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IN THIS ISSUE

• Margaret Manning´s memorable holiday is winding down
• Richard Ross sends another installment in his Indian Chronicles
• Louise Kruithof writes about a frustrating encounter with bureaucracy
• Stan French reports on a very long hold for a popular book
• Don Henderson sends a story about two redneck farmers
• Bruce Galway suggests a captivating video

Margaret and Eric Manning are trying to work in everything they can on their

TRIP TO REMEMBER

We tried to go for a drive somewhere every day when in Suffolk. There are so many stately homes, gardens, ancient buildings, museums and other tourist attractions in the County, and of course that alluring coast. But visiting Eric´s elderly sister (recently deceased), household duties and shopping took up quite a big part of each day. So we opted for a number of short trips not far from Stowmarket.

Lavenham is full of ancient buildings, some of which seem to remain upright only because they have other buildings adjoining. It was a prosperous wool town in medieval times. The 16th Century Guildhall is one of the most visited. Two giant trucks and trailers from the Continent that came down the main street and needed to turn left into a narrow road seemed totally out of place in the setting of this old town.

Nearby Kersey is an incredibly pretty village. Apart from its old timbered buildings, a major feature is the brook that flows across the road. This scene is a popular chocolate box or calendar image. We found something even more picturesque just off the main street. We looked through a set of wrought-iron gates onto a garden edged with lavender, with a large house at the end of the driveway. Away from the brook, there were absolutely no sounds at all and it was as if we were the only two people in the village. That was a very memorable moment.

One of our most enjoyable afternoons out was at Cotton, a tiny village only five miles from our home town. A local farming family has turned an old barn into a place of musical entertainment. The main area housed pianos and pianolas, and a range of different organs. Old 78s and 33s (disk records to those too young to remember) were between the rafters of the ceiling. The entertainment started in a small side room where a variety of small music machines were described and played. Once back into the main room, our guide entertained us on the pianos and other equipment, then produced from under the stage a Wurlitzer organ that was originally at a theatre in New York. When we took a well-earned break, visitors looked at displays in the other small room. These included old saucy English sea-side postcards, local photographs, sheet music, and protective sleeves from old records. Eric spotted a sleeve from his father´s shop. On mentioning this to the owner of this attraction, we learned that the farming family knew Eric´s family when they owned a record shop in Stowmarket.

We went to the Wattisfield pottery shop where pottery has been made by members of the same family since 1800. We had no idea all the buildings in this village were so ancient. That was another place where time had almost stood still. The Teapot outlet at Debenham also made for a delightful visit. The village is breathtakingly beautiful, with colourful hollyhocks growing in unexpected places, and immaculate gardens. We nearly bought a house there in 1966 as we liked the look of Debenham. Although the roads are a lot busier and the villages bigger, the atmosphere of a pleasant place to live was still evident.

We had intended to return to the Suffolk coast and treat our nephew to a boat trip on the River Ore from Orford, but he was not able to move about enough. We managed to catch up briefly with some other relatives, three of whom travelled from Southern France to see us. We had brushed up a little on our French, intending to chat with the two children in their father´s language. However, their English mother said they spoke English when that side of the channel.

All too soon the last few days disappeared and we had to think about packing our bags and getting back to New Zealand.

(To be concluded)

Barbara Wear forwards the next in Richard Ross´ Indian adventures. She is the administrative assistant to Am Bell Ross, Richard´s mother, and works for Endicott College in Beverly, Mass.

THE INDIAN CHRONICLES

As I mentioned in my last instalment, each Chronicle lags somewhere in the distant past. I know we are already past Valentine´s Day, and I´m sure half of you have already made plans for next Christmas, but let me bring you up to date as much as I can, beginning with the last few days of 2008 and taking you up to now, when I am just hours away from leaving India. Where am I off to in just a few hours? Many places! But if you want to know exactly, the answers lie somewhere in the text!

My holiday travel began on the island-nation of Sri Lanka. I followed eight others, some family, some friends of the family. Arriving in the capital city of Colombo, four hours from taking off on a frost- glazed runway, I had for the first time in my life left India behind.

