A Proper British Street Party: Last year the British establishment created the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and the United Kingdom, the commonwealth and just about the whole world seemed to get involved and have a right proper knees up. But for the Brits, it has ended up counting as just a warm up. Because everybody had a ‘bloody good time’ last year, the build up and celebrations for this years Diamond Jubilee has reached royal proportions. The Union Jack bunting has been laid over everything from hair salons to car washes and absolutely everything in the supermarkets has some red, white or blue theme. And it’s all been gearing up to this, the Jubilee weekend, so the street parties are out in force. BRaG, an acronym of the surrounding street names (the next group over is aBOUT), was a committee set up to organize the street party for Kate and Will around me and this time they had to go one better. At 8 o’clock in the morning, the stage was being set up on the corner, and by midday the bunting had been strung, the tables laid out and the yuppy mummies had finished their communal Zumba class. The day was fantastic because there was everybody. Everyone had come out, laid their out food and was drinking the Jubillee cocktails from their especially branded cups. It is staggering how many people can come together under one Queen and create a really great atmosphere. God save the queen, and may she last another fifteen years so we can all have another big, unifying, party!
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A Proper British Street Party:

Last year the British establishment created the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and the United Kingdom, the commonwealth and just about the whole world seemed to get involved and have a right proper knees up.

But for the Brits, it has ended up counting as just a warm up. Because everybody had a ‘bloody good time’ last year, the build up and celebrations for this years Diamond Jubilee has reached royal proportions.

The Union Jack bunting has been laid over everything from hair salons to car washes and absolutely everything in the supermarkets has some red, white or blue theme.

And it’s all been gearing up to this, the Jubilee weekend, so the street parties are out in force. BRaG, an acronym of the surrounding street names (the next group over is aBOUT), was a committee set up to organize the street party for Kate and Will around me and this time they had to go one better.

At 8 o’clock in the morning, the stage was being set up on the corner, and by midday the bunting had been strung, the tables laid out and the yuppy mummies had finished their communal Zumba class.

The day was fantastic because there was everybody. Everyone had come out, laid their out food and was drinking the Jubillee cocktails from their especially branded cups. It is staggering how many people can come together under one Queen and create a really great atmosphere.

God save the queen, and may she last another fifteen years so we can all have another big, unifying, party!

Are the Olympics going off the rails?

India - The Sun has Set: It’s all over. I am heading home. Mixed emotions for sure. As I sat on the ocean edge in central Mumbai, watching the sun set over the Arabian ocean, I had a lot to consider when weighing up my experience in India. This blog has had a lot of the brunt end. Solo travel has led me to take out a lot of frustration in the cyber arena rather than a buddy, but everything has been true. I have been ill every few days, trains and getting around have been a nightmare, the rubbish and smell are always there…. I think you’ve already got the idea. But a weird thing keeps happening. As I review my photos to back up and put online, I’ve been sentimental about them. They’ve conjured up memories and made me appreciate how I lucky I am to have seen those things with my own eyes. Admittedly, I took photos of the things I liked, but those things were still there in the first place. Which makes me think that maybe India isn’t so bad. There are a lot of cool sights, a lot of staggering history and the spiritual aspects certainly add a different edge. Maybe, once you ignore the context, block out the grim parts, India isn’t half bad. Stop. Stop writing. Leave it there. You’re being positive. Keep it. Don’t write any more.
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India - The Sun has Set:

It’s all over. I am heading home. Mixed emotions for sure.

As I sat on the ocean edge in central Mumbai, watching the sun set over the Arabian ocean, I had a lot to consider when weighing up my experience in India. This blog has had a lot of the brunt end. Solo travel has led me to take out a lot of frustration in the cyber arena rather than a buddy, but everything has been true.

I have been ill every few days, trains and getting around have been a nightmare, the rubbish and smell are always there…. I think you’ve already got the idea.

But a weird thing keeps happening. As I review my photos to back up and put online, I’ve been sentimental about them. They’ve conjured up memories and made me appreciate how I lucky I am to have seen those things with my own eyes. Admittedly, I took photos of the things I liked, but those things were still there in the first place.

Which makes me think that maybe India isn’t so bad. There are a lot of cool sights, a lot of staggering history and the spiritual aspects certainly add a different edge.

Maybe, once you ignore the context, block out the grim parts, India isn’t half bad.

