You don't expect writing today, do you?

Tomorrow I'm going to Venice - I hope you don't expect me to write sense today.

Between now and tomorrow morning I must sort the laundry, buy some milk, cut the grass, clean the cooker, water the plants, sew on a button, write a letter, buy a birthday card, order two toy wheelbarrows, order a supermarket shop, talk intelligently at a literature festival as if I had nothing else on my mind,

pause, breathe, remind myself that this will be worth it,

(nearly forgot lunch),

clean out the fridge, change the sheets on the bed, phone the bank (god help me), charge the phone, charge the camera, charge the kindle, return a book I borrowed to the woman next door, water the plants,

pack

sleep

For tomorrow I'm going to Venice!

The best laid plans

There I was, wondering where to go next - well I've a rough idea, actually, as I've only been to Africa once and that was with a tour group, so I was beginning to play with plans to go on my own. To mull over which country to visit, taking on board general thoughts about safety and ease of travel etc. (For anyone wandering the same path, the Lonely Planet Thorn Tree forum is wonderful.)
   And then, as I woke one morning with the screech of exotic birds and roar of lions in my dreams - I turned over - and knackered my knee. (Knackered, you will appreciate, is a generic medical term for doing something extremely painful but you don't know what.) It is, now, funny - but last week I struggled with the 'How did you damage your knee?' questions, kindly though they were. It took time before I could stand apart from myself and watch me coming downstairs on my bottom, walking into town clinging to the railings, and almost giving up when faced with the step onto the bus - and see that this might be a bit comic.
    But time passed, I grumbled, took painkillers, the pain eased after a few days and I look back at that discomfort in disbelief that it was quite that painful. In fact recovery was so swift that, within four days, I danced the night away at a wedding - and wasn't even stiff the next morning.
    Which should be the end of it? Except that I know I have arthritis in my knees - I had arthroscopies on both knees about ten years ago (it's like a D and C of the knees) and have been warned that the day will come when I'll need more surgery.
   But I want to go to Africa. Last week, I could not have carried a rucksack. I could not have walked the corridors to the boarding gate at the airport. I could not have curled into a seat on a plane for a long flight and ever uncurled again. This week, I can sing, dance, and generally prance about like a puppy.
   So - what to do? If I go to the doctor, get into the system - the referral to specialists and the whole waiting-game - it means the whole knee-thing will take over for a while and travelling go on the back burner until it's sorted. Which could take months. Doesn't sound too inviting to me. The alternative - live for today. Go anyway, and hope I don't turn over in bed and have spend a few days days hobbling somewhere hot.
   It's a close call - what would you do?

While I'm away.

I'm off again - for a month, this time. To the mountains of Nepal.

I could have written blogs to cover my absence, organised them to come out regularly, so you'd barely notice I was away. Twice a week you could read my passing thoughts on writing, and reading, and general observations about plumbers.

But I haven't. Why - because it seems a bit disingenuous to be blogging as if I were here when I fact I'm up a mountain somewhere. The reality is - I will not here. I will not even pretend to be here. I've gone walkabout, because that's what I want to do.

Plus - I hope to connect from time to time. Tell you what I'm up to. Remind you how beautiful Nepal is, how wonderful her people. After all, blogging is my way of keeping in touch with everyone at home.

So there will be unreliable posts, from expected places. I understand from my Lonely Planet that wi-fi is easily available in Kathmandu and Pokhara now, but I suspect I shall still be at the mercy of power cuts. And I might just creep off the beaten track occasionally and be out of wi-fi range.

So - I'll blog when I can. Though probably without photographs - those will wait until I get home and I can organise them on the website. So you'll have to take my word for it that the Himalayas are huge - and stunningly beautiful. With snow on the top that turns purple at sunset. That the lake in Pokhara shimmers in the slightest breeze. That the temples of Lumbini are mysteriously peaceful. And the elephants ...

My head is already there. It's time for my body to follow.

A few thoughts about elephants.

I've had so many comments about the elephant on the cover of my book, it seemed like a good idea to blog about them.

I'm talking Indian elephants here. The African variety are bigger, and wilder, and generally best seen from the safety of a safari truck.

