Healing Power of Broccoli

Broccoli Scientists have known for some time that broccoli contains many healing compounds, including glucoraphanin, which protect our cells by stimulating a whole array of detoxifying enzymes. They are also anti-inflammatory, antibacterial and anti-fungal. Recent research has demonstrated that young broccoli sprouts (at day 3) contain the most glucoraphanin, (20-50 times more than mature plants,) which are very beneficial. So, if one of your broccoli plants goes to seed, collect the seed, dry it out and add it to the list of seeds you sprout: mung beans, alfalfa and so on.

The Healing power of Celery

The ancient Greeks dedicated celery to Hades, the god of the underworld. They ate it at funerlla meals, strewed it on graves and made it into wreaths for the dead. The British Pharmacopaea records that celery seed is anti-rheumatic, sedative and an urinary antiseptic. It is reccomended for rheumatism, arthritis, gout and inflammation of the urinary tract.

Angela surrounded by Devon moss

This year I had plans to escape the English winter, well-laid, careful, detailed plans, which included flying to Tenerife, catching a boat to the beautiful, green Canary island, La Palma, travelling by bus across the steep hilly island and meeting my friend, Frohmut, who would take me to one of her caves, where I would dwell as a troglodyte, far from the British permagrey skies, tilling her stony soil, weeding her veg patch and pruning her tangerine trees, spending the evenings by a nice fire in her cave, catching up on all the years since we last spent time in this place.

But it was not to be. Spain's decision to ban all Brits scuppered my plans.

So instead I am admiring the beautiful green moss in Devon. 

Healing plants this time of the year are few and far between, but I will go and look for some tomorrow.

 

Journey from Delhi to Goa

I caught the Rajdhani from Delhi to Goa, the best, fastest train, the train that takes precedence over other trains, so never gets late. Imagine my surprise when three prisoners appeared, chained together by their ankles, together with a couple of minders who were looking for seats for the prisoners. I remonstrated loudly:
"I'm not sharing a compartment with them!"
The minders took them away.
Strange, I thought, taking prisoners on the Rajdhani, in an air conditioned carriage!
Later one of the minders came back to my compartment, lay down on the top bunk opposite mine and went to sleep. When he woke up and climbed down he looked at me and began to speak, with difficulty, in English. He was a nice looking, slim young man with a pleasant face, dressed casually in jeans and shirt and he said:
"Those prisoners you saw not in this carriage. In next carriage."
"Are they sharing a compartment with other passengers?" I asked.
"Yes. All three on a top bunk together. Other passengers sitting below and talking to them. One is murderer. Two are diamond thieves. I police officer, taking them to Surat."
"I've never been to Surat. What is at Surat?"
"Rough diamonds. Diamonds cut in Mumbai. Rough diamonds in Surat."
"Where do they come from?"
"Africa."
"So there's a lot of crime in Surat."
"Yes a lot of crime. Big gang stole many diamonds. We catch nine. Police tracking other men in Lucknow, tracking phones. Very dangerous men."
"You live in Surat with your family?"
"No family live in Buj. Buj nice place. I see family once every two weeks. I must stay in Surat six months."
He looked at me wistfully.
"Very lonely Surat. And much tension."

Journey from Murshidabad to Kolkata

Murshidabad is in Bengal, home of music, film, poetry and art. Even on the station platform, as I waited for a local train, we were entertained by a blind musician playing a harmonium and singing traditional Bengali songs. Waiting passengers gathered round, some sitting, some standing, listening with rapt attention as his voice soared above the call of the vendors, station announcements and general traffic. Local trains don't run to specific timetables like the express trains. People hang about, buy cups of chai, unripe guavas, samosas, sit on their luggage or on the platform until suddenly everyone leaps up, ready to rush the doors when the train arrives.

Somehow I managed to squeeze in but not to sit. Luckily at every station people get off and people get on, so I soon found a space on a very hard seat beside a woman who was shaking a baby to try to stop it from crying, unsuccessfully. Vendors of every food imaginable somehow managed to squeeze through the crowded compartment, plus sellers of household goods: clothes pegs, toys, tablecloths, rucksacks, drinks, sticky looking chana (chickpeas) that looked like it was going to be spilled over me but somehow managed not to, blind musicians, assorted beggars, loud clapping Hijras, dressed in brilliant red saris, who go up to the men and demand money aggressively; all of whom get out of the compartment at the next station and a fresh lot of vendors, beggars, musicians etc get in and struggle through.

I could hardly hear him crying above the calls of the vendors, beggars, musicians, but noticed that the baby's mother and grandmother were taking it in turns to shake the baby, who continued to cry pitifully, his sweat-streaked hair clinging to his forehead as he writhed in their arms. At the next station they took the wailing infant off the train. On the other side of me were a young couple who'd been married a year, didn't speak a word of English but smiled sweetly and indicated that they wanted to look at my photos. So we looked at photos on my mobile phone. He indicated that his mobile was out of battery. I found a lead and plugged it into my power bank.

At the next station a vendor of dubious looking herbal remedies got on and stood like an orator giving a speech about his wonderful products. A man spent a few rupees on one of his remedies. After about three hours the train stopped, people left their handkerchiefs to mark their seats and got off to buy the better station food, as opposed to the food they'd been eating from the vendors on the train. Presumably there was a toilet somewhere and this was an opportunity to use it since there were no toilets on the train. But I had no idea where to look and anyway was afraid of not finding my way back to my seat and my luggage, so didn't dare venture far. I decided not to drink so that I would last the six hour journey.

When the train started again a very feisty Hijra came into our compartment, clapping loudly as usual, going up to the young men, pushing them roughly, probably taunting them (of course I couldn't understand her Bengali) and demanding money. She came right up to me and looked me in the eyes, tossed her head and held out her hand. My neighbour indicated that I'd better give her some money, so I handed over another ten rupee note. I'd been handing out ten rupee notes, of which I had a huge pile, throughout the journey. A curd (yogurt) seller got on at the next station, with two buckets filled with miniature clay pots of curd. A pan seller arrived, with a marvellous array of different coloured powders, then a man selling pins, toothpicks and combs, who hung his wares from the roof, rattled off his spiel, then unhitched his wares, moved on and hung them up again.

Eventually the vendors began to thin out, a general somnolence began to take over, as all who were fortunate enough to have a seat began dozing off, on each other's shoulders. By now enough people were sitting for me to see out of the window, where the growing rice was clothing the countryside in brilliant green, between fruit trees, banana plantations, saal forests and villages with little houses.

