Verinasei who had been in a similar state and now I knew what he must have felt like.

I tried to swallow some Dranimeen but that came up as well. Then I just flopped over and sprawled out on the floor. And waited for death to come. Like I said my mind was not right and delirium was taking over. I passed out only to be awoken at 1 o’clock by a banging at the door. "Madam…madam, your visitor is here to pick you up." Wiping the crusted puke from my chin I rolled out from under the bed and said in a cracking voice, "I will be out in a minute." I was still in dire straights, but determined to not let them "win".

I made up my mind to go to Delhi and to keep my appointment for the bride viewing. I poured my water bottle into a bandana and wiped the evidence of last night’s dance of my digestional tracked away. Pulled up my matted hair and put on a pair of clean paints all the while still on the floor. I had not yet managed to stand. I squirted some toothpaste in my mouth and then spit it out into the wash bucket I caught a whiff of the smell from it and began to dry-heve once more. It finally stooped and I collapsed again to the floor, exhausted from the performance.

My head was killing me it was the worst head ache I had ever had – even worse then the migraines I used to get as a kid that sent me screaming and crying for my Ma. But my Ma was not here now and I was all alone and in horrible shape with no-one to help and no hope in sight. I finally gathered up the strength to stand and swayed heavily. Once I did, I fell back on the bed sitting there starring at the door. ‘Its soooo far away,’ I thought. ‘How can I make it, it is such a long distance?’ (a total of 5 feet maybe 6 at the most).

I sat there in a heap of sweat and delirium. I finally stood and stumbled over to my camera bag. I tried to lift it but it didn’t even leave the ground. I stood there staring at it trying to will it to rise. But of course it just lay there disobediently. I then picked up my day rucksack and struggled to lift it to my shoulder (at most it weighs 3 pounds). I unlocked the door and was attacked by the light of day. I withered in its harshness and blocked the light from my eyes with my arm.

"Madam, you are not looking well are you ok?" " What do you think" I snapped and stumbled past him to the front desk where my friend was waiting. "Geeze Meg, are you sick – you look ill," he said. " Ya, I have a little bug," I lied. "You sure you’re ok? I will understand if you can’t come – so will my family – it’s ok." ‘God I must really look like shit,’ I thought. "No I am fine. Sorry to keep you waiting."

We left the guesthouse and sped off to meet his family, where again I was greeted with questions of my health. I seriously need to find a mirror. We piled in to the white Ambassidor car – the air conditioning was a saving grace form the heat of the day. The drive to the prospective bride’s house was hell on wheels. Zigzagging around cows and corners played a torturous game with my already incapacitated equilibrium. My body kept bringing up bits and peaces of vomitus and I was forced to swallow them back down. I did not want to hural all over their nice white car.

After what seemed like forever, we finally arrived at our destination. I stepped out of the cool car I had so quickly acclimatized to, only to be attacked by the intense heat of midday Agra. We met with the bride’s family but without the bride and they discussed and bartered over a dowry amount. All the while we were fed nibblies and drinks. I did not want to be rude so I ate them, but just a few minutes later had to excuses myself to the bathroom to bring it back up.

This ceremony continued for over an hour. They would bring food I would eat it and then a couple minutes later say, "hi," to the masticated remnants that lay in the toilet. " Hello chapatie, nice to see you again lassie," I said in my delirious state of mind. The families must have thought I was shooting up in the bathroom or something. I did not know how much longer I could hold out.

Finally the prospective wife was brought out dressed to the nines, in henna, silk, gold and flowers galore. She was in the room for a total of three minutes and then left. The family gave an approving nod and then discussed more about the dowery. I was at my wit’s end. I wanted out and NOW!!! ‘Please, god no more food,’ I mouthed to myself, but it just kept coming. And I just kept going…. to say hello again.

Finally it was over and we said our good-byes and left. They invited me back to their house for dinner I almost threw up at the thought. I politely declined and said I had a train to catch. They dropped me off back at the shabby guesthouse I was staying at. I still had to pack and somehow get my bags (that I was still unable to lift) to the train station. I stepped in my room and was attacked by the smell of last nights excrements from my digestive tract. And all that was left in me came instantaneously flying out. I began another episode of dry- heaving that once again left me exhausted and on the brick of passing out.

