Urban India

There was something we read about Hyderabad that encouraged us to visit. One of the great Mughal cities on the Deccan plateau. Home to India's largest population of Muslims after Partition. A collection of interesting old Mughal architecture. Well, whatever. These days the story is Hi-Tech. It's now competing with Bangalore to be at the heart of the IT industry here. This roughly translates to the visiting tourist as a large fast-growing city with a burgeoning upper middle class (i.e. relatively wealthy) population. Oh and all the shopping malls and fast food joints and cars that go with it. But we get over our disappointment quickly and spend a few days looking around different areas and enjoying the expresso coffee and ice cream in air-conditioned comfort. We are happy to make the most of it. One night we meet two fellas who'd lived in Britain for a while. They ask us what we think of India and for once we feel we can be totally honest. The street which our hotel is on is used as a toilet constantly, despite the fact that a public toilet (2 rupees) is at one end. The men laugh and say it's funny, in Britain it's okay to kiss in the street but not to piss in the street. But in India it's the other way round.
We also enjoy the chance to see Slumdog Millionaire - the film that has raised so many hackles in the Indian press despite or because of its Oscar nominations. The film might be flawed (the lead character, a slum kid, speaks English) but what drives the critics mad is that the film, with a big international profile, is not particularly nice about India. There has been no discussion or comment about why such conditions still exist here....(The UK's Foreign Secretary, Milliband, also caused everyone to get excited when he asked to see a rural village on a recent visit. He was slated for this "poverty tourism" (the same phrase used to describe Slumdog's depiction of the Bombay slums), but what amazes us is that you can't escape it - it's there everywhere you look, day in and day out. So we assume these critics are blind to it. Milliband might not be the most diplomatic of politicians, but he might have wanted to see for what the UK has given over a billion pounds in aid to India in the last six years. This wasn't remarked upon in the press here.) Ironically, we watch the film in English along with many locals in a pricey multiplex cinema.
Our onward train journey is uneventful until the man opposite us lies down to sleep. He tosses and turns and can't get comfortable and eventually pulls out from under the covers what looks like a pocket hairdryer to me. He puts it under his pillow and goes straight to sleep. Gayle looks a little alarmed and mimes shooting a gun at me. Sure enough, when he awakens, he fits the gun back on his waistband. He is a flour-mill owner. It must be a rough business.Bhopal is a charmless as we expect - but this is okay. We have come to visit the Buddhist stupas of nearby Sanchi. These were the first built by Ashoka, founder of India's first great empire, after his conversion and they sit atop a hill in the countryside. (Ashoka's children later took Buddhism to Sri Lanka.) The largest has great carved portals. Back in Bhopal our bus passes close to the Union Carbide plant that leaked the heavy gas that killed thousands here 25 years ago. The death toll at the time was more than 20,000 and hundreds of thousands have had related illnesses since. It puts 9/11 into perspective. The Indian Government has not pursued the outstanding damages claims, allegedly for fear of putting off foreign investors.
Our third big city on the trot is Gwalior. The noise and pollution is dreadful but the huge fort that overlooks the city is magnificent. We miraculously manage to walk around without getting run-over by the hundreds of vehicles that drive in both directions on both sides of the main road. We meet an old Italian man who has no idea where to go before his flight home from Mumbai in 3 weeks' time. He looks worn out by the city. I think that there are three phases to travelling in India. The first is the excitement at the thought of going to India. The second is the excitement of being here. The third is the excitement at the thought of leaving. I might be with the old man on this one, as I'm already thinking about the mountains of Nepal. This is an ongoing problem with travelling - always looking forward to the next country - but there are still a few more places to see first.

Incredible India

We arrive in Bangalore at midday and are glad that we're leaving at 10 that night - it might be the centre of India's IT revolution (read Infosys and more call centres than we've had hot curries) but it's also a great example of India's rapid urban expansion (read traffic chaos, pollution and more traffic chaos). We take a bus to the botannical gardens, stopping off first for a veggie burger - they like their Westernised ways here. The gardens are a great refuge from the city and there's a flower show on to boot. Eventually we return to the chaos. From the bus we see shopping centres and malls and McDonalds - it's a stereotypical image of the city - and later find ourselves walking amongst building rubble and dug-up roads. Ten o'clock can't come quick enough. As usual, the station is alive with people and there are plenty of trains coming and going.