Sri Lanka had been under the British Empire, as both a proud colony of the British East India Company and a strategic port for harboring naval fleets. Around the time India made its getaway, so did Sri Lanka, achieving independence in 1948. No more than 20 miles off the southern coast of Chennai, Sri Lanka literally operates in India´s shadow, but in spite of all the similarities, the 20 million Sri Lankans have their own way of life, not to mention their own problems.

The recent history is one of civil war, concentrated for the most part in the Northern region of the country, a perennial struggle of occupation between the Sri Lankan government and the cause of the Tamil minority, preserved for better or for worse by the Tamil Tigers, a tightly-banded and tactical terrorist organization. Colombo, in response, is strangled with checkpoints, trying its absolute hardest to separate the murder of the north from the sunbathing of the south.

I did not stay long, just enough to see the hatching modernity, cleanly streets, free-flowing traffic, and the pleasant lack of gut- wrenching poverty and pollution - all of which I had lost touch with in India. Amid this aging civil war there was surprising evidence of independent progress, as if Sri Lanka were India´s little sister, and for this reason, wanted to be nothing like her.

Four hours south of Colombo, we reached our final destination, Bentota Beach. This seaside town, burdened by empty hotels, empty chairs and empty taxis, seemingly had once sold its soul to tourism, but with no more tourists, the complexion of the locals, glum, a bit desperate, suggested that perhaps "we should not have." The unpeopled landscape, however, provided every bit of reason why, once upon a time, Bentota was a cluttered destination for German and Russian tourists. It was in fact, a splendid looking place - a rich juxtaposition of lush vegetation, velvety sand, and pounding surf.

Our bed and breakfast, snuggled somewhere in between, was an atmospheric delight, an architectural vision put together by a rich, voguish English woman, who one winter collected her severance package and headed to the Sri Lankan seaboard, where she met and married a local fisherman. Together, with her money, and his land, they constructed a five-bedroom villa.

Along the deserted beach, the local men would emerge from the shadowy bush as swarthy, scantily-clad sculptures. For many, their dark straight hair had not been disturbed in years, nor had their lifestyles. From what I could conclude, they had never been away from the beach; like the breaking waves they surfed, they had no other direction but towards the shore.

I set out early each morning, walking barefoot on the warming asphalt that ran through a swampy forest. The walk was memorable. As the red sun climbed to its late-morning post, the overhanging mangrove branches reflected pockets of shade, to which I hop-scotched to and fro, occasionally startling a ruminating cow. Once I stepped off the road onto the sandy path, my friends were always waiting, lounging between the sling-shot V of a tree, ostensibly where they had slept the night before. We engaged in many activities together; the ones requiring little vocal communication were most successful. We would toss my Frisbee - an activity that on their part proved as challenging as when I attempted to surf. At night, they would invite me to their "parties" - usually with the request I pitch in for alcohol, which I learned after the first night meant to purchase all of it. This was not asking too much: they were friendly, they were poor - a little bibulous cheer was the least I could give this Christmas.

My first invitation, on Christmas eve, was accepted quickly, in between the celebration feast of those whom I traveled with. Christmas eve was an occasion that every year hitherto constituted of certain traditions, the faces of certain loved ones, and the evocation of certain emotions. But when the sun sank below the horizon on my first Christmas away from home, I was contently homesick, sitting around a crackling bonfire, and passing around a bottle of "Irak," a locally distilled spirit made of crushed coconut, but tasting more of vinegar. Two of the beach boys were wearing Santa hats I´d provided, another banged a bongo drum, interspersing slurred lyrics of Bob Marley with the up-tempo sounds of Sri Lankan reggae. In this far-distant land, I was reminded of the many summers in Annisquam, where we too had nestled up to a fire, atop soft sand, serenading each other with our motley renditions of Revolution and Buffalo Soldier.

Back at the guest house, the others (did I mention "Grammy", the wonderful Deb Gardner who had made the trip from Gloucester?) had assembled my iPod speakers and were singing and dancing to music a bit more customary this time of year. Jingle Bells, Frosty the Snowman, and other classic songs revived all of our hazy holiday spirits, and as the bottles uncorked and the song and dance grew more outrageous, I was at last celebrating Christmas, rather than reminiscing about it.

To be continued.

Louise Kruithof, who was in China in April of last year, wrote about a daunting problem they had with

CHINESE BUREAUCRACY

We all have problems that happen once in a while. Sometimes they take time to solve, other times they take money. This one took time, and it amazes me that some people do not understand that time is also money.