Stop. Stop writing. Leave it there. You’re being positive. Keep it. Don’t write any more.

Dharavi Slum - the Indian Economic Engine: Touring Kolkata’s suburban building sites in a lost taxi and arriving into the sophisticated bustle of mumbai, I have got a sense of the energy, the growth vibe that is pushing the country up the list of economic superpowers. It was something I thought I’d find as soon as I got off the plane Delhi, but it’s taken me a while to find it. And that’s largely due to the lack of development in a lot of places I’ve visited. Sure, everyone has mobile phones, but they don’t have toilets or stable electricity. As the economy grows and grows, I can’t dispel the idea that the population has grown ahead of itself. The country might be rich, but the number of people in the country means that everyone is largely still poor. Even Indians have told me that overpopulation is affecting their country, 1.2 billion is a lot of people for a country, any country. And there’s the bite. With India being number 3 in the GDP league table, but with a population which will beat China’s in no time, not everyone can be rich. Nowhere near everyone. So while there are a number of mega rich, the richest resident in the UK is Indian, the vast majority are desperately poor. But as the former street child, Tariq, had explained in Delhi, everyone has dreams especially about Bollywood. So where do you go if you want to improve your chances of making a buck for your family? Mumbai. It’s the massive migration of the nations poorest to the buzzing metropolis which has created one of the largest slums in the world (shockingly, however, there are four larger slums just in Mumbai). The area has a population density of 550,000 per sq km. That’s like fitting the whole UK population into Sofia, Bulgaria. Cramped. Slumdog Millionaire has recently added a bit of “glamour” and awareness about the area and the connotations of the word ‘slum’ certainly aren’t positive. So I was going in with some expectations that it was going to be unpleasant as I took a walk round the urban nightmare. But as we walked round the ‘slum’ I was immediately forced to change my perception. The streets weren’t squalid, people weren’t bone thin. The place was bustling with people busy. No idle layabouts here. In fact, quite the reverse. Dharvari is commonly called ‘the heart of Mumbai’ not just because the area is shaped like a love heart, but it is a bit of an economic powerhouse in the middle of the suburbs. As we wound through some tight alleyways we came across workshop after workshop processing plastic, recycling oil canisters, creating clay pots. The wages were better than the tea pluckers in Darjeeling. I never recalled the disaster scenes of charity adverts, rather the Dickens-like streets of a sooty industrial Newcastle. So how much of this is an endless cycle of destitution, and how much is a consequence of rapid industrialisation? It’s a question that’s popped up in every city I’ve been round so far. How much of the poverty is part of a natural transition to wealth? The mass population of Britain went through massive stages of urban migration, low standards of health and poor living conditions. But 200 years on we’re all better off. What can be done now for the poor in India and what is going to have to wait a similarly long time scale for real improvements to be made? The idea that the world’s most expensive home is a 27 storey tower, with 400 staff looking after the complex and the resident family, in Mumbai gives me the impression that more can be done immediately to balance the scales.
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Dharavi Slum - the Indian Economic Engine:

Touring Kolkata’s suburban building sites in a lost taxi and arriving into the sophisticated bustle of mumbai, I have got a sense of the energy, the growth vibe that is pushing the country up the list of economic superpowers. It was something I thought I’d find as soon as I got off the plane Delhi, but it’s taken me a while to find it.

And that’s largely due to the lack of development in a lot of places I’ve visited. Sure, everyone has mobile phones, but they don’t have toilets or stable electricity. As the economy grows and grows, I can’t dispel the idea that the population has grown ahead of itself. The country might be rich, but the number of people in the country means that everyone is largely still poor. Even Indians have told me that overpopulation is affecting their country,

1.2 billion is a lot of people for a country, any country. And there’s the bite. With India being number 3 in the GDP league table, but with a population which will beat China’s in no time, not everyone can be rich. Nowhere near everyone.

So while there are a number of mega rich, the richest resident in the UK is Indian, the vast majority are desperately poor.

But as the former street child, Tariq, had explained in Delhi, everyone has dreams especially about Bollywood. So where do you go if you want to improve your chances of making a buck for your family? Mumbai.

It’s the massive migration of the nations poorest to the buzzing metropolis which has created one of the largest slums in the world (shockingly, however, there are four larger slums just in Mumbai). The area has a population density of 550,000 per sq km. That’s like fitting the whole UK population into Sofia, Bulgaria. Cramped.