A group of young women went through the carriage singing a Bollywood song at the tops of their voices. A fake gold chain seller held forth loudly, competing with the singers in his attempts to persuade someone to buy one of his chains.

Just as we were leaving DumDum station, someone said that there was a metro station there. Too late for me to get out of the train, I continued on to Sealdah, where a kind man said to me,
"Get off here, cross over to that train there. It's going back to DumDum. Stand by the door and make sure you get off there!"

And so I was able to get the metro all the way into central Kolkata from DumDum station.

Itkhori

The Hindu priest is telling visitors that this is an ancient lingam, but clearly it is Buddhist

According to Sir Edwin Arnold, in 'The Light of Asia,' Buddha came to Itkhori before his long walk to Bodhgaya where he was enlightened, and according to local legend, it was here at Itkhori that his aunt Prajapati Gautami lost him and screamed "iti koi" (iti = here koi = lost). Hence the derivation of the name Itkhori.

During the Gupta Period a ruler built a large Buddhist temple here. Later the temple became a Hindu temple and at some point it may even have become a Jain temple. But unlike many such temples in Cambodia, Laos and Thailand, which have remained as testimony to their changing religious affiliations, with a mixture of Buddhist and Hindu iconography, this temple was destroyed. Few people knew about it until sometime in the twentieth century, when farmers began to unearth stone sculptures with their ploughs and this came to the attention of Bulu Imam and his sons, who persuaded the villagers to keep the sculptures in a safe place.

Gradually over time a large quantity of stone sculptures and pieces of the architecture of the temple came to light and were stored in an old school. Eventually money was found for a makeshift 'museum' for them. The museum is kept locked but we were taken there by a caretaker who unlocked the doors, switched on the lights and ushered us in to a dusty room where Hindu, Jain and Buddhist sculptures and pieces of the old temple were stacked on top of each other in untidy rows with an occasional label in Hindi.

An application was made for Unesco status and funding was allocated, then suddenly the whole site was covered with concrete, obliterating the rest of the remnants of the ancient temple and a huge Hindu temple was built on the site. Had the site been carefully preserved it is possible that sufficient pieces of the old temple could have been unearthed to re-construct it, more or less as it originally was, as they did in Bodhgaya. But now it is too late. Sad remnants of the ancient temple still line the outer perimeters of the new temples.  And Hindu worshippers worship a Buddhist Tara statue, mistaking her for Kali, in one of the Hindu temples.

The chief Minister has announced that he will build an enormous new Buddhist temple at Itkhori, which will go some way towards recognising it as a Buddhist site, but the temple will not include any of the old stone architecture. Large colour pictures of the projected Buddhist temple are displayed high up on the walls of the 'museum' at Itkhori. The Unesco application still awaits.

There are several villages around Itkhori where Buddhist sculptures have come to light. We visited Daihar village, a village of fifty two lanes and fifty two wells. Old Buddhist, Jain and Hindu statues have been pulled out of some of the wells, the better preserved pieces taken to Ranchi, the broken pieces piled in heaps in the lanes, where the villagers revere them with marks of vermillion, wrapping the odd piece in red cloth, as a mark of respect. As I stared down into the depths of one of the wells, too deep to see the water at the bottom, I marvelled at how, hundreds of years ago, these villagers could have dug and built the walls of such deep wells.

Over the years many ruins of the Buddhist monuments and statues have come to light in different parts of the state of Jharkhand. According to T. Bloch, several Buddhist remains were found five and seven kilometres from Dalmi and Budhpur in Dhanbad district, dating to the tenth century AD, according to Beglar. In 1918 FM Holo found Buddhist sculptures at Suraj Kund village in the Hazaribagh district near some hot springs. At Belwadag village, three km east of Khunti in Ranchi, an excavation has revealed a Buddhist Vihar, constructed of bricks similar to those used to build the Buddhist stupa at Sanchi.  Buddhist statues have been discovered in places like Jonha of Ranchi district, Katunga village of Gumla district, Bhula village of Jamshedpur (East Singhbhum) and Ichagarh in Dhanbad district.

At Mangarh a brick work Buddhist Stupa, twenty feet by twenty feet has recently come to light. At Tultul, near a waterfall, Koleshwari temple is Buddhist, Jain and Hindu. Some of these statues and parts of monuments have been taken to the post-graduate department of history of Ranchi University, but they are not well cared for. In the current climate of Hindutva, little importance is given to Buddhist archeological remains in India.

The UNESCO application for recognition of Itkhori as an important Buddhist site still awaits a response. Hopefully if it is recognised, attention can be drawn to the importance of Jharkhand as a major Buddhist destination. If money is provided for excavation and a proper museum, many more Buddhist sites will probably come to light.

the World of Rock Art Exhibition

I went to see the World of Rock Art Exhibition at the Vinoba Bhave University, Hazaribagh, Jharkhand this morning. There was a disappointing lack of information regarding the photos: rock art of India on the ground floor and a whistle stop tour of world rock art upstairs. None of the rock art was dated, photos of thousands of years old paintings sandwiched between obviously much more recent art with absolutely no explanation. There was no information regarding the geographical siting of the rock art either, merely vague indications about district where they could be found. 

Almost all the photos were over-saturated, leading to garish colour distortion. Overall it was a disappointing experience, though the map of India indicating the major rock art sites, was possibly the most inspiring thing in the whole exhibition, showing rock art sites in almost every state in India. Rock art in India varies from petroglyphs in the hills of South Goa:

Petroglyph at La Zarza in South Goa (my photo)

and paintings of animals in Bimbetka and Rajastan to pictographs in the Hazaribagh region of Jharkhand:

Pictographs at Isco, Hazaribagh, Jharkhand (my photo)

The exhibition included iconic images from the caves of Central France

The exhibition was culled from a much bigger and more detailed exhibition on Rock Art organised during the International Rock Art Conference at the Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts (IGNCA) New Delhi form 6 December 2012 - 25 January 2013. I wonder whether the original exhibition was more informative than this, an exhibition designed to entertain, rather than inform. 