In the morning we step off in Hubli and have chilli doughnuts for breakfast before catching a state battle bus up to Badami. Our bus conductor is a woman, quite a rare sight, and she sits next to Gayle to chat. At one point she comments on her "lovely white skin". Most Indians are dark-skinned but the TV presenters and Bollywood stars are usually light-skinned. We see TV adverts for skin-lightening creams. Clinics advertise 'skin treatments'. It's a great example of how media and business can create demand through fantasy people, fantasy worlds. Just like home, really.

Badami's a small town with a busy main street and a quiet old town full of old mud houses, built together in blocks. We have come to visit the rock-cut cave temples which sit in a cliff face above a small reservoir, built in the 5th century, along with the temples, when the place was capital of an old kingdom. The reservoir has a dam with ghats (steps) and behind the dam sits the old town. On rocky outcrops there are ruined forts and temples overlooking the place. It's a great place to wander around, besides the aggressive dogs and a few children asking for pens or money. The cave temples are similar to others we have seen, the carving very good in places, and one features naked gods in stark relief, so to speak, which is a novelty. Each day on the ghats the local women are to be seen washing their pots and doing the laundry. The sound of wet clothes being heaved and slapped against the stone steps echoes all around. Their labour is tedious and incessant. None of the old houses have running water.

We find ourselves in a hotel popular with other tourists, some of them here to climb, and there's a peaceful garden restaurant out the back. By the temples we had seen signs warning "Monkey Menace". They hang around in groups, like the unemployed and idle young men of the town, waiting to be fed or foraging amongst rubbish for scraps (that's the monkeys, not the young men, who can be seen engaged in the national past-times of paan-chewing and ball-scratching). Occasionally they'll (monkeys again) appear at the hotel to make a raid. They seem to be tolerated, despite their nuisance, but everyone seems to be wary of them. I get sick here and have to spend the day not further than 5 metres from the toilet. I am confused by the automatic flush on the toilet - until I realise that the sound is coming from me. It's days like these when I rue not checking the room properly before taking it. (It was only after we checked in that we realised there was no sink in the bathroom. A careless omission.... on both sides.) Gayle makes the most of it and spends some time walking around the old streets and meeting people and taking photos of them - something she's very good at.

Finally we move on to Bijapur, just up the road, where there are remains of the old city and a mausoleum or two that have survived from the Mughal era of the 17th century. The town is much bigger and hotter and possibly dustier and not so nice for walking around. However, the Islamic architecture is impressive and the Golgumbaz mausoleum is a huge empty building (bodies in the crypt below, whooohoohoo....) topped by a huge dome. You can climb up to the top and test the acoustics on the 'Whispering Gallery' just like St.Paul's in London. But no-one knows what whispering is in India, so instead you can be deafened by young men howling and squawking like afore-mentioned monkeys, whilst a security guard blows his ear-piercing whistle at full blast for some minor infringement unseen and unknown by anybody but him. The other sights are far more peaceful.

The town has a large Muslim population, judging by the number of chadors and skull-caps we see around, but the old Jammi Masjid (literally Friday Mosque i.e. the main mosque) looks a bit sad. I sit on the outside steps whilst Gayle goes for a look around inside. There's a group of pesky lads who hustle up to us with instructions and directions and orders to leave our shoes at the entrance and we try our best to ignore them. They don't leave us alone. One of them comes up to me shouting gibberish right in my face so I reach up and slap him. He looks surprised, but not as surprised as I am. He shuts up and leaves me alone to worry about what I have just done. How can I tell Gayle? What is happening to me? Gayle reappears with a sheepish look on her face and tells me that she's just had to cuff one of the older boys on the head who was making kissing noises in her ear. We both seem to have lost it. Or have we? We know you're not supposed to leave your sense of humour behind when you walk out the door, and most of the time we manage with the children who appear at our sides asking What is your country? China. What is your name? Wan Pen. One pen please? Yes, that's right, nice to meet you, ad infinitum. If we are asked for money we just say no money and that's it. Invariably the boys are cheekier than the girls. What we don't tolerate is people grabbing us, but usually we just growl a bit. So what has driven us to strike out separately but simultaneously? Maybe the boys were just too pushy. Maybe because we know they would never behave the same to Indian tourists (they ignored the ones that were there). With hope, they'll think twice before doing it again. We will, that's for certain.