Slumdog Millionaire has recently added a bit of “glamour” and awareness about the area and the connotations of the word ‘slum’ certainly aren’t positive. So I was going in with some expectations that it was going to be unpleasant as I took a walk round the urban nightmare.

But as we walked round the ‘slum’ I was immediately forced to change my perception. The streets weren’t squalid, people weren’t bone thin. The place was bustling with people busy. No idle layabouts here.

In fact, quite the reverse. Dharvari is commonly called ‘the heart of Mumbai’ not just because the area is shaped like a love heart, but it is a bit of an economic powerhouse in the middle of the suburbs.

As we wound through some tight alleyways we came across workshop after workshop processing plastic, recycling oil canisters, creating clay pots. The wages were better than the tea pluckers in Darjeeling. I never recalled the disaster scenes of charity adverts, rather the Dickens-like streets of a sooty industrial Newcastle.

So how much of this is an endless cycle of destitution, and how much is a consequence of rapid industrialisation? It’s a question that’s popped up in every city I’ve been round so far. How much of the poverty is part of a natural transition to wealth? The mass population of Britain went through massive stages of urban migration, low standards of health and poor living conditions. But 200 years on we’re all better off.

What can be done now for the poor in India and what is going to have to wait a similarly long time scale for real improvements to be made?

The idea that the world’s most expensive home is a 27 storey tower, with 400 staff looking after the complex and the resident family, in Mumbai gives me the impression that more can be done immediately to balance the scales.

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Indian Premier League - Take 2:

My last visit to a cricket stadium for an IPL match might not have included any actual cricket. But that didn’t stop the crowd from roaring at regular intervals and creating a real atmosphere. Well, when there are actual players on the field, and balls are being bowled the vibe is something else.

Electric.

The Mumbai Indians were playing the Deccan Chargers the night I returned to Mumbai. Both teams are not in the best of form so far this IPL, but no one in Mumbai seems to have noticed. They were feverish. I had my face painted again (although not as comprehensively) and picked up a banner to wave around from the huge number of children selling flags, light-up headbands and noise-making devices.

Then it was a job to get into the stadium; everyone desperate, pushing and shoving to watch the teams warming up battling against the tight security trying to restrain the throng. Groups of boys, clutching their tickets, already speculating about the coin toss, the effects the results would have on the table and also the Manchester Derby later in the night.

My seat was high up. Really quite high. 7th row from the back. But I could see the crease and I could see the whole crowd in front of me. Almost every single one of them seemed to have a flag and continued to wave it furiously while creating a deafening noise.

The cricket wasn’t that good. During a phase with Mumbai batting, my only comments were mostly “just hit the damn ball.” But when a bowler started his run up, when a camera went over the crowd, when a close ball just missed the wicket, the crowd always made a unanimous noise and it was impossible not to become a part of it.

And dear god. When a wicket fell, a ball was caught or a boundary was hit, the stadium turned into a mad house. Everyone (sometimes me as well) jumping, screaming, losing their mind and waving their arms, flags in hand, in random swings around their head. Cricket is compared to a religion here and when it all got too exciting, a fair few of the crowd appeared possessed by the spirit.

There was one god everyone worshipped that night and it was the Mumbai Indian’s champion bowler.

“Mahlinga. Mahlinga. Mahlinga.”

The Deccan chargers were soon 100 all out and the home team made long work of chasing such a small score, but they made it with a couple of balls to spare. One final roar from the crowd, one absolutely unbelievable night of sport. Not because of the game, but because of the frenetic excitement of an Indian crowd watching their national game.

Ellora Caves: Aurangabad is one lucky place. An hour north are the Ajanta caves, half an hour east are the Ellora ones, Ellora wasn’t just buddhists though. Hindus and Jains also carved villages of temples into the rock face. The competition led to a space race; who could carve the largest temple. This has led to a number of 2 storey and 3 storey temples. But, while grander than Ajanta, the sets of caves are less ornate. They are simply grand. And the clear winner… the Hindus! Cave #1 is a staggering temple which has 4 exposed walls; the whole thing is one piece of rock. The details on this one were also something to rival Ajanta.
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Ellora Caves:

Aurangabad is one lucky place. An hour north are the Ajanta caves, half an hour east are the Ellora ones,

Ellora wasn’t just buddhists though. Hindus and Jains also carved villages of temples into the rock face. The competition led to a space race; who could carve the largest temple. This has led to a number of 2 storey and 3 storey temples. But, while grander than Ajanta, the sets of caves are less ornate. They are simply grand.