I told my self I could shut my eyes and rest just for a few minutes then I had to pack. But a couple of minutes turned in to a couple hours and I awoke and hour before my train was supposed to depart. ‘Oh shit,’ I thought, and stood up too fast only to be thrown back down by my equilibrium. ‘Gotta pack, gotta go.’ I kept repeating this mantra ’till I accomplished the task at hand. I took off the ring I had bought for my friend only to discover a dark green circle around my finger. "God dammit," I shouted, "will this shit never end… Ripped off again. Cheated once more for the umteenth-billion time," I mouthed, the blood boiling in my veins from fever and fury.

Finally, I was packed – it was sloppy, but it would do. I asked the rickshaw driver to help me with my bags. The guesthouse handed me an envelope with the ticket inside. They said, "You sure you want to go? You don’t look so good. Stay one more night and rest and we can even get a doctor for you." "No thanks, but I did leave you a little present in my room in the wash bucket for all your wonderful hospitality," I said with a smile. "Oh thank you mam most kind of you, we will cherish it always." ‘I bet you will,’ I thought.

I was off, but first I had a pit-stop to make. I told the rickshaw driver to stop at the place where I bought the ring. I entered the shop ready to do bodily harm. In my fever fury I had no tolerance to day for this shit.

"Hi madam, back so soon?"

"Listen you little shit, you see this?" I shoved my finger in his face. "Fucking green, you cheating mother fucker. This is not real silver. Real silver dose not make your hand look like you’ve been fingering Kermit the mother fucking frog!!"

"Mam, please, I am an honest businessman and…."

"HONEST!!! HONEST!! Then what the fuck do you call this?" And I shoved my finger a millimeter from his eye, causing him to flinch.
"Mam, maybe you are allergic to silver, your skin is…"

"My skin is allergic to silver? I can’t believe this shit. You rip me off and then tell me it’s my skin’s fault. The audacity of you people."
"But mam, it is 100% good silver. It is your skin and…"

"Hey fuck face, today is not the day to screw with me, if I am allergic to silver then why isn’t this green?" I removed another real silver ring I got in the states and shoved it in his face for examination. "See no green so now give me back my money you cheating son of a bitch"

"I am no cheater, I am good man. Maybe the ring was not polished right I will polish it for you and it will be ok…"

"Listen," I grabbed his hand with the ring in it and squeezed with all the strength I had,"you do not want to fuck with me TODAY! I have had the week from mother fucking hell. So take your shitty ring and shove it up your cheating ass and walk you scrawny cheating ass over to that contour and give me back my god damned MONEY!!!!!"

He went silent. I released my grip and he got the money. I left, still pissed as all hell. India was taking a serious toll on me this week. Got to the train station and opened my ticket to double check the time the train was going to arrive, and then I noticed it, the real price of the ticket – 82Rs (as apposed to the 185Rs I was charged)

"Ahhhhhhhg," I yelled in frustration, " not again." "I hate this fucking place everyone either tries to rob, cheat, grope or hustle you," I thought. I went to hire a porter (which at most should coast around 15 to 20Rs). "How much?" I said.

"130 rupees," he replied

"Is anyone in this god-forsaken country honest? Don’t insult my intelligence. I have been in India for a month now. I pay 15 rupees – that’s it"

"Ok, 75."

I walked away. Steaming. I would drag the bags my damn self if I had to, but no way in hell was I being cheated one more time! He soon came running up to me. "50." I waved my hand in dismissal and kept walking. I got to my bags and he stood there looking at me and trying to barter. "35, but that is lowest," he stammered in pidgin English. "If that is lowest then…. NO! I said 15. No 15 rupees – no business." I pretended to start picking up my own bags and he stopped me.

"20," he said.

I was exhausted and desperate. I nodded my head and followed him to the platform. "Is this right platform?" I inquered. "Yes, yes." But I was not convinced. He set my bags down and left. I frantically searched for anyone who spoke English and asked them – most did not know. Then two people in a row told me it was three platforms over. ‘Shit, will this day ever end?’ And I once more began to look for a porter. I finally found one and negotiated a fair price. We scaled up and over and back down the three platforms. By the time we reached the right one I was ready to pass-out.

He made a hand signal for money. I said, "No not until the train arrives and my bags are put in the right seat." I handed him my ticket and he looked at it we had to walk farther down the platform. My body was beginning to give out and my mind was not far behind.

The train arrived and the porter showed the ticket to the tie-tee. But he pointed down toward where we had just come from. Tthen the tei-tee looked at me and signalled the car that was standing behind him. I sighed in relief. We entered a compartment with airconditioning and the cleanest car I had seen thus far. All of the occupants were well-dressed. ‘Pretty nice for second class,’ I thought. I was shown my seat and paid the porter and he left. I crashed down in the chair with exhaustion and went to sleep. But of course, that is not where it ends. Oh no, that would be too easy a train ride and we all know trains in India hate Meg with a passion. Well this one topped them all. No more than 20 minutes later I was woken up by the tei-tee wanting to see my ticket.