It's another night train to Hyderabad. We change trains at a junction called Sholapur and the station is a scene like a refugee crisis - people lying around the platforms and entrance hall with their belongings, villagers carrying their loads on their heads, old folk looking lost and bewildered. Trains come and go frequently. At the unreserved carriages there is an unholy scrum to get aboard first, verging on hysterical. Most windows are barred, except for the emergency exit through which the more nimble climb onto the train to bag a place. Luggage racks are cherished as a place to lie down. We board ours and meet a man who works for an Austrian company. He tells us that they speak Dutch in Vienna. We haven't the heart to correct him. In the morning hawkers pass along the carriages announcing their produce by repeating it endlessly "vadai vadai vadai vadai" "chai chai chai chai" "samosa samosa samosa samosa", not pausing for breath, like kabbadi players. As the train pulls in a man shouts hopefully through the window at us: "Coolie?"

Sometimes we see the Indian Tourist Board's swish adverts on cable TV, beautifully shot, full of wonderful ruins and monuments, colourful people, fantastic landscapes. 'Incredible India' is their tag line. It can be like that sometimes, but there's a lot lot more too it.

Pongal fever

In Trichy we engage in 'hearty discussion' with an unfriendly hotel manager who insists we pay in advance for our room. We hate paying in advance but after looking at our alternatives we give in, only to discover cockroaches scuttling about the room within twenty minutes of arrival. So, after further 'hearty discussion' we finally manage to get a full refund and relocate to a nearby hotel where the cockroaches are far more friendly. The town is relatively quiet - many shops closed for the beginning of the Pongal festival - but there's some life in the bazaar and at the Rock Fort Temple, which unfortunately is not a temple to French cheese, but is a temple that looks like a fort that sits on a rock overlooking the city. From the top we can see boys flying kites from the roofs of the houses below. We also visit another temple, of the kitsch variety, which is overrun with the faithful. It's mildly claustrophobic getting caught in a crowd in India, so we don't hang around too long.

We catch a night train to Mysore in the next state, where Pongal is not a holiday. ( We soon learn that many Tamils have the same idea.) Our comfy three - tier AC 'compartment' is shared with a family and a friend who have been on a Christian pilgrimage from Goa to a church in Tamil Nadu.
We're riding in relative comfort here - judging from the horror stories told by others travelling in non-AC standard sleeper class. For a start, whole families are not sharing one berth. The corridor is not full of sleeping bodies. We chat to the family a bit and then prepare our beds for sleep. Sadly for Gayle, this is disturbed by the father opposite her who is snoring louder than the train's hooter. Instead of sensibly putting a pillow over his face and giving us all some relief, she changes berth.

Mysore is a nice city - it has a fresh climate (it's winter and we're at 700 metres, so the nights are cool) and the streets have pavements you can actually walk down, there are pedestrian crossings, and it's relatively clean. Remarkable. We stay in in a large vaguely art-decoish hotel along with half of Tamil Nadu. Gayle comments on the institutional ambience (I think her actual words were "open prison" ). John correspondingly likes the place because of this. We awake each mornng at 6am to the sounds of guests shouting orders for coffee down the corridor, then shouting across to other families in other rooms (possibly across the central courtyard), then gathering in the corridor to exchange pleasantries and take photos, all on a high decibel range. The noise dissipates a little by 7am by which time we are fully awake and eager to escape. Our leisurely days are spent visiting the regular tourist sights, which includes the site of Tipu Sultan's demise. Tipu was the local head honcho who resisted the British in the 1790's Mysore wars. In the end they got him, and having seen both his summer palace and his mausoleum, we reckon he's lying in a nicer place these days.

One day we strike out to see a temple built in a particular architectural style (Hoysala - if you're interested) at Somnathpur. The temple is small but in very good nick and covered in very fine carving. To reach it, we have a long wait to change buses in a small village. When the connecting bus finally arrives it is teeming. Men are hanging out of the open doors. At first it looks like everyone is getting off (hooray), but then a huge mass of people we haven't seen before suddenly pile on in front of us (boo). In the end we climb the ladders to the roof with a dozen others and enjoy a scenic ride though the countryside - everywhere busy with the end of harvest, stacking and transporting freshly cut grain, threshing by hand, or that other ancient technique, by spreading it out across the road for the passing traffic to do the work. We raise a few smiles along the way when locals sitting by the road notice us on the roof. It's worth it - the temple is very special and the journey is all part of the fun.