Sunderbans

Our boat, the Mangrove Matal

We travelled to the Sundarbans with backpackers, 4 Tottie Lane, Sudder Street, Kolkata. 
Our departure was delayed by the New Zealand bloke forgetting to bring his passport, which entailed a long diversion to his hotel to collect it. As we drove through the city we passed numerous people washing clothes, dishes, themselves by the side of the road where the city taps are opened twice a day for the use of the homeless and all those who do not have running water. Men strip off down to their underpants and scrub themselves enthusiastically right beside the road, as the heavy traffic thunders by. I never did discover how the homeless women manage to wash adequately. We were driving through a part of Calcutta with tree lined streets, the trees leaning over the road to touch in the middle, creating a dappled green canopy. We entered a market, selling garish bright coloured clothes and ground to a halt amidst hordes of people, queues of buses hooting deafeningly, out of frustration, since no amount of hooting made any difference to the traffic jam. It took an hour and a half to get out of Kolkata, into a lush, green area of smelly canals, banana trees, maize, vegetables, trees, coconut palms, villages, lakes and a gigantic rubbish dump. Then we passed a series of fish farm lakes on one side and a whole area given over to brick kilns, belching out evil looking smoke on the other.

After three hours we reached our boat, the Mangrove Matal. We stopped at the first island to buy beer at the request of the New Zealand bloke, who, it seems cannot function without the stuff, but the beer shop was shut, so we continued past rows of pleasure boats anchored and waiting for tourists, but the main tourist season was over. All manner of small cargo ships ply this waterway between Kolkata and Bangladesh.

Originally all the branches of the Ganga and the Bramaputra between them emptied their sweet water into the Bay of Bengal giving rise to hundreds of mangrove islands which thrived on the sweet/salt mixture of water. The area was called by the locals Sundar, meaning beautiful and bans, meaning forest: hence Sundarbans. In the sixteenth century the British East India Company, wanting to create a trading base in this watery swamp, constructed Fort William on one of the islands, then, afraid of being attacked by the Marathis, they began building walls and dikes round the island, eventually blocking off all the outlets of the Ganga except the Hoogli, thus depriving a large part of the Sunderbans of its sweet water source. Fort William was later to become the centre of the new town called Calcutta. The tide continued to flow in and out of the area, so the environment changed to a salt water one, the trees adapted by reducing their size and the animals adapted to drinking salt water when they couldn't find any fresh water. The animals managed to survive long enough to breed but they lived, and live, short lives, eventually suffering multiple organ failure, all except the aquatic ones, such as the crocodiles, which thrived.

Churchill, who hated all Indians with a passion, drew a line through Bengal, determining where the state would be partitioned, thus separating the jute growing area from the jute processing area and so ruining the jute industry at a stroke. Churchill's line cut right through the Sundarbans, granting two thirds of the mangrove islands to East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) and one third, the salt water third, to India. There are 102 islands on the Indian side, some of which are inhabited, many of which, on the other hand, form an uninhabited wildlife reserve. The Bengal tiger lives in the wildlife reserve, venturing into the inhabited areas occasionally to steal the odd goat or chicken. But should the islanders venture into the uninhabited areas, which they do during the honey collecting season, they run the risk of tiger attack and indeed tigers kill about sixty men a year.

The banks of the Sunderbans, showing severe erosion

I'm sorry that the pictures of the Sundarbans are so uninspiring but our boat kept to the wider channels, well away from any potential attacking tiger, so all we could do was listen to our guide telling us the names (including Latin binomial) of the different species of mangrove, as we went past them: there are 84 different species of mangrove in the Sundarbans and none of them look like the mangroves I have seen in other parts of the world, such as Florida or Vietnam. They do not send down rooting branches but rather drop their seeds into the salty water to send up shoots and grow into fresh trees. But they send up 'breathing roots' which stick out of the mud at low tide in a multitude of different styles, some thick and fierce looking like dinosaur teeth, some thin and fine like hair, some forming stilts leaning round trees like many legged giant spiders. 

The biggest salt water crocodiles live in the Sundarbans, king of the predators, capable of catching a tiger as it swims from island to island. The crocodiles are well hidden below the turbid water and extremely fast moving. Our skipper spotted a crocodile basking on a bank and steered the boat right up close to it so everyone could take photos. There was something primeval about such a massive beast ending in such a huge scaly tail, moving its head from side to side as it surveyed the boat. Then it waddled forwards, jaws pointing towards the water, slid into the water and disappeared. 

On the first day we landed on the island with the eco village, were shown to our rooms then treated to a sumptuous lunch of fish, vegetables and rice.

Eco village

After lunch boatmen poled us in little boats into one of the narrow channels of the mangrove forest, where the trees lean in low over the water and the sun glistens on the muddy banks between the trees. Unfortunately one of the villages across the water from us was celebrating a wedding with bad Bollywood music bellowing forth from massive loud speakers, which drowned out the sound of any birds or animals we might have heard. 

But our guide had other ideas anyway, inviting everyone to step out of the boat into the mud, then started throwing mud. I stayed in the boat, as the boatman backed down the channel, away from the mud fight. This was not what I came for, to watch grown men, including a middle aged New Zealander, behaving like small children, as though they were not interested in the environment they found themselves in. I would have liked to have spent far longer quietly exploring the narrow channels of the mangroves, which were mysterious, cool and leafy.

Bauls singing and playing

In the evening we were treated to a Baul concert. The Bauls were originally Hindus who rejected the rules and strictures of their religion, forming a sect which expressed its philosophy through music. They grow their hair and beards long, sometimes coiling dreadlocks on the tops of their heads, wear necklaces (malas) of basil stem beads. Since they have renounced the world and the pursuit of money their musical instruments are simple, such as the ektara (a single stringed wooden instrument), wooden flutes and drums. They live on whatever the villagers give them, sleeping wherever they can, as they travel from village to village. The owners of the eco village host the Bauls because they love their music, providing them with transport to and from the island. 

Talking to one of the owners of the eco village about Shantiniketan, he introduced me to Souvik, a young man who lives in Shantiniketan and would be travelling there soon. We arranged to meet in two days time to travel together.

Next day we left the island at 6 am gliding through the smooth waters in the early morning mist. It was low tide as we left and the mud banks rose beside us, showing clear signs of erosion. In places the islanders have been planting mangroves in a desperate attempt to halt the erosion. Sadly the rate of erosion is increasing and in 60 years they would be gone, our guide told us, as would all the predators.