"You already saw my ticket," I grumbled half-awake.

"Ticket," he demanded.

So I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to him.

"This second class – 5 cars down. You want stay here in first, you give me 200 Rs."

And with that I cracked. The lying cheating son of a bitch had purposefully ushered me into the cabin to squeeze money out of the foreigner. I had more than I could take and lost it like I never have before in all my life.

I stood up on the seat hysterically screaming at the man with a car filled of Indians and one Aussie looking on.

"TODAY IS NOT THE DAY TO FUCK WITH ME. YOU THINK I AM GOING TO PAY YOU? YOU GOT ANOTHER THING COMING, YOU LYING, CHEETING FUCK! YOU WANT ME TO MOVE? YOU GET SOMEONE TO CARRY MY BAGS AND MOVE THEM FOR ME. LIKE HELL I AM GOING TO GIVE YOUR ASS MONEY."

"No, you carry. Your mistake."

"MY MISTAKE!? MY MISTAKE?" I was on the verge of tears. I started to blink, but it didn’t help. This time the flood gates were open and I couldn’t stop it." FUCK YOU! AND FUCK INDIA." I had lost it. Not the smartest thing to say in a car filled with Indians. And with this, a yelling match between me and the whole car ensued. One guy came out of his seat and got right in my face yelling

"YOU SAY FUCK INDIA, I AM NOT STUPID I CAN UNDERSTAND. I SPEAK ENGLISH. FUCKYOU!"

"LISTEN YOU ASSHOLE, YOU DON’T WANT TO GET INTO IT RIGHT NOW WITH ME, NOT TODAY!"

"YOU THNK INDIANS ARE STUPID. WE KNOW WHAT YOU SAY. YOU HATE INDIA SO MUCH – LEAVE. LEAVE RIGHT NOW. I WILL HELP THROW YOU AND YOUR BAGS OFF THE TRAIN."

The train was moving at break-neck speed and a picture of the two men I saw thrown from another train flashed back into my mind. The Aussie was trying to calm everyone down, but had no success due to the intensity of the situation. People were screaming things at me left and right. But I was so out of it I did not grasp the severity of the situation. I just kept giving it right back. Then the man yelled.

"GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM," and gave me a shove.

"That’s just what I plan to do as soon as I get to Delhi! Get out of this, BEGGER RIDDEN, WOMAN HERASSING, PEOPLE CHEATING, FOREIGNER HUSLING, GOD FORSAKEN COUNTRY!"

And with that he hit me across the face. I did not feel it due to the hysteria or adrenaline or both. I was about to retaliate when the Aussie jumped in and grabbed me. I was hysterical. I could no longer control myself; the weeks of built up frustration in India came flooding out in a sea of tears and rage. The Aussie grabbed my bags and ushered me toward the second class car. As I was walking, people were shouting horrible things at me and a man reached out and grabbed my arm I could not defend my self because I had my hands full with my other bag.

"What country?" he demanded. I cussed at him is Spanish. "What did you say?" he barked. "If you’re so smart and you can speak English figure it out." With that he slapped me and spat in my face. The Aussie ran back and retrieved me from my harassers and hustled me out of the car. As soon as I was out, the reality of what had just transpired hit me like a ton of bricks. I stood there balling like a little bitch, hating myself for being so stupid, for crying, for being weak, for letting my emotion win.

I was a mixture of so many feelings, it hurt. The Aussie looked at me and wiped the spit from my face with his sleeve. "Come on lets find your seat," he whispered in an almost inaudible voice. We struggled with my bags down the narrow ailes in the over stuffed cars and finally we reached where I was supposed to be.

He stashed away my bags for me on the above rack. Embarrassed, I had managed to fight off the tears but they where ready and waiting at the helm. "Thank you," I said in cracked voice, "you must think I am a nut or something, eh?" He shook his head and said, "Don’t worry about it – I understand completely." ‘Oh, if only you really did," I thought. He smiled and left. After he was out of sight the floodgates openned again – uncontrollably. I tried to make them stop but they just wouldn’t. I felt so alone, so depressed, so defeated I had made up my mind. As soon as I get to Delhi I am catching the first fight home. I had had all I could take. India had won.