Wave goodbye, say hello

The plane takes off from Colombo's airport full of Tamil pilgrims - men in black shirts and lunghis, all barefoot. To one side of the plane is an immense stretch of trees and to the other the ocean. We wave goodbye to Sri Lanka, which we have renamed the 'Island of 10%' - as a result of a tendency to overcharge. We are eager to return to India and looking forward to that little extra edge the country has to offer. Arriving at Chennai International Airport the baggage reclaim is swamped by tons of luggage from a flight from Jeddah. A crowd of Muslim families struggle with overloaded trolleys - returning from the Haj. We emerge outside to face a crush barrier holding back a huge crowd of people waiting to greet travellers - it's noisy and sweaty and we have to elbow through the crowd. Eventually we find out where the bus to the bus station goes from - a half-kilometre walk down the side of a flyover immediately outside the airport. There's no pavement to walk on, only dirt and rubbish and an open drain at the side of the road. The familiar blend of sulphurous and ammonia smells reach our noses. We walk past a man urinating. A small crowd indicates a bus stop and we hop on a clunking Tata bus with glass-less windows heading into the city. Ahh, this must be the 'edge' we were looking forward to.

We head first to Mahabalipuram - a 'must-see' on the tour of the south because of its UNESCO-listed rock-cut temples famous for their carving. The small town is quite touristy as a result. Gayle visited here about 20 years ago and it's not quite how she remembers it. The collection of temples are impressive - they're dotted around the town and include a life-size elephant and a fantastic frieze carved onto a large rockface complete with what looks like a dancing chorus on each flank. One temple sits on the shoreline, its fine carving now weathered and worn by wind and sea. It's the start of Pongal holidays in Tamil Nadu, to celebrate harvest time, and the town is full of people come to see the sights. We come across a kolam competition - the traditional Pongal decoration in front of the doorstep - with colourful designs laid out on the ground.

There's a certain je ne sais quoi about Pondicherry, just down the coast. Maybe it's the leafy tidy quiet streets along the seafront, the colonial architecture, or just the croissants and coffee in the bakery. For the town used to be, like my home town Poulton-le-Fylde, a French conclave despite some belligerent attempts by the British to oust them. Judging from what we see the French brought with them lycees, boutiques, silly hats for the police to wear (the British ones never caught on in the rest of India), and very clean streets. It takes us some time to find a hotel - places are either full or being refurbished. We try the 'Hotel de Ville', but are turned away unceremoniously by some officious angry little man . The rickshaw drivers here honk the kind of horn that a circus clown uses - highly appropiate in our opinion. There is a famous ashram here founded 80 years ago by a guru called Aurobindo and continued by a Frenchwoman after his death known simply as the Mother. Outside of town is a large community called Auroville for those who like to blend a little new age science with yoghurt, or yoga. I can't quite grasp the gist of it myself.......

a room for any price?

We board a mobile disco masquerading as a public bus, booming with Bollywood hits, and dance all the way to Thanjavur. Here we visit the 'Big Temple', which is rather, erm, large. Many temples in the south of India feature the full gamut of Hindu gods and goddesses, all perched on ledges, in a variety of poses and facial expressions and painted in bright colours. The effect is very kitsch. The Big Temple is a more sober affair - and all the buildings and carvings are done in sandstone. We wander around in the evening light and join the pilgrims inside the shrines. The priests are hard at work for Pongal - and the large tea urns that turn out to be receptacles for donations feature predominantly.

Same old stories

We're back in Kandy to apply for a 4-month visa to India. This is a bit tricky because the standard issue is only 3 months. One of the consul officials, after a personal interview with us in best bib and tucker, and some dishonest explanations about meeting John's sister in April in Kolkata (we said it was her first time in India and she's young - whereas she's older than John and it'll be her her 3rd or 4th time), agrees to grant us a 4-month single-entry visa. This is no good to us, because we want to visit Nepal before we meet Ruth. So we go for a 2-month visa knowing that we'll have to reapply in Nepal. Ahh, visas, we just love 'em.