But Indian elephants are different altogether. I know there are those who frown at seeing them put to work - in the forests, transporting tourists, even racing! They are so majestic, is there indignity in making them 'work'?

I can see both sides. They are, indeed, magnificent - gentle, trusting creatures. They gather in families which seem as affectionate as our own (well, among the females. The males fend for themselves.) They play with their young and they care for their dying.

Yet an elephant is able to form as close a relationship with a mahout as and shepherd does with his or her dog. I know, just because we can make those relationships doesn't mean we should, but in a country with difficult terrain it is surely understandable to utilise the strength of elephants in the same way that those of us in the West use horses and dogs.

It is also misleading to think that elephants have no choice in behaving as compliantly as they do. Do you really think that an animal as big as that would haul tree-trunks if it didn't want to? If there weren't a reward - free food, affection - at the end of it. And yes - they even race, and appear to do so willingly.  I was in Chitwan, in Nepal, just after their elephant races. We were heading back from a trek through the jungle when two elephants shuffled beside each other, appeared to exchange glances, and then run back to their shelters with tourists clinging on for dear life and the mahouts cheering. (Sorry, I don't have a photo; I was too busy hanging on.)

Having said all that, I know there are places where elephants are used to carry tourists around and not given the care they need. They need not only food and water, but also frequent hosing down to keep their skin clean. As you'll have gathered, I'll take any opportunity to ride one - but not if they work all day in the Indian heat traipsing round forts and palaces with tourists on their backs (though maybe things have improved since I was in Agra).

So, what animals press your buttons? And can you, too, admit to mixed feelings about the way we live, or don't live, alongside them?

Not so invisible - when I was travelling.

In my last blogpost I talked about the invisibility of older women - and it certainly resonated, if the comments are anything to go by. It's something that creeps up on us - and there is nothing we can do to slow it down. And it does, as I think we agreed, have advantages.

But when I was travelling I realised that it is culturally determined - a phenomenon common in western countries, where young people are seen to be the drivers of all thinking and energy. It is very different in other parts of the world.

Which means I was unprepared for being an older, white woman, wandering Indian streets alone. The Indians had no idea what to make of me, and made no secret of gawping at me as I tried to weave a path through the mayhem.  It didn't help that I was clueless when faced with somewhere so different, and so chaotic.

 

I didn't help myself by beginning in the north. 

If I'd read my Lonely Planet a little more assiduously I'd have known that life is easier - for everyone, as well as women - in the south. I'd have taken to the backroads of Kerala, and practised being visible among people who were both welcoming and curious. 

When I was in Kumerakon, a village on the edge of Lake Vembanad in the backwaters of Kerala (in the south), I found myself joining a group of children having a dance lesson; I managed their excitement and my general clumsiness and was waved away after a wonderful half an hour by a teacher - who spoke not one word of English. (My one word - thank you. It's the only word I learned in every country I visited.) What a wonderful introduction to the country that could have been!

Instead, I travelled down from Nepal, and spent a night in Gorakhpur, in a grubby hotel opposite the station. I was unprepared - not only for the chaos, but also for the lack of women in the streets. There are significantly more Muslims in North India; and it is rare for women to emerge into the streets alone - unless they are in air-conditioned cars, or begging on corners. Most commerce - the street-traders, the tuk tuk drivers, the waiters - are men.

And so one white woman, meandering down the streets - trying to avoid cowpats, beggars, the insistent calls of tuk tuk drivers, traders urging me to buy scarves, phones, betel nuts, cricket bats - was more visible than the queen in a primary school. Everyone stared at me - and, initially, I was hugely uncomfortable. It was like finding your skirt is tucked in your knickers and there is nothing you can do to extract it. There was no corner to hide in, no unremarkable cafe where I could sit in the corner and make sense of everything around me; even sitting brought someone to my side with questions or 'proposals'. Thankfully, I had a guide at the time, a gentle Nepali who found the whole thing highly amusing (it took so little to make him laugh) who was able to steer me through the worst of it, and kept me safe on those few occasions when . . . yes, there were some not-so-safe incidents.

And you - tell me your tales of your skirt-in-the-knickers moments. (Please - tell me it's not just me!)