I sat there staring out into oblivion watching the lights in the night whiz by in lines of brilliant colors and shapes. My vision blurred by the water in my eyes making the lights take on a new shape of brilliance. Then I blinked them back to their original shape. I sat there for a while thinking and blinking.

I tried my normal self pep-talk, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears this time. It just didn’t work.

‘God Meg, if only your friends could see you know. You… the strong one. Independent. The pillar that everyone leans on. You have crumbled. They would laugh if they saw you sitting here crying like a little bitch. Defeated. For God’s sakes Meg, you’re a fire-fighter – get a hold of yourself. If the guys at work saw this they would be laughing their asses off too. So now what? Go crawling home to Mama like a little baby. Give up and pack it in so easily. God, I thought you were better then that. Guess not. ‘

I sat there hating my prejudice thoughts and my defeated attitude. I tried willing them away, but was no match for my emotions. ‘Well for God’s sakes woman, pull yourself together. At least stop your childish crying.’ I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled the broken air in quick congruent puffs and closed my eyes. The whole car was staring at me, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care anymore at all. My compassion had left. And it seemed never to be found again. I started to calm down. The adrenaline was wearing off and my face started to throb from where I had been hit. For the first time I noticed the taste of blood. I licked my lips. My tongue found the salty open wound. I touched it with my finger and the stinging pain made me wince. My eyes still were watering, but not from the pain of my injuries.

I took off my sunglasses from my head and stared at my self in them. Observing my swollen face for the first time. I put them over my eyes even though it was night to hide my shameful tears. I was going home. But the thought did not bring me any joy. Quite the contrary – it made me angrier with myself. Despair, desperation and depression had set up camp and showed no signs of vacating the premises any time soon. No matter what I did, I could not shake the mood I was in. A feeling of being at the bottom of the abyss and having the world throw its trash at you. Drowning you in it. Suffocating your "Self." You claw at the sides of your prison, but the walls are too steep – your fingers bleed, salty. You die suffocated by the world’s garbage. And you, you had no shovel for such a job. Merely a spoon and a dream.

The train pulled into Delhi and the Aussie came running back. Out of breath, he laboredly said, "Better wait here for a while. I will come and find ya when it’s safe. If not, you’ll be walk’n into WWIII. I’ll get a taxi and come and help you with your bags."

"No, I am fine. I have troubled you enough already, but thanks." I felt horrible for getting him tangled up in my web of problems.

"Hey mate, it’s all right. I understand. No worries. But I will have to insist on seeing you to the taxi."

"Fine," I conceded.

And with a jolt, the train finally came to its final destination. Delhi. The car quickly unloaded and soon after, true to his word, the Aussie came back. We took the scenic root to the waiting taxi to avoid the angry mob waiting at the main exit.

The taxi growled into the city well after midnight. Along the road sleeping shantytowns polluted both sides of the highway, ready to spread onto the asphalt artery. Only the threat of the many-wheeled juggernauts thundering up and down restrained the tattered lives behind the verges.
We exchanged small talk and I politely entertained his questions. However, my thoughts were not on his inquiries about job, and country. They were far away from such, what seemed at the time, trivial things.

Headlights picked out late-shift workers and beggars, tired ghosts tracing a careful path between the traffic and the open sewer. The taxi finally reached the main bazaar. "Well this is me," I said as cheerful as I could

"Here let me help you."

"No, I feel bad enough as it is already."

"Don’t be silly." And with that he huffed my bag on his shoulder and waited for my lead.

"Well, guess I don’t have a choice."

"Nope." He smiled.

We walked down the narrow allyway and I finally spotted the place.

"Kinda shabby, eh?"

"That’s how I like them, shabby, but cheap." I grinned.

I was shown my room. The cracked plaster walls left remnants on the rims of the floor of white and yellow memories of what used to be. The water stained ceiling bowed center resembled that of a giant Buddha belly.

"300 rupees," barked the man

"Listen, I pay one hundred or I am going to the place next door. Now do ya want my money or not?" I snapped not in the mood to haggle.

We set down our bags and I walked the Aussie to the door.

"How long ya stay’n?" he inquired.

"I am going back home tomorrow," I said with a forced smile.

"Well, that’s too bad. It was nice meeting ya." And stuck out his hand.

"Ya, and thanks again for the help." And I stuck mine out too and shook his.

"Bye," he waved as he left

"Bye," I whispered.

And with that, I flopped on the hard bed and lay staring at the flicking fluorescent light above, until sleep finally came.