Whilst we wait for the Indian bureaucracy to crank some gears and pull a few levers, we head northwards into Sri Lanka's 'Cultural Triangle'. This region is home to some UNESCO-listed sites - ancient cities and monasteries recovered from the forests. They are expensive to visit, but as one wag put it to us, "they won't be any cheaper tomorrow". This turns out to be entirely true as the rates go up on the 1st of January. We begin in Anuradhapura, where the ruins are spread out over a large site. We hire bikes to get around the various huge dagobas (stupas), and water tanks and brick foundations of the old kingdom that lasted over 1000 years until the 11th century. Buddhism came to Sri Lanka during its growth. Pride of place, and heavily guarded, is the sacred bodhi tree - grown from a cutting of the original tree in India under which the Buddha reached enlightenment (Om!) - and outliving the original. This is understandably a place of holy pilgrimage for Buddhists. So it seems odd that the army are running a transit camp right next to it, to transport soldiers to the northeast. Then again, the Buddhist monks have played a leading role in Sinhalese nationalism, so perhaps it is very appropiate. Attacks from South Indians led to the collapse of this ancient kingdom and a new one setting up at Pollonaruwa where we also hire bikes to visit the ruins. The highlight here are three large Buddha statues carved out of the same rock in various poses - the standard ones of sitting, standing and lying down looking very happy with himself. Other buildings poke up above the treeline, most of them in a sorry state, but cycling around you get the sense of a great and wealthy city. It reminds us of other great jungle ruins we have seen in Mexico, Peru and Cambodia - although it's fair to say there's not much left here. This kingdom also succumbed to South Indian invaders. I get the feeling that these sites might represent a little more to the nationalists than just their cultural heritage.

Our final stop is at Sigiriya, a wonderful monastery complex built around and into a large rock standing huge and square, high above the surrounding landscape. It's the most visited site, and involves a steep ascent of stairs, with a passing view of some surviving frescoes, before emerging onto the flat top with great views all around. We watch the sun set and then descend old iron staircases in the twilight, trying to avoid getting lost in the gardens below. We eat rice and curry in a basic little cafe and catch the news on the television. There's an extended report by a journalist flown into Kilinochchi - the LTTE (Tamil Tigers') administrative centre just taken by the army. There's footage of a senior officer arriving to shake hands with lots of soldiers and salute the flag being raised over what looks like a deserted town. Stirring music is played to archive shots of soldiers firing mortar rounds and shooting into trees, of helicopter gunships firing rockets, of battle-weary bearded troops swaggering down roads armed to the teeth. This is followed by interviews with a couple of soldiers describing the fighting. We obviously don't understand a word of it, but there seems to be no description of the effects of the fighting on the populace - where are they? We do know that there is no independent reporting of the fighting - the government has enforced tight censorship, and there is a history of journalists 'disappearing'. A few locals have appeared to watch the news - this looks like a major development. We read later that a general is quoted as saying that there can be no military solution to this dispute, that a political solution is required. It looks like a brutal way to go about it and there are fears that the LTTE will revert to suicide bombings and other guerilla tactics. All gloomy stuff for the New Year.........

We head back to Kandy one more time to collect our Indian visas - without a hitch. The town is decked out in flags and we're told we've missed a parade to the Temple of the Holy Tooth Relic to celebrate the latest army victory. We ask a man about it and he shrugs "The government asked that every building flies the flag today. The police and government workers came along at 8.30 with flags." He sounds like he's not that impressed. "The war will not end it. We need them involved in our government, like the Tigers in the East. Everyone here is tired of fighting and killing." He does sound tired of it.

Lashings of ginger beer

There's something about Sri Lanka that makes us think of a Caribbean island, even though neither of us have ever been to one. It might be the delicious fiery ginger beer we're drinking. The lazy way to describe the country and the people is to say it's like India but with less people. This isn't true and anyway, there isn't anywhere quite like India. The landscape is green and forested and varies with altitude, yet we have only seen a relatively small area. There has been no sign of extreme poverty or squalid slums but people do sometimes beg. The only urgency we have seen is on the buses or trains when a seat becomes vacant. Otherwise there's a fairly laid back feel and people seem to be accustomed to things that we struggle with. Public transport is the test for us. The roads are good but the transport system is crowded and overloaded. Buses fill up with standing passengers for long hot rides and the drivers drive fast and recklessly on straight roads. Actually, they drive fast and recklessly on the winding roads too. Happily there aren't many long rides for us.