And the clear winner… the Hindus! Cave #1 is a staggering temple which has 4 exposed walls; the whole thing is one piece of rock. The details on this one were also something to rival Ajanta.

The Ajanta Caves: With my final major destination being reached, Mumbai, there was time for one more excursion. It was to see the Ajanta caves a day east. However, as is now the norm, the excursion part wasn’t that great. My dinner wasn’t going down well, so spending 12 hours on a sleeper bus without a toilet was painful. The two English boys also on the bus had a nightmare night as well. So the caves now bring up memories of endless walking, burning heat and having to spend an hour with our heads on the table before and after our trek round the hills. But, the caves were amazing. Carved into the rock face and dating back almost to the dawn of the modern era, these large halls with ornate decorations and enchanting pillars were mystifying. 30 in all, each was used as a buddhist temple and each had their differences. There were the small ones barely larger than a bedroom and pretty bland, to the multi-storey facades. Taken out of context, it was a really awesome visit.
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The Ajanta Caves:

With my final major destination being reached, Mumbai, there was time for one more excursion. It was to see the Ajanta caves a day east.

However, as is now the norm, the excursion part wasn’t that great. My dinner wasn’t going down well, so spending 12 hours on a sleeper bus without a toilet was painful. The two English boys also on the bus had a nightmare night as well. So the caves now bring up memories of endless walking, burning heat and having to spend an hour with our heads on the table before and after our trek round the hills.

But, the caves were amazing. Carved into the rock face and dating back almost to the dawn of the modern era, these large halls with ornate decorations and enchanting pillars were mystifying. 30 in all, each was used as a buddhist temple and each had their differences. There were the small ones barely larger than a bedroom and pretty bland, to the multi-storey facades.

Taken out of context, it was a really awesome visit.

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Afunika - Plasitic

Heading north to the Caprivi we stopped off in Rundu. The attractions of the much noisier and busier town were two markets where Sophie picked up a lot of fabric and I picked up this guy, the new soundtrack as we stumble eastward.

We knew we’d made the right choice when our guides the next day hopped in the van and got very excited about listening to “one of the top 3 artists in Africa”. Score.

3, 2, 1, Step

The Moses Madbiba stadium in Durban, where 7 matches were played in the 2010 world cup, is made prominent by its cross-pitch arch, an arch I decided to throw myself off…

London Calling:

My Final stop in Mumbai has been the most civilised with access to BBC World News in my hotel room. Woop.

With days to go before I fly back home, this is the trailer playing in between the headlines.

I’m coming, baby!

Metropolitan Mumbai: Delhi is the administrative capital, Bangalore the home of all the call centres and tech wizards, but Mumbai appears to be the international centre of India. The city bustles with glamourous Indians, Arabs, Chinese and westerners. Crucially, there are some international influences. I spot a McDonald’s as soon as I get off the train (and shoot for my first taste of chicken in 4 weeks). The designer labels are all over the shopping streets and the roads seem wider and more organised. The ones around the centre are lined with lush green trees. Mumbai exudes the same comfortable lifestyle typical of any western city where money is available and convenience is on the corner. This was kindly demonstrated by the two teenage girls sitting opposite me in an air-conditioned sandwich bar, conveniently speaking in English (they even used English swear words) so I could listen to the same conversation that all rich girls around the globe have about boys and girlfriends and what they’re going to do this weekend. For the last month, I’ve been looking for the glamourous, wealthy and up and coming India that economists and newspapers are giving a lot of hype back home. All I’ve seen is a lot of people making a lot of noise and mess accompanying a lot of homeless, foodless and begging poor. Until Mumbai. Here a growing India seems to be taking on a developed atmosphere. It might be 40 degrees, but this is a city growing on the international stage and starting to look the part.
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Metropolitan Mumbai:

Delhi is the administrative capital, Bangalore the home of all the call centres and tech wizards, but Mumbai appears to be the international centre of India. The city bustles with glamourous Indians, Arabs, Chinese and westerners.

Crucially, there are some international influences. I spot a McDonald’s as soon as I get off the train (and shoot for my first taste of chicken in 4 weeks). The designer labels are all over the shopping streets and the roads seem wider and more organised. The ones around the centre are lined with lush green trees.