We stopped at an island with a marketplace to pick up 2 cooks and a load of food. The two cooks descended into the bowels of the boat and clattered about, shouting merrily to each other all morning. By now the sun was glittering on the water as our guide told us that the Sundarbans contain forty types of mammals, fifty six types of reptiles, including the strange monitor lizard, four types of turtles and two hundred and fifty types of fish, including sharks, sting rays, sword fish and even a unique fish that wriggles around on the mud at low tide.  

We came to an area where the mangrove palms grow, trees without trunks, giant feathery fronds sprouting straight out of the mud in dense thickets. The guide told us that the forest department had tried various ways to carry out a tiger census, such as putting radio collars on the tigers, which cease to function after a few months since the tigers swim in the salt water; placing 300 cameras around the Sunderbans, not nearly enough for such a vast area and lastly using drones.  

The two cooks produced another sumptuous meal at lunchtime, after which a general somnolence took over, many passengers on the shady side of the boat falling asleep on the narrow benches, until we turned a corner and the sunny and shady sides of the boat changed sides. 

Hazaribagh

Painted mud house in tribal village near Hazaribagh

I've just spent two intense days at Sanskriti https://buluimam.wixsite.com/sanskritimuseum 

staying with Bulu Imam and his family, visiting painted houses in tribal villages, meeting the villagers, very lovely people who welcome visitors, inviting them into their houses, proudly showing off their painted walls, inside and out. These people's carbon footprint is zero. Their villages are clean, without a scrap of rubbish. In some villages they have enough land to grow vegetables and build nice big mud houses with plenty of storage space. In some villages they have very little land and the government policy of introducing concrete houses is eroding their way of life. 

10,000 BCE cave paintings 

On the second day we visited caves covered with geometrical paintings that have been dated to 10,000 BCE. Bulu has spent days camped out in these caves, copying the paintings in pen and ink into a book which he has printed one copy of. 

He told me about a a wonderfully proud, strong, healthy nomadic community called the Birhors, who lived in houses made from leaves, who hunted, trapped and gathered. Bulu went hunting with them when he was young and recorded everything about them, the plants that they used as medicine, their hunting and trapping methods, their habits, beliefs and customs. They claim that their ancestors painted the rock art in the caves near Hazaribagh and it is indeed identical to the rock art of the oldest layers in Hazaribagh. Their art is not pretty but simple, strong and authentic, the art of one of the world's First Peoples. It is different from that of the other tribes, because it tells stories and depicts series of events related to their survival in the scrub jungle environment. Village art depicts the developed form of the abundance of nature, the 'overflowing vase' of the natural environment, a common theme in ancient Indian art.

Unfortunately the government has forced all the Birhors that they could find to abandon their nomadic way of life, building them ugly concrete houses, where we saw them sitting and lying, with lifeless eyes, utterly dejected. There may be some Birhors still hunting and gathering, wisely keeping a very low profile, who hopefully will survive, for those who have been forced to settle will not. I noticed that many of the concrete houses were deserted. Hopefully they have left them and gone back into the forest, but life will be harder and harder for them as the wild animals decrease.

Jhharkhand is a beautiful state with rolling hills covered in Sal forest which sheds its leaves in 'autumn': March April, growing fresh new leaves in May. There is a huge coal deposit in a valley in Jhharkhand, which the government is allowing various mining companies to exploit. The coal is forty metres below the surface, so the mining companies strip off all the top soil and vegetation to dig out the coal with their gigantic machinery. In the affected areas they have mined right up to the villages, leaving the villagers staring out over a cliff into a vast, dusty wasteland. I did not visit the mines. Visiting the concrete houses of the Birhors had made me sad enough and I'd seen photos of the mines. However I did see the road widening scheme that is stripping the land of its beautiful trees, all the way up to Hazaribagh, creating immense amounts of dust, that left me with a sore throat that lingered for a day or two. Again the government is destroying the environment in the name of progress, driving the highway right through the middle of the national park which is supposed to be protected. 

But there is still much of Jhharkhand that is beautiful and untouched. After visiting the caves we visited another village where the villagers spend more than half their time in the forest. The villagers welcomed Justin, one of Bulu's sons, crowding round him, asking him questions. The headman's son put his arm round Justin's shoulder affectionately and accompanied us to the caves and back to the village, chatting with Justin all the way. Many of the old women had tattoos on their arms, in the form of bracelets and necklaces round their necks. 

This old woman is magnificent, straight and upright without an ounce of fat on her, despite numerous pregnancies. These people live a hard life and yet they welcome us cheerfully, offering us everything they have. One woman insisted in filling Justin's bag with tomatoes. "I never tell them when I'm coming," he told me, "otherwise they would cook for us." Even so while we were visiting the cave they cooked rice for us, which we had to refuse because it was getting too late. 

Journey to Rishikesh

Sunset on the Ganga

I left Rhotak, where I'd been visiting the school where Tansy is working, early in the morning, on the rarest of rare beasts, an almost empty train to Haridwar. The only other person in my compartment was a young microbiologist who told me that:

"In India, when a doctor orders a test from the pathologist, the pathologist has to pay half the fee to the doctor. So the doctor always orders several tests that the patient does not need, just so that he can profit. Ideally," he told me, "I would like to set up my own lab where I only perform necessary tests, so that poor people can save a lot of money."

How he was going to avoid the doctor ordering unnecessary tests I really didn't know, but a far more pressing problem was how he was going to raise the money to build the lab in the first place.

During the three hour journey to his destination we chatted happily, the conversation covering environmental degradation, the evil Mr Modi stirring up hatred between Muslim and Hindu, out of control population expansion in India and his concern for his little two year old daughter, in a country where girls were never safe. 

"I want to send her out of India," he told me.

"And your wife?" I asked him.

"She can't work, although she is a dentist by profession, because our child is two."

"She must be bored and frustrated."

"And my mother interferes with the child care, bosses my wife around all the time."

" It must be very hard for her."

"Yes. It's the Indian custom that the son looks after his mother. It's hard for his wife. Sometimes when my wife is really fed up I send her home to her parents for a break, or I take her away somewhere, leaving my mother behind."

After he left, a loud family of Sikhs, all shouting at the same time, got into the compartment. I retreated to the top bunk.

We arrived in Haridwar at four in the afternoon. For once I allowed a porter to carry my big suitcase on his head, up the staircase and over the platforms. By the time we left the station touts were circling round us like a swarm of mosquitoes, offering rickshaws to Laxman Jhula for 500 rupees. I laughed at them. My porter proudly carrying my suitcase on his head, despite the fact that we were now on flat ground and the suitcase had wheels, continued walking beside me out of the station, ignoring my suggestions that he put the suitcase down. He smiled as I fended off the touts, now grown into a bigger, fiercer band of snapping crocodiles, all in agreement that rickshaws to Laxman Jhula cost five hundred rupees. 