It seems only the older folk wear the traditional clothes of sarees for the women and lunghis for the men. Youngsters go for the jeans and t-shirts and long skirts for a modern conservative look. (Lots of t-shirt slogans, such as "Don't walk on the grass - smoke it" or just nonsense in English.) Everyone carries an umbrella - handy for occasional rain and useful as a parasol around midday. In Kandy we also saw them used at night time as people walked under trees full of crows and fruit bats - judging by the excrement on the pavements, rather wise. Sinhalese, like Hungarian, appears to use an inordinate number of syllables and everyone speaks fast - sometimes overhearing a conversation is like listening to horse racing commentary.

Invariably everyone is helpful and friendly to us, and on the coast it is sometimes easy to forget there is a full-scale military battle going on in the north of the country. In Haputale there were many soldiers around, possibly because of a visit by the President to a nearby airbase. On longer bus journeys we have passed through checkpoints where most people have got off the bus to have id checked and bags searched. (We're not sure why not everyone gets off - and the searches seem a bit cursory and futile. We were once searched entering a bus station and again on the bus before leaving, but 200 metres down the road picking up more passengers anyway....)

We've come to the south coast for Christmas to visit one of the quiet beaches just a little beyond the developed coastline closer to Colombo. We find a great little guesthouse in Mirissa run by a friendly couple who obviously think we are underweight judging by the breakfasts they serve. Tellingly, we are their first guests since October - everyone says that this year is bad for business. On the beach there are a few quiet restaurants and hotels and not many people to enjoy the clean sands and big surf that comes crashing in. Gayle is immediately in the water, beyond the big waves, paddling around. The water's as warm as a bathtub. This is our second Christmas away from home and it still feels like funny weather to be having. We meet up with others on their Christmas hols, and celebrate Christmas with beers and fish curries on the beach.

On Boxing Day morning there is a minute's silence in remembrance of the tsunami victims. In the evening candle lanterns are lit on the beach. The following day we visit Galle, which has an old Dutch fort. There are school holidays here and lots of locals on holiday. At the fort gates the armed forces have put on a display of weaponry as part of a recruitment drive - with all the fun of the fair. Inside the fort is quiet, but people promenade along the walls, and young men offer to jump off one of the bastions into the sea below.......for a price, of course. Gayle looks over the wall. "That doesn't look hard." "For three hundred rupees, I'll jump" says a long-haired youth in long shorts that are hanging off his hips. "You're joking - I wouldn't give you that!", she laughs. "Have you come from India?" he asks. "Yes. Why?" "No-one who comes from India gives us any money" he says ruefully.

We've been enjoying the fruit here, especially the bananas. There's lots of varieties including pink ones, but our favourite has been the little fat flavoursome ones that the EU has probably banned in Europe. Perhaps this could be our lazy way of describing the country - a banana republic.

Island of Jewels

For some reason, we seem to become very happy on finding a supermarket in Kandy - obviously something has been wrong. After a couple of days in Sri Lanka we have yet to find any good affordable food - and John, as Gayle knows only too well, travels on his stomach. It is fair to describe Sri Lankan cuisine as a kind of fusion - nuclear fusion - brought about by the obligatory combination of green and red chillies. There is no flavour to rice and curry here - just an explosion in your mouth, followed by watery eyes, snotty nose and hiccups. Eating has become a full-bodied experience - relived several hours later upon moving one's bowels. So what do we buy in the supermarket, you may (or may not) wonder? Lemon Puffs. Fortunately normal service is resumed when we work out what the locals do - snack in some very English-looking bakeries (everything savoury is deep-fried in breadcrumbs and everything sweet is a bit dry and dull) and get take-away lunch 'packets' - a pile of rice, dal and fiery curry wrapped up in plastic and newspaper.