Mumbai exudes the same comfortable lifestyle typical of any western city where money is available and convenience is on the corner. This was kindly demonstrated by the two teenage girls sitting opposite me in an air-conditioned sandwich bar, conveniently speaking in English (they even used English swear words) so I could listen to the same conversation that all rich girls around the globe have about boys and girlfriends and what they’re going to do this weekend.

For the last month, I’ve been looking for the glamourous, wealthy and up and coming India that economists and newspapers are giving a lot of hype back home. All I’ve seen is a lot of people making a lot of noise and mess accompanying a lot of homeless, foodless and begging poor. Until Mumbai. Here a growing India seems to be taking on a developed atmosphere.

It might be 40 degrees, but this is a city growing on the international stage and starting to look the part.

Kolkata Knight Riders - Continuing the Yoyo: I hate it. I love it. I hate it again. I love it again. I’ve come to accept that my relationship with India will always be a mixed bag, but it is the yoyo-ing that is now wearing me out. Some things will end up all right. Others will be a breakdown inducing disaster. It is impossible to predict and my emotions are constantly being played with. I am in India during the Indian Premier League, a multi-million dollar cricket tournament that is now in its 5th year. And although it’s grip is slightly loosening (one boy on the train said he couldn’t trust what he was seeing anymore after all the scandals), cricket is still the national sport and the league the pinnacle of most Indian boys dreams. When people ask where I’m from, their response to my answer is either “lovely jubbly” or “KP (Kevin Peiterson) is playing very well for Delhi”. The league is watched by every male in the country. Since I checked the schedule in South Africa, I knew I would be in Kolkata for a match. Getting tickets online was a recurring challenge, but showing up at the stadium on game night was “easy peasy”. I got a ticket, I had my face painted the purple and gold of the Kolkata Knight Riders, I even had a flag. I was getting wrapped up in it all and I was excited. Even some altercations with the security trying to confiscate my camera refused to get me too cheesed off (actually, I was fuming. Can you imagine someone trying to say you can’t take pictures at the Olympics?). Sat in my seat watching the players warm up, the pitch being prepared and having many Indians scream ‘KKR’ in my face (it later turned out those were the letters I had plastered across my chin, obviously too much of an invitation), the atmosphere was building. Then a wind, a strong wind, blew across the pitch. Sand billowed across the field. The crowd took this as a signal to run. Confused, I followed and managed to find shelter just as the water came tumbling like a power shower from the sky. Watching the ground keepers try to do something was amusing, but futile. The tarpaulin they attempted to patchwork across the pitch soon resembled the blue bubble wrap that covers old swimming pools as the pitch beneath fills with a thick layer of water. There is not a chance of cricket now. As if to represent my tarnished hopes, the banner above where I used to be sat is torn to shreds. The big screen it surrounds, flickers, sparks and then dies. Another bust. Good job I didn’t bother to learn the rules. But what the hell is happening now? People are finding their seats. The wives are wiping the plastic with their saris to create a dry place to sit. The pitch is drying. Quickly. How? People were ankle deep in it before. That’s a fantastic irrigation system. The big screen is back in action. Movie stars are coming out of their boxes and they’ve rolled some large orange machinery onto the field. The crowd can’t stop from bursting out in irregular cheers. They are ready for a match. I get excited again. But alas, 2 1/2 hours after the scheduled start, the match is abandoned. Oh my god. It’s the yoyo-ing. Exhausting.
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Kolkata Knight Riders - Continuing the Yoyo:

I hate it. I love it. I hate it again. I love it again. I’ve come to accept that my relationship with India will always be a mixed bag, but it is the yoyo-ing that is now wearing me out. Some things will end up all right. Others will be a breakdown inducing disaster. It is impossible to predict and my emotions are constantly being played with.

I am in India during the Indian Premier League, a multi-million dollar cricket tournament that is now in its 5th year. And although it’s grip is slightly loosening (one boy on the train said he couldn’t trust what he was seeing anymore after all the scandals), cricket is still the national sport and the league the pinnacle of most Indian boys dreams.

When people ask where I’m from, their response to my answer is either “lovely jubbly” or “KP (Kevin Peiterson) is playing very well for Delhi”. The league is watched by every male in the country.