"No way," I countered "shared rickshaw."

"No shared rickshaw," they chorused.

Eventually I persuaded the porter to put the suitcase down, pulling it behind me out into the main road, where the contest of words continued:

"Shared rickshaw."

"No shared rickshaw."

Until a shared rickshaw drew up, squeezed me and my suitcase in, leaving the touts still shouting

"More comfortable rickshaw," pointing to an empty one, as I left.

It was a long walk down hill from the rickshaw stand in Laxman Jhula, Rishikesh, on bumpy, twisting roads. Just as I reached the point where I needed to start looking for my hotel, Angelica called out. She had booked me a room in a hotel at the end of a narrow allay, which I might never have found if we had not met.

The day ended happily in Little Buddha cafe surrounded by friends.

Next day Angelica and I walked up the steep hill through the forest until we were looking down on Rishikesh from above. 

Back to Smelly Dehli

I caught the night train from Jodhpur to what I thought was Delhi central to arrive at six thirty in the morning. Luckily it arrived at seven. I dragged my big bag off the train and joined the crowd heading for the exit like a sheep. I must be at the back of the station, I thought. I don't recognise anything. Confusingly the sign on the station platform said Delhi Junction.
"Is this New Delhi," I asked an Indian passenger.
"No," he said "it's Old Delhi."
The next task was to find the left luggage - called the cloakroom in Indian stations, which was down a hidden passageway behind one of the platforms. One has to fill out a form stating name, address (in UK), date, ticket PNR number, passport number, mobile phone number, visa number, colour of one's cat (I added the last one in), padlock one's suitcase and lift it up onto a counter, behind which the cloakroom attendant stands, ready to store it, numbered and ticketed, on one of the large number of shelves in the cloakroom. I indicated that I couldn't lift it. The cloakroom attendant left the cloakroom by a side door, came round to get my suitcase, then, instead of taking it inside through the side door, he lifted it up onto the counter, walked back round through the side door and lifted it down from the counter.

I joined the throng of passengers leaving the station, struggling through the hooting rickshaws and taxis and made my way along the road to where I thought the metro was, missed it, asked a passing man, who pointed it out to me. More helpful people pointed me in the right direction to catch the metro on the various lines I needed to take to get to Rama Krishna Ashram Marg, gateway to Parharh Ganj, by which time it was eight o'clock.

Parharh Ganj was mostly asleep, cafes, restaurants and shops shuttered, piles of rubbish on the sides of the dusty streets, the odd wandering cow (all of whom are banished during the days in Delhi and only appear at night).

I made my way to Ajay's restaurant, where, like Alice's Restaurant, you can get anything you want: gluten free muesli, yak cheese, peanut butter, tahini, honey, brown bread, tropical fruit salad, omelette, bacon (!!!), sausage, jam.... in a cavernous space under a hotel with no windows to the outside world (a blessing in disguise in this part of Delhi), an Aladdin's cave of clothes shops, shelves full of jams, spices and herbs, and tables full of breakfasting tourists.

World Sacred Spirit Festival

www.worldsacredspiritfestival.org
I described this Sufi music festival, held in the Mehrangarh Fort, in detail last year, so I won't bore my friends with another long description.

Mehrangarh Fort

On the last night there was a wonderful Indian contemporary dance performance choreographed by Astad Deboo and Guru Seityaban Singh with the Drummers of Shree Shree Nat Sinkirtan. The drummers were from Manipur, on the border with Burma and they were dancers and acrobats as well as drummers. I loved the slow, tai chi like movements of the drummers without their drums, the bird like hand movements of Astad Deboo, the wonderful acrobatic leaping drummers with their drums, the ever changing soundscape, the lighting: I loved everything about the performance. 

The Last Nomads of Kutchch

French tourist in a chai shop

At breakfast in the city guest house one meets all sorts of people, the current contingent hailing mostly from France and Japan, who sit in little huddles, speaking in their respective languages. But there's always a sprinkling of people from other countries, such as Austria, Switzerland, Greece, even a few British. On this particular morning there was a British Indian woman, Sonum Sumaria, who was making a documentary about the last nomads of Kutchch.

"The Fakirani Jat tribe," she told me, "are still nomadic. "There are only sixty families left, who travel with their camels during the day. They live on camel milk, selling the surplus to buy millet, which is the only other thing they eat. The camels graze on a multitude of different herbs, so their milk is very nutritious. The tribe sleep on the ground at night, beside their camels, under the stars."

"Do you travel with them?"
"Yes," she said "I have to run ahead of them in order to film them walking towards me. I take my sound technician and an interpreter. We go back to a hotel to sleep at night though.
(I'm sure she speaks Hindi, but these tribes speak Kutchch, a completely different language.)
"The children start to look after the camels when they are six years old. They have a lot of fun playing and never go to school. School would not be of any use to them as long as they continue with their nomadic life. But things are getting more and more difficult for them as their tribal lands are less protected and more and more people are buying parts of it for agriculture, where they can no longer go. Of course, before Partition they could travel from one part of the desert when it became too dry to another part where there was better vegetation. But now they cannot cross the border."

Hopefully she will show the film at SOAS in London. She told me about another film she made about the RSS (far right Hindu party who are virulently anti-muslim). Under Prime Minister Modi the RSS has gained status and popularity, a very worrying trend. Sonum told me that since Modi came to power the RSS have been visiting the villages of Kutchch twice a week, villages where Hindus and Muslims have lived together peacefully for hundreds of years; to hold meetings for the young Hindus, inspiring anti-Muslim hatred in them. She has made a documentary about this too.

These are not the Fakirani Jat camels, but rather camels employed to transport tourists (almost all Indian tourists) the short distance from an expensive tent city into the salt desert. We travelled to the salt desert and were horrified by the Disneyland atmosphere that surrounded the tent city, where people pay a hundred and twenty pounds a night to stay in a tent.