Kandy is described in the guidebook as the "spiritual centre" of Sri Lanka - but I suspect this really may be only true for the Sinhalese majority , who are Buddhists. For in the middle of Kandy, beside a lake, stands the Temple of the Holy Tooth Relic. An orthodontist cult? No, this refers to one of the Buddha's molars, wrapped up in cotton wool and a golden casket and enshrined for the faithful to visit. And they do. But it's three quid a pop for foreign tourists, so we pass on the opportunity. Instead we visit the nearby botannical gardens and take a walk through the nearby countryside, visiting a couple of temples. The Tamils are Hindu, and Sri Lanka also has Muslim and Christian minorities, but the ongoing troubles here are not specifically to do with religion. In the 1950's, in an attempt to break the hold on power by an English-speaking elite, the newly-elected Sinhalese government introduced a 'Sinhala-only' language policy. This chauvinism directly affected the Tamils too, who felt that as a large minority they were being penalised. Now, after a prolonged period of armed struggle, terrorism, ceasefires, failed deals, and Indian intervention the current government have embarked on a new campaign to destroy the LTTE (Tamil Tigers). The army is now fighting to regain territory in the north of the country and the civilians are being caught up between the two forces. We were shocked and surprised to be told that at one temple they were holding a ceremony to pray for the army's success, but then the Buddhist monks here have always been at the forefront of Sinhalese nationalism. At the same time everyone complains about the President and the corruption that enables his family to have hold of many businesses. These are, sadly, echoes of other countries we have passed through.
We journey into the hills to climb one of the higher peaks called Sri Pada or Adam's Peak. This is a pilgrimage site, and there is a very long flight of stairs to the top where a 'footprint' in a rock indicates where Buddha stepped off on his way to Paradise, or where Adam first set foot on leaving Eden, or possibly even Shiva stood here - something for almost everyone then. We set off in the early hours of the morning to arrive at the top for sunrise - an optimistic strategy bearing in mind the weather has been decidely cloudy and rainy in our first week here. We climb with some other tourists and meet ex-pat Sri Lankans and other nationals on their slow way up. Sure enough there's even a shower as we get close to the windy top, but it soon passes and we join more pilgrims who have overnighted at the top. There is a large silver foot beside the temple on the rocky peak - but it's not clear whether it's coming or going, so no clues as to whose it is. The expected sunrise is blocked by clouds but the views are still wonderful. Don't look over the edge - the mountainside is thick with litter.
We amble down for breakfast and head off to Haputale - a small Tamil village in the middle of tea estates just a bit further down the railway line. The trains are delayed though and we wait a long time before we finally set off. The British built the railways and it looks like the trains date from pre-Independence days. Unfortunately there are too many passengers - it's the holiday season here - and we have to stand. A reflection of the times - the Railway Protection Force work their way along checking id and bags. Above a doorway is the picture of a hand grenade and a warning in Sinhalese. We are extremely grateful when someone gives up their seats for us. Despite all the problems, the people here are invariably kind and helpful (rickshaw drivers excluded of course). We have been warned to take care of our bags in Haputale - a typical attitude towards the Tamil people - and completely unwarranted. We arrive in the dark in a squally shower and as we trudge along back country lanes to find our guesthouse we begin to think we have stepped onto the moors at home.

Our days in Haputale are spent recovering from our climb by taking more gentle walks around the countryside. As far as the eye can see there are tea plantations - these are perfect conditions for growing - steep slopes and warm humid weather. The Tamils in these parts were brought here by the British from south India to work the land, and it's tough work. Only women pick the leaves - carrying their harvest in a sack hung on their back from a band around their forehead. The plants are low and sit row upon row on very sharp inclines. The men carry out other jobs around the estates, and everyone lives on site - in small clusters of houses, with rusty corrugated roofs and what looks like fairly basic facilities. However, we see none of the extreme rural poverty that we've seen in India. There are schools and dispensaries dotted around. Everyone smiles and greets us as we wander around one of the estates, originally owned by Sir Thomas Lipton, but since the 1950's in Sri Lankan hands. The estate is enormous and spreads over the hills - it is an impressive sight, and the tea shines luminescently in the sun. From up here we can look out over the low southern plains disappearing in the haze.

The Arab traders who came here for precious gems called this island Serendib - literally lsland of Jewels - but I'm buggered if I can concoct some witty and appropiate sign off using the word serendipity. The heat has gone to my head...........