The next day I went out looking for a ticket office to see about a flight home. As evening came the power cuts started, and generators from all the shops crowding the streets were turned on filling the road with the polluted smell of exhaust. I had been in and out of ticketing offices all day, but for some reason couldn’t bring myself to buy one.

I was still horribly sick and had to constantly go to the bathroom. I grew tired and went back to my room. I lay there, looking at the water stain on the ceiling, making animals out of the patterns. Was I really ready to go home?

Well to cut this tremendously long story short, I am still in India. What changed my mind? Tenacity. Some call it stubbornness when they disagree with my objective, but in the same breath say it is determination when it suits their purpous. But I prefer tenacious. It has got me this far and I am sure will carry me the rest of the way.

Brains will only get you so far (especially in a place like India) and luck always runs out. But tenacity is as reliable as the person that possesses it. And I have never quit anything in my life, so why start now? The past few days in Delhi with its 13 million plus population has been (well as a Kiwi friend of mine would put it) full-on. But I seem to be in better health (almost 75% anyway) and in turn, in a better state of mind.

I remember a professor told me once that prejudice is not formed through experience, but through conditioning. His logic was that if a man was prejudiced against a certain race – let’s say black -because he had been jumped as a child, would he also be prejudiced against all women if they had been the culprits? Probably not. I pride myself in being a person free from prejudice, but was tested to my limits these past weeks in India. How easy it would be to hate all Indians because of what has happened to me. But that would be the weaker man’s path. The stronger and wiser man would look at the bigger picture.

There are a billion people in India and to judge them all by the action of such a minute fraction of the population would be not only wrong, but unjust aswell. I try to remember the family in Khashrho I stayed with, and how many others there are just like them. Yes, at times it is hard to keep the slate clean, free from past experiences. I am not saying to forget, but rather to learn. Learn from your mistakes and make them part of your strength. That is the only way to keep from suffering a pessimistic melt down as I did.

Ya, I was muged. Ya, I was cheated. And yes, I was lied to and beaten. But so what? Shit happen to every one. And if we all throw in the towel every time an obstacle was thrown our way, wehre would we get in life? Not far. Not far at all. And if attaining one’s dream were so easy, it wouldn’t be a dream in the first place. We would already have it. No, I think it is a little simpler than that. Sometimes it seems that the goal is the most inportant treasure. It seems to be coveted relentlessly. But what we sometimes miss is the journey along the way. The journey, more often than not, becomes what makes us who we are, forms us in mind, body, and soul. And isn’t the "Self" the most important treasure of all?

I look back at my life and have no regrets. Sound like a lie? I have no regrets because all that has happened to me and all the decisions I have made have shaped me into being who I am today – both the good and the bad. And the person I am today I like! Hell, I downright love! So what is there to regret? Nothing. So I leave you with this. Follow your dreams no matter how obscure they may be or what people may think. Remember this is YOUR life so live it well. And take the obstacles that may come your way as bumps in the journey of following your bliss. After all life is never a smooth ride.

I dread travelling on buses, particularly in the third world. They invariably stop all the times you don’t need them to and never when you do. To make matters worse, many buses don’t have toilets on them, rest stops seemingly don’t have toilets, even though at times the ones they choose resemble a toilet. So when anything comes along to bring a little variety to a bus trip, one should presumably be grateful, even though this anything is often just grating.
Everyone seems to be in a rush on the roads of Pakistan, when they actually get going that is. To get to this stage one must endure many moments of false hope. For example, there is the hope that the perfume seller who has hopped aboard at the bus station in Lahore and who is rattling away his sales pitch about the “Paris” perfume he’s holding in his hand will be the only one on the trip. Or the seller of various colours of cloths that you have stopped on the side of the road for, will be dropped off very shortly, no-one taking his place to sell you drinks and food, all the way to Multan, six hours south.
Once you are actually travelling on the open road though, the driver must make up for lost time. To do this he has a handy weapon at his disposal: the hooter-box combo. Above, and to his right, on the inner frame of the bus, can usually be found a small metal panel with black buttons. Each button denotes a particular kind of hooter sound. The monotonous blaaaah is the most forceful sound at his disposal, followed by the wah-wah-wah, wah-wee-wah and the trusty old standard wah-wee-wah-wee. While to the untrained ear a wah-wee-wah-wee is just a wah-wee-wah-wee, to the driver, ten minutes of no wah-wee-wah-wee would be, for an Australian, like a test cricket match between Australia and England without England losing; life has become warped, empty and unrecognisable.