Bhuj

One house in Bhuj that survived the earthquake

The city of Bhuj, jewel of Gujerat, built in 1510, with its beautiful stone houses, delicately carved doorways and window surrounds, its palaces, mosques and temples, surrounded by high city walls with magnificent city gates, was blasted to rubble by the earthquake in 2001, killing 2000 people and destroying 1.2 million homes. The houses were rebuilt along the same narrow streets, but in plain concrete, without decoration, forming the same intricate maze as before. Parts of the city walls survived, together with the Aina Mahal, a rather dark palace with dark wooden ceilings and pillars, a place designed for night time pleasures in the central chamber which had an ingenious system of cooling fountains.

Lakhpatji was one of the princes of Bhuj during the eighteenth century. His father sent him to Delhi to attend a darbar (meeting) of the Kutchch ruling family with the ruling Mughals, at the imperial court. In those days princes travelled with camels piled high with enormous tents, carpets and wall hangings, kitchen equipment and many servants. When he arrived Lakhpatji ordered his servants to set up his tent then hired musicians and dancers to entertain his guests in the nighttime, after the serious discussions with the Mughal rulers were over. He entertained lavishly and word went around that the best entertainment was to be enjoyed in his tent. From time to time he sang softly and sweetly, entrancing some of the female musicians who decided to travel with him to Kutchch. In 1752, after his father died he was enthroned as the Raj. He built a palace inspired by the Mughal style he had seen in Delhi and invited many musicians and artists to the Kutchch court.

Bhuj is the capital of Kutchch, the wild west desert region of India, where tribal pastoralists roamed for centuries up until recently, when they settled in villages of round houses with conical thatched roofs. Traditionally the tribal women spent years embroidering clothes for their weddings, wearing all their wealth on their backs. In recent years an enormous industry has grown up around the traditional tribal weaving, dying, block printing and embroidery of Kutchch and the little shops in Bhuj overflow with colourful textiles, old and new. You can buy every kind of textile here, from vegetable dyed block printed cotton to factory made brilliant synthetic prints. Tribal women walk in the streets, their long skirts swishing around them, wearing an infinite variety of embroidered clothes with sparkling mirrors, jingling anklets and backless churlies, covered by the floor length scarves they drape over their heads. They crowd into the shops selling synthetic materials, sitting cross legged on the floor as the shopkeeper throws roll after roll of material in front of them. I spend hours in the shops selling old embroideries, taking them to my tailor to incorporate into new clothes, which he does with wonderful skill.

City Guest House
City guest House is in the centre of Bhuj, one of those places where travellers congregate  every morning at a long breakfast table in a courtyard surrounded by three levels of rooms in long rows with balconies. There is nothing beautiful about the place. The concrete building is strictly utilitarian with wooden doors and barred windows, brown tiled floors, the fourth wall of the courtyard bordered by a high concrete wall painted dirty yellow. The tables are covered in plastic tablecloths, usually covered in crumbs. But the conviviality makes up for the dull setting. New people from all over the world arrive every day. Some stay a day, a week, some for months. The rooms are cheap and clean. A fat rickshaw walla joins the throng every day and tries his best to inveigle tourists into making trips in his over priced rickshaw. I do my best to persuade people to catch buses or share taxis. The day before yesterday I organised a taxi for five people to visit the white Rann (the salt desert), a trip that turned out to be rather like visiting an Indian version of Disneyland.


The Rann of Kutchch
As we drew nearer to the White Rann tent cities sprang up on either side of the road.
"Five thousand rupees a night to stay in a tent here (sixty pounds)," our driver said, pointing right, then:
"Six thousand rupees a night for a tent here (seventy pounds)," pointing left, and so on, until we came to the last tent city of all:
"Ten thousand rupees a night to stay here (a hundred and twenty pounds)," he said; "one thousand and fifty tents." There was an ugly wall along the side of the road and flashy stalls selling packaged junk food on the other side of the road. We groaned, horrified. The car drew into an asphalt parking lot, full of cars, camels pulling trailers, horse and carts and masses of Indian middle class people, all wearing jeans and teeshirts.

An asphalt causeway led out into the salt desert, where hundreds of Indian tourists were standing, sitting, taking photos of each other, all waiting for the sun to set. Rows of camels waited patiently to ferry the tourists back to the tent city. After sunset people piled onto the camel trailers, whooping and shouting as their camels raced back along the causeway.

Jaipur Literature Festival

The Durbar Hall, one of the venues for the Literature Festival

I am overflowing with happiness, like an overflowing cup of warm honey. I have two new friends, Dan from America and Arjun from Delhi, both poets, both in love with literature and all of us staying in the wonderful Vinayak guest house, they in the new dormitory, where all the bunk beds are shrouded in curtains, with capacious lockers underneath; I in a tiny, windowless room on the ground floor. We travel together early in the morning to the Indian coffee house to meet other friends for a convivial breakfast, then walk to the Dighi Palace to sit enraptured by the early morning music which starts the festival each day.

The Jaipur Literature Festival is free and to say it is well attended is a serious understatement. Last year a third of a million people attended. This year it cannot have been less.

First thing in the morning 

But first thing in the morning it is relatively uncrowded. The day before yesterday Dan and I went to see Amy Tan and Siddharth Dhanvant Shangvi, who sparkled, as they bounced off each other with their descriptions of San Francisco. Amy was inspiring, enlightening and amusing.

At midday we decided to go in search of new glasses, Dan because his were scratched, I because mine were unsatisfactory, so we headed off across town in an Uber to the Swadesh, Mansarovar, an optician, whose premises were so bright, clean and capacious that they seemed more like an apple store. The optician impressed me with the thoroughness of his testing technique and provided me with a far better pair of glasses than the ones they sold me in England. Then Dan and I took it in turns to try on frames, commenting on each other's look, until we each found the perfect frames. Dan's had special lenses in them, anti dust, anti rain, anti glare because he wears them all the time. Then the optician took his old pair of glasses and changed the lenses in them.
"Do you sell ordinary sunglasses?" I asked him.
"We have a scheme. We give everyone who enters the shop a free pair of sunglasses," he said. "Choose whichever pair you want."
"I can't because I can't see," Dan said, since they had taken his glasses to replace the lenses.
"Give me your prescription," the optician said, handing it to an assistant, who handed over two pairs of contact lenses.
"Use these to choose a pair of sunglasses."
Then we posed for photos with the optician.
How much did all this cost? I spent ten pounds and Dan spent thirty pounds.

Opening ceremony at the Jaipur Literature Festival

Kholva beach

"It's easy to get to Kholva, my neighbour in Agonda told me "just cross the river at the end of the beach at high tide, then go along the shore until you find the path."