Since I checked the schedule in South Africa, I knew I would be in Kolkata for a match. Getting tickets online was a recurring challenge, but showing up at the stadium on game night was “easy peasy”.

I got a ticket, I had my face painted the purple and gold of the Kolkata Knight Riders, I even had a flag. I was getting wrapped up in it all and I was excited.

Even some altercations with the security trying to confiscate my camera refused to get me too cheesed off (actually, I was fuming. Can you imagine someone trying to say you can’t take pictures at the Olympics?).

Sat in my seat watching the players warm up, the pitch being prepared and having many Indians scream ‘KKR’ in my face (it later turned out those were the letters I had plastered across my chin, obviously too much of an invitation), the atmosphere was building.

Then a wind, a strong wind, blew across the pitch. Sand billowed across the field. The crowd took this as a signal to run. Confused, I followed and managed to find shelter just as the water came tumbling like a power shower from the sky.

Watching the ground keepers try to do something was amusing, but futile.

The tarpaulin they attempted to patchwork across the pitch soon resembled the blue bubble wrap that covers old swimming pools as the pitch beneath fills with a thick layer of water.

There is not a chance of cricket now.

As if to represent my tarnished hopes, the banner above where I used to be sat is torn to shreds. The big screen it surrounds, flickers, sparks and then dies.

Another bust. Good job I didn’t bother to learn the rules.

But what the hell is happening now? People are finding their seats. The wives are wiping the plastic with their saris to create a dry place to sit.

The pitch is drying. Quickly. How? People were ankle deep in it before. That’s a fantastic irrigation system.

The big screen is back in action. Movie stars are coming out of their boxes and they’ve rolled some large orange machinery onto the field.

The crowd can’t stop from bursting out in irregular cheers. They are ready for a match.

I get excited again.

But alas, 2 1/2 hours after the scheduled start, the match is abandoned.

Oh my god. It’s the yoyo-ing. Exhausting.

Tea Picking: I was heading half way down the mountain from Darjeeling to the town of Kurseong, where I would be exploring the growing and making of tea a bit further at the Makaibari Tea Estate, the oldest in Darjeeling. First on the agenda was to check in to my accommodation, a home stay with the estates pharmacist Sheila and her family. I was put up with yet more fleecy blankets and running water as well as a fully-comp set of lunch, breakfast and dinner. Sheila and the family were lovely, hardy types who could not have been more welcoming. But I had tea to make, so was shown round the expansive fields of tea bushes by Danna. We met the ladies who spend 8 hours a day picking the tops of the leaves for, well, pittance. They get paid Rs 90 (£1.10) a day if they pick 8kg. If they pick less than 7 they get fined. If they pick more than 10kg, they get a small bonus. It is certainly not much compensation for the back breaking work of toiling the steep fields all day, 6 days a week. 2 Danish medical students are also staying with families around the estate and they have seen the abundance of back and neck problems in the clinic. Holding up 8kg of tea on your forehead is no good for your long term posture. At lunch and dinner the ladies return to the factory to submit their harvest and the large factory gears into action. Drying, rolling and sorting were all in action during my visit. All of them playing a part in extracting the flavour so popular with the British. And my most interesting fact from the day: during the sorting all the leaves are classified. The category which makes its way into standard tea bags is labelled by the factory as “dust”. Be warned. I might be a tea snob from here on in.
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Tea Picking:

I was heading half way down the mountain from Darjeeling to the town of Kurseong, where I would be exploring the growing and making of tea a bit further at the Makaibari Tea Estate, the oldest in Darjeeling.

First on the agenda was to check in to my accommodation, a home stay with the estates pharmacist Sheila and her family. I was put up with yet more fleecy blankets and running water as well as a fully-comp set of lunch, breakfast and dinner. Sheila and the family were lovely, hardy types who could not have been more welcoming.

But I had tea to make, so was shown round the expansive fields of tea bushes by Danna. We met the ladies who spend 8 hours a day picking the tops of the leaves for, well, pittance. They get paid Rs 90 (£1.10) a day if they pick 8kg. If they pick less than 7 they get fined. If they pick more than 10kg, they get a small bonus. It is certainly not much compensation for the back breaking work of toiling the steep fields all day, 6 days a week.

2 Danish medical students are also staying with families around the estate and they have seen the abundance of back and neck problems in the clinic. Holding up 8kg of tea on your forehead is no good for your long term posture.