Any person in his way, about to be in the way, perhaps thinking that he may step in the way at some point, or just walking along humming a tune sounding remotely like I’ll do it my way, is reminded by the driver that while he might dare to act contrary to the driver’s wishes, he will not go unnoticed, whether he be a small kid on a bike, a pedestrian or an express bus; this principle being applied by every driver out on the road.
My particular bus had some saving graces: air-conditioning and entertainment. And besides, it advertised itself as “The Choice of Noble Personalities.” (It also stated on the ticket that it was “Faster and Safe Travelling” – although this had been crossed out for some reason.)

The entertainment in this case was an overly-lit movie on a television up the front. It didn’t take much of an educated guess to realise it was an Indian movie. While a bit of flesh can be seen on advertisments in English-language Pakistani media, exposed mid-riffs and, at times rather exotic dancing, could not possibly make it a homegrown effort. In this particular movie our hero was having tough time, having to choose between not only one gorgeous Indian woman, but two, with enough time and energy to break into a dance routine when love inevitably slapped him in the face; whilst an ordinary man such as myself would have been lying prostrate on the couch, drowning my sorrows over a beer and reading an article in a men’s magazine about how men don’t really need chicks for all that much. Luckily, for our hero, he got the good girl in the end and saw the bad girl for what she was. By the time I arrived in Multan, I just got a sore back, two bruised knees and little prospects of some tender loving care by any girl, let alone a gorgeous one.
Multan is said to be the oldest surviving city on the subcontinent, dating back about 4,000 years, not that it is that apparent without the use of tourist literature. More overt is the enormous influence that holy men and their followers have had on the city; Multan is grave-city, but with a smile. Before Muslims became the dominant residents in the area (the city was captured by the commander Mohammed bin Qasim in 711) Hindu shrines were the main religious attraction. Now it is a haven for Muslim pilgrims, particularly the mystically-inclined Sufis who stream in from all quarters to enthusiastically and emotionally seek out the resting places of their dead saints. There is one saint, Shams Tabrez, who it is said brought the sun closer to himself, making Multan one of the hottest places around in Pakistan. Gee, thanks.
I made my way the next morning through the town, passing an array of motor repair shops, spare part shops and some pretty swanky car dealerships, before approaching a prominent hill, the top of which houses Qasim Bagh Fort (now mostly in ruins), a mosque, a number of shrines and a sports stadium. I was joined by a steady stream of men on their way up the hill to Friday lunchtime prayers, the intense heat taking up the rear. I stopped at the entrance to the fort on the hill for a rest. Thankfully a cool breeze provided a brief interlude, also bringing out a plethora of beggars who congregate in the vicinity. As I sat on the roadside curb, wiping away the dust swirling in my face, and pretending not to notice the presence of a faceless woman tugging on my shirt, an old man shuffling around nearby, clad in a green shalwar qamiz, motioned me over.
To his right he indicated a rope and wood-framed mattress under the shade of an undernourished tree. Next to it were a few others tied to the tree. He indicated that I should sit on the mattress. As I took my place and took a sip of water, he nodded reassuringly, and then sat down next to me, facing the edge of a hill running down to some ramshackled buildings in the valley below.

As far as I could see there were more of these buildings, interrupted by dirty streets cluttered with makeshift stands selling fruit and newspapers. To my left I could see the bazaar area, a dilapidated mosque and a tall clock tower that had ceased working, framed by a large billboard advertising happy people during a happy moment.

As the old man, greying hair tucked under a once brightly decorated scarf, pottered out to scrape a square in the dusty ground, more men walked swiftly up the road to the summit of the hill, disappearing underneath the arch of the tall gateway; motorbikes and cars followed, weaving in between the human traffic. What seemed to be a public announcement rang out across the city centre, initally competing with the call to prayer emanating from several mosques, then slowly being subsumed.

The old man exchanged some words with a pair of tatty men emerging from their makeshift brick, scrap and dust homes, that hung onto the sides of a brick wall ringing the circumference of the hill, then returned to the bed and sat there with his back to me, staring into the ground. As emotions rose, echoing across the valley from minarets and loudspeakers, he lay down and rested his head on a large knot in the tree. Out of the corner of my eye I watched vagrants wandering aimlessly up and down the hill, unperturbed by what was unfolding across the mosques all around us. From time to time I glanced at the old man, but he didn’t seem to notice. Fingers twitching, feet still, he continued to stare into the ground. I hunched my shoulders down and looked ahead, for what I do not know, any movement on my part causing the mattress to creak. And there we stayed for nearly two hours, not saying a word, letting the sermons drift around and over us, deep in our thoughts; waiting.