I set off along the beach and crossed the river at low tide. I was confronted by dense vegetation on an almost vertical slope. I searched and eventually found a path running parallel with the river. After a while I found what I thought was a path heading straight up the slope. I scrabbled up it until I found myself in a dense forest clinging to this steep incline. The ground was covered in dry leaves that slipped and slid as I tried to climb up the slope. I grabbed a branch that broke off. I grabbed something with leaves attached to it and hauled one foot uphill, then sought another handhold in order to haul the other foot past the first foot.  I was almost parallel with the hill, I was wearing flip flops and encumbered by a shoulder bag with my notebook, book, purse and phone in it, which kept slipping in front of me, getting in the way of my attempts to get hold of branches to pull myself uphill. I disturbed an ant hill, hidden under the leaves and angry ants ran all over me.

Somehow I managed to get to the top of the hill, where I came to an impenetrable thicket of thorns, brambles, bushes and trees. Thinking that it would be worse to go back than to go forward, I approached the least dense part of the thicket, bent down and started breaking off twigs and branches until I had made a hole big enough to crawl through. I had to repeat this several times before I came to a place where I could stand up. Scratched, ant-bitten and still in dense forest, with thick tufts of dried grass on the ground and low bushes beneath the trees I picked my way through until I noticed some empty plastic water bottles.
"People have been near here," I thought, following the trail of rubbish until I came to a makeshift hut. Beyond this were the concrete bases of three small houses that had never been built. I discovered that I was in an enclosure with a fence and barbed wire, so I had to go back to the makeshift hut, then I followed the fence on the other side until I was once more in dense forest. I stepped over thorn bushes until I came to an area of burnt grass and bushes, a blackened desolate place, but easy to walk on.

I followed the blackened areas until I came to a track, then I followed the track that led to the edge of the precipice down to the beach. I looked down and saw trees clinging to the sides of an almost vertical cliff, between giant boulders. No path. I backtracked and swung round to another possible way down. Here I found fifty seven varieties of rubbish, including a half empty sack of charcoal, scrunched up tin foil, and a terrible smell. Round another bush I found a dead cow, its guts spilling out. I didn't wait to inspect it. I headed back up the track until it met another track heading north. Passing motor scooters kicked up huge clouds of powder fine red dust, so I realised I was, at last, on the right track to the beach.

Steep steps led down to Kholver beach, a pretty little bay with a river running through it and thatched huts climbing up the lower part of the terraced hillside. Last year there was a lake in the middle of the beach, but this year it has disappeared. The monsoon changes everything, washes away the huts if they are not removed. I sat in a thatched roofed bar/restaurant drinking water as I gathered my strength to make the return trip, via the track and the road, not the forest.

The track wound serpent like through the forest, a red ribbon of dry red powdered earth, up hill and down through lush vegetation, from time to time overlooking green hillsides, those same green hillsides that I had battled through to get to the beach, that looked so beautiful from this distance. Every time a vehicle came past it stirred up immense clouds of dust. Half way to the road a taxi stopped and wound down his window.
"No money" I said "No worry," he said "get in."
So I did. He drove slowly and gingerly over the rutted, potholed boulder-strewn track.
"Bad road," he said.
"Must be bad for the car," I said.
"First time here," he said
I didn't think he would be coming this way again. He dropped me at the bus stop on the road.
I set off walking along the road through more beautiful South Goa countryside until another taxi stopped. Again:
"No money"
"No matter. Get in"
And he drove me to Agonda.

AGONDA

Agonda beach started with just a few huts on the beach, then within a few years mushroomed into a mega hutoppoliss, groups of huts competing to see who could create the most luxurious environment for guests who pay top dollar to come and spend Christmas and the new year here. Each group of huts has its restaurant area, overlooking the sea, so that guests can sip their drinks as they watch the sun sink into the ocean every evening.

The other side of the road, where a few villagers live, has similarly grown, with each villager building rooms, houses, whatever they can fit into their piece of land. Narrow dirt paths lead between the houses, which are so near together that you can lean out of your window and almost touch the house next door. But this is where you can find the cheap rooms, if you get here early enough. I have a traditional old room, built with a gap between the wall and the ceiling. The wind blows all sort of things through the gap - leaves, grit, small feathers, so I have to keep sweeping the floor. But it's cheap and I have table and chair to work at my computer, and luxury of luxuries - a fridge!

Yesterday there was a funeral in Agonda. The coffin arrived in the back of an old red lorry, together with four priests, clad in long robes with white lace stoles, covered by short red satin stoles. They clambered down from the back of the lorry, their lace stoles fluttering about them. Men heaved the coffin down and carried it, accompanied by the priests, to the church. At the entrance they took the lid off the coffin and propped it up against the church wall. The coffin was full of flowers. Presumably there was a body under the flowers, but I was too far away to see.

A bus full of mourners drove right into the church precinct, followed by several people on motor bikes. Everyone converged on the church

The Film Festival has ended

After the last film, some of the young festival goers took me to "their bar" a marvelous labyrinth of rooms painted bright red up to waist height and brilliant yellow form there upwards. It's obviously a sleezy dive for middle aged men to drink alcohol (without their women folk and away from prying eyes) that had been adopted by young festival goers for the duration of the festival. Ranks of Kingfisher beer bottles lined up on the table around which a bevy of young men and one brave young woman were lounging. They had been carousing between films all day.

Jitidj, my half Namibian,  half Indian friend, dropped out of University because, he said, he was learning nothing. He told us at length three days ago, as we stood in the queue for one of the films, how he'd been walking the length and breadth of India, bare footed, sleeping in temples when he could, in his tent when he could, in the railway station when they would let him and how here, in Kerala, they wouldn't let him do any of those things, so he was trying to couch surf.

"It's not easy couch surfing in India if you are an Indian man," he said. "The hosts all want foreigners, preferably women, preferably young women, preferably blond young women. I have to beg and plead with them before they'll let me stay."

"I have exactly the opposite problem," I tell him. "Too many men want to host me, and too many for all the wrong reasons. I tend to delete their offers."

Our waiter, a skinny old man, is drunk, much to the amusement of my companions. He's still managing to take orders and carry the drinks, but cannot any longer control the expression on his face or the slurring of his speech. Jitidg told me he was going to the Jaipur Literature Festival.
"You can't get there in time if you keep on walking," I said sceptically.
"No. I'll catch a train." So much for walking the length and breadth of India!