At lunch and dinner the ladies return to the factory to submit their harvest and the large factory gears into action. Drying, rolling and sorting were all in action during my visit. All of them playing a part in extracting the flavour so popular with the British.

And my most interesting fact from the day: during the sorting all the leaves are classified. The category which makes its way into standard tea bags is labelled by the factory as “dust”.

Be warned. I might be a tea snob from here on in.

Darjeeling - Up In the Clouds: What’s that smell? It’s not the usual piss, shit or rotting rubbish. Oh my god. It’s tea! It is fair to say that I have been looking forward to Darjeeling for a considerable time. Largely because I knew that it would be cool, there would be mountains and the classic English brew being made in front of me. As I approached tea station, sat in a jeep lumbering up the foggy mountain in the dark, I hadn’t even seen the place but I still felt justified in texting my mum ‘I love Darjeeling!’ Presumptuous, but accurate. Being the night, the cold had set in. But no worries. The hotel had blankets, thick, fleecy blankets. Blankets! I jumped into them, giddy like a child at the sheer novelty of needing fleecy blankets after months in 30-40 degree heat. The town is distinctly not Indian. The make up of the people is largely Nepalese and Himalayan rather than the darker-skinned from the south. There is such a contrast in the demography that Darjeeling wants to separate itself from the state of West Bengal because, as they see it, they have very little in common with the rest of the population. The dress is wool. The drink is real tea - not chai. And the people are steely. I enjoy mountain settlements because everything exists out of necessity. You can’t pull masses of bricks up a mountain only for half your housing complex to remain vacated. Everything exists here for a reason. Everything has been built up as needed, resulting in a hotch pitch of architecture and winding, steep streets. And, needless to say, the tea is pretty damn good. All the cafes have large selects on offer and are even offering the ‘first blush’ from this year. The tea leaves are only a month old. Amazing. There appears to be a correlation with my enjoyment and the appearance of the two Brit girls who I met in Udaipur, Jess and Annie. We trek to the zoo, with tigers, bears and leopards, and the famous Himalayan / Everest museum. I wish I could stay longer. But time is running out. I have to keep moving. But Darjeeling has added itself to a growing list of places in India I feel positive about. There might even be a tip in the balance sometime soon.
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Darjeeling - Up In the Clouds:

What’s that smell? It’s not the usual piss, shit or rotting rubbish. Oh my god. It’s tea!

It is fair to say that I have been looking forward to Darjeeling for a considerable time. Largely because I knew that it would be cool, there would be mountains and the classic English brew being made in front of me.

As I approached tea station, sat in a jeep lumbering up the foggy mountain in the dark, I hadn’t even seen the place but I still felt justified in texting my mum ‘I love Darjeeling!’ Presumptuous, but accurate.

Being the night, the cold had set in. But no worries. The hotel had blankets, thick, fleecy blankets. Blankets! I jumped into them, giddy like a child at the sheer novelty of needing fleecy blankets after months in 30-40 degree heat.

The town is distinctly not Indian. The make up of the people is largely Nepalese and Himalayan rather than the darker-skinned from the south. There is such a contrast in the demography that Darjeeling wants to separate itself from the state of West Bengal because, as they see it, they have very little in common with the rest of the population.

The dress is wool. The drink is real tea - not chai. And the people are steely. I enjoy mountain settlements because everything exists out of necessity. You can’t pull masses of bricks up a mountain only for half your housing complex to remain vacated. Everything exists here for a reason. Everything has been built up as needed, resulting in a hotch pitch of architecture and winding, steep streets.

And, needless to say, the tea is pretty damn good. All the cafes have large selects on offer and are even offering the ‘first blush’ from this year. The tea leaves are only a month old. Amazing.

There appears to be a correlation with my enjoyment and the appearance of the two Brit girls who I met in Udaipur, Jess and Annie. We trek to the zoo, with tigers, bears and leopards, and the famous Himalayan / Everest museum.

I wish I could stay longer. But time is running out. I have to keep moving. But Darjeeling has added itself to a growing list of places in India I feel positive about. There might even be a tip in the balance sometime soon.

Diarrhea alone killed over 700,000 Indians in 1999 (estimated) – over 1,600 deaths each day.
World Health Organisation, 2003 - shocking but, after the 5 weeks I’ve had, quite believable