There is a saying which alleges that when people first come to Glastonbury, they spend the first few months dealing with their 'stuff', and if the place does not like them, it makes sure they leave sooner or later. I have the same feeling about Rishikesh, and perhaps India in general. It’s one of the places that gives you what you need, whether you like it or not. The energies of Rishikesh are quite strange and volatile. It’s as though half of the time you're in bliss, and the other half in darkness. Like many ‘initiatory’ power places, it seems to [View Full Entry]

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It's a glorious sunny day, and Rakesh, my yoga teacher, and I have decided to go to Kunjapuri, an ancient temple in the mountains dedicated to the Divine Mother Goddess. We set off by motorbike and enjoy the ride which leads us along a winding road, with forested valleys and mountains all around us. We can see the Ganges down below, and Rishikesh, which is shrouded in a slight mist. Monkeys sit by the roadside and nurse their babies, and the anti-speed signs along the road feature bonmots such as 'Speed is a knife that cuts the life' and 'Whisky is [View Full Entry]

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The next morning, I rise before the crack of dawn and start my seven hour train trip to the foothills of the Himalayas. The previous night, I bought some bread and fruit for the journey. I needn't have bothered: a constant stream of sales people snakes through the train. 'Chai! Chai!' 'Brrrrrreakfast!', 'Tomato soup!', 'Chips, biscuits, cake, water!', they cry in a continous mantra. It is never-ending. As soon as I only tentatively glance into their direction, they stop and try and place a cup of tea in my hands. Two Indian soldiers with turbans sit diagonally across from me and [View Full Entry]

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Coming to India after a month in Pakistan is a bit of a culture shock. 'Welcome to India', grins the tall uniformed soldier and bows just before I walk through the symbolic gate at Wagah border, now with two Indian bearded and turbaned porters in tow. As soon as I step onto Indian soil, I am surrounded by boys and men wanting to offer me their services: do I want water? chapattis? DVDs? postcards? taxis? rickshaws? They form a circle around me and bombard me with questioning sing-song. 'Get me out of here!', I exclaim, rather exasperated, to a young taxi [View Full Entry]

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On the evening of the bomb blast, I meet Gaber and his Pakistani friend Aamir for dinner. Gaber is anxious and upset about the bomb. He wants to go back to Germany, but his work contract necessitates that he stays until February. Aamir, who looks like Ali Baba less the turban, is angry. Very angry. All this terrorism is so bad for his country, he says, for Pakistan's image, the tourism that is virtually non-existent now, the foreign investors. Gaber tries to make a joke. Aamir shakes his head. He looks at me and says, emotion darkening his voice, 'This is [View Full Entry]

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The morning starts quietly enough. Silvery fog spreads like a gossamer veil over Lahore, giving the leafy trees in front of my hotel a mysterious edge. I have breakfast, go back to my room, call Nafiz and arrange to meet him a little later as planned to watch the qawwali (islamic devotional) singing at the Shrine of Data Ganj Baksh Hajveri. At about 12.30, I am just about to leave my room, when my mobile rings. 'Tiziana, where are you?', a manic Nafiz shouts into the telephone. 'In my hotel, why?' 'Stay where you are, there's been a bomb blast at [View Full Entry]

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Over the past six days or so, I've been trying hard to make friends with Lahore, the 'heart and soul of Pakistan'. So far, I have failed miserably. Maybe I'm just not in the right space to enjoy the madness and chaos that is Lahore: yes, the city is a cultural hub and undoubtedly very interesting, but it's also loud, polluted, congested and dirty. The constant drab weather and the rain that has been transforming the roads into muddy rivers haven't exactly helped to endear the place to me. In addition, I caught another tummy bug, and right now, I'm wondering [View Full Entry]

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Things are settling down in Pakistan, and life has been inching towards normality in the twin cities of Islamabad and Rawalpindi over the last few days. The 'miscreants', 'mischief-mongers' and 'anti-social elements', as the newspapers call them, have mainly been refraining from creating civil unrest. The shops and markets are open again, public transport has been re-instated, petrol is available, and the people have come out of their houses. The PPP flags are still flying high, the debates about the now postponed election and the cause of BB's death rage on, but life inevitably goes on. I [View Full Entry]

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In this morning's newspaper, I read that foreign travellers in Pakistan are advised to stay in their lodgings for the moment until the situation becomes clear. As Islamabad is relatively quiet, I venture out to test the waters two days after the assassination of Benazir Bhutto. The streets are more lively than yesterday - there are some taxis whose drivers try to get my attention by slowing down and calling to me, and there is a long queue of cars, blocking half of College Road, trying to get into the petrol station - there was a petrol strike yesterday. Armed policemen [View Full Entry]

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Islamabad is a very sad city today. After yesterday's assassination of ex-prime minister Benazir Bhutto, three days of national mourning have been declared, and everything is closed: the markets, the shops, the bazaars. There are no taxis, no form of public transport. An eerie silence has befallen the deserted streets. Occasionally, small groups of people cluster together by the roadside. They look dejected, defeated, angry. In the process of moving hotels earlier, I pass some road blocks; young people stand around street fires and debris. There have been violent riots on the streets of many P [View Full Entry]

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