After a while my companions headed to the courtyard at the back of the bar to smoke cigarettes. Drawn by the sound of singing, I went with them. We found a group of young men singing their hearts out, standing in the courtyard. An old man joined in. They were singing traditional songs, keeping in tune for verse after verse. It occurred to me that this musicality and memory, so common among Indian people, might go some way to explaining why they learn languages with such apparent ease.

We left around six, and I headed to the station to wait for my train at half past midnight: a long wait. I tried sitting in the first class lounge, but got so cold, for the air conditioning was set way too high, that I started snuffling and sneezing. So I went to sit in the booked tickets waiting room, where a fan was grinding and clattering like a steam roller and an old Sadhu was lying on the floor inconspicuously behind some seats, fast asleep, scratching his private parts vigorously without waking up. Young men dressed in black came in and sat down.

I went to the station food outlet and ordered a little vegetable pasty. It wasn't very nice but I ate it anyway. More of the young black clad men came in, so I got up to leave. No one brought me a bill, so I went to the cashier to pay.
"One veg pasty," I said
"Chappatti?" he asked me.
So I gave up and walked out onto the platform.
The station was full of black clad pilgrims. It seemed that any kind of black clothing would do: traditional floor length dhotis, black jeans, black lycra shorts, just so long as the clothes were black.
"Where are you going?" I asked a group of young pilgrims.
"Utta Pradesh," they answered, meaning that that was where they had come from.
"Four days walking. Padmanabharhti Swami temple near Charlor Harack" I think he said "One time eating a day." Just then there was a train announcement and the group took off, racing up the stairs to catch their train back to Utta Pradesh.

Behind a low wall on the platform pilgrims lay sleeping neatly in rows, lined up like sardines, tightly packed together. Jitidge had mentioned that he could have joined them if he'd found some black clothes to wear. These were very different from the pilgrims I saw in Amarkantak in February. Those were all wearing traditional Indian clothing, old and loose, draped about their bodies, carrying a little cloth bag, a thin blanket and a stick, while these black clad pilgrims were wearing shiny new clothes and carrying large rucksacks. They'd come for a big festival that'd been going on while we were all trotting from one cinema to another.

I sat on a seat on the platform beside a couple of young women carrying a sports rifle in a big plastic box.
"It weighs twenty kg," one of them told me.
"They let you take that on the train?"
"I have licence. You know Olympic games? I at Olympic games"
"Did you win anything?"
"Seven lakh. Oil company gifted me this gun. German made."
"So very expensive"
"Yes very expensive"
"Better take the lift up to the bridge."
"No. We strong."
And they galloped up the stairs carrying their luggage and the gun.

I boarded my train at midnight, unrolled my sleeping bag on the top bunk and slept like a baby until the morning.

Trivandrum Day 5

The communist party, who organise the international film festival in Trivandrum have red flags adorned with hammer and sickle lining the streets and posters like this. Marxism is alive and well in Trivandrum.

My firefly friend has flitted away, half way through the festival. No more lovely lunches at his club. No more drinks in the club bar. And there's nowhere else to drink in Trivandrum, a pretty dry town! The British built the club, so of course it had to have a bar.

I continue to enjoy wonderful films from Russia, Germany, Philippines, Cuba, Colombia, Chad, tending to focus on just a few directors. Of course the odd Indian classic too. 

Trivandrum day 2

I have been to Trivandrum several times years ago, but I never went beyond the station, which is situated in possibly the ugliest part of town. So I had a pretty poor impression of the place. In fact much of the city has traditional Keralan houses with pointed tiled roofs, surrounded by large, leafy trees.

My friend's enthusiasm for Kerala is boundless, but then he is Keralan. "The Communist state of Kerala is the most equal state in India. There is very little poverty. The roads are clean, public buildings are clean, hotels are clean and the food is cheap. There are fourteen cinemas in Trivandrum and the five biggest ones were all built by the communist party. They run this film festival and they make sure that it is big."

I have to agree with him about the cleanliness of the place, the cheapness of the food and wonder of wonders, the rikshaws all use metres. There's no arguing over the price of a ride. Just jump in and tell them to switch on the metre, if they haven't already. And if you want to walk they don't hassle you. 

We started early at nine o'clock in the morning with "A Season in France" by Chad director Mahamat-Saleh Haroun about African refugees seeking asylum in France, unsuccessfully, a very emotional film, moving but understated. Then we hopped in a rikshaw to go to a different cinema to see Alexander Sokurov's Russian Ark, a tour de force all shot in one take in the Hermitage in St Petersburg. I'm left wanting to visit the Hermitage, just the Hermitage, nothing else in Russia.

We rushed back to the club for a nice lunch, then to a very old Iranian film directed by Bahram Beyzal, after which we both needed a rest so we went to the India Coffee House, a wonderful spiral building designed by a British architect called Laurie Baker in the 1950s. Laurie Baker met Ghandi, who told him to help the poor so he devoted the rest of his life to designing buildings in Trivandrum that were cheap to build, functional and pleasing to the eye. He used brick or stone, depending on what was available locally, but no concrete. The seating in the coffee house is stepped all the way up the outer side of the spiral, so that each little table overlooks the one below it. The coffee and food are cheap, as they are in all the Indian Coffee Houses. Every city in India has Indian coffee houses and together they form the largest cooperative workers union in the world.

Prime Minister Modi has decreed that everyone must stand for the Indian National Anthem at the start of every film. Last year some people were arrested for refusing to stand. The festival organisers managed to release them. This year there are several refuseniks at the start of each film. So far none of them have been arrested, well not as far as I know. You never know whether there might be some of Modi's spies in the audience taking sneaky photos of the refuseniks. I hope not. Keralans are fiercely independent of the Indian government. 

The crowds are predominantly young men, a few young women and very few older people. So few in fact that over sixty fives are exempt from queuing. But I queue because I'm with a friend. No one takes any notice of me except the press, who keep trying to photograph me without asking my permission, which I consider to be rude, so I cover my face.

My friend is threatening to abandon me and return to his vow of silence. He hasn't actually taken a vow of silence; in fact he's the chattiest person I know, a fund of information on literature, film, music, art, Indian history, but he says that he spends more and more time alone, meditating and that after he's been with a person for a day he wants to be on his own. I rather like having a companion in this sea of Indian people. It makes me feel less conspicuous, but I know people will be nice to me, maybe even chat with me.