Both hubby and I had visas that stated that we could enter and exit China as many times as we wished for a period of six months. That was great, but there was also one line that said that we could not be here for more than 60 days at a time. Hubby would have been here for 60 days on April the 19th. Here is the saga:

We brought this to the attention of his company´s field service attendant in Canada during the last week of March, and suggested we just take a weekend in Hong Kong and come back, which is the usual way to take care of that and it does not count as lost time on the job. The gentleman insisted that it could easily be done locally. So on Thursday the 10th of April we got a letter written by the Chinese employer to take to the immigration office. Also, on the 9th, I spoke with someone at the hotel who said she had taken care of that quite a few times previously and would get the hotel´s required letter and come with us on Friday.

So on Friday morning, April 11th, we went to the government´s office, only to be told by the man in a uniform sitting behind a desk in a room with the door locked that the hotel´s letter was not acceptable. Why was it before and not now? We then presented the letter from the employer, and were told that we needed someone from the Chinese employer to present the same letter. We called and asked for the writer of the Chinese employer´s letter to come to the city to present the letter. It was a one-hour drive each way to the city. Almost two hours later he arrived, walked to the main office, and knocked at the locked door. This required the man behind the desk to come and unlock his door. The letter writer was asked for official I.D., showing that he was an official of the Chinese employer and wouldn´t you know - he did not have any with him. So that was it for Friday the 11th.

Come Monday morning, the 14th, we went back to the Entry/Exit office. The man now has the required I.D. but the man behind the desk in the room with a locked door looked at the employer´s letter and said: "That is no good. I need more information." So everyone drove back to the place of work to get another letter, another one-hour drive. On Tuesday morning, the 15th, back to the same man in his locked office. New letter, which he read and then said, "I need to see the contract to show me why this man is here so long." Guess what! - back in the car for a one-hour drive to get the contract; back to town with the contract, another one hour drive. Remember, this is a one- hour drive each way! Well, that was not good enough. The contract was signed in 2005 and was considered outdated even though it outlined the timeline, which extended to the fall of 2008. So what did we do next? Well, just bring in the big cannons then. The Party secretary, the de-facto ruler of the employer´s business, went to town on the 16th, talked to the man in the uniform behind the door that was locked for a good 15 minutes, was given a form to fill out and told to write another letter and to go to the bank to pay the required fee.

Back to work, one-hour drive.

On Wednesday morning, the 16th, the first person, the man who came to the gorvernment office with no official I.D. and who had said the week before that everything was all settled and taken care of was now getting in a panic. Friday, the 18th, was the due date for exit from the country. The man offered to go to the bank to pay and get the receipt. The only bank accepting those payments was in Luoyang, an hour drive each way. He got the receipt, came back to work, and said that hubby now had to go to the man in the uniform in the office with the locked door and hand in his passport, the paper work, and the receipt. So hubby left work early, went to the man behind the locked door, handed in everything, and was told to come back on Monday morning to pick up the passport, which should be by then all stamped for another 30 days. It remained to be seen what would happen on Monday!

On Monday, the 21st, numerous phone calls were made to the famous man in uniform behind the desk in the office with the locked door. He did not answer his phone. Conclusion: he was not at the office. Tuesday morning, now the 22nd, and wow! - the phone was answered and we were told that it would be ready after 3:00 p.m. that afternoon. Just before noon, another phone call: not ready today, come tomorrow morning. On Wednesday, another call; no answer.

All of this running around was finally completed on Friday, the 25th, with the passport stamped and ready for another 60 days.

The standard fee for one hour of work is over $100. Each hour lost implies delays in the completion of the contract, a longer stay in the hotel, daily allowances, extra cost for the car and driver, etc. The weekend trip to Hong Kong was less than $1000 for two people. Can someone tell me the logic in all this?

Other than that, I love China; the Chinese and their culture and traditions are amazing. They have excavated bronze vessels dating from between 200 BC and 550 BC. The workmanship on those is overwhelming. They have unearthed statues from the same period that still have their colours on the clay. It is an amazing country. We were lucky to be in a city which was for many centuries the seat of the emperors, hence the wealth of antiques. Some museums even offer real antiques for sale.

THREE CUPS OF TEA

Stan French reports that the Toronto library has 138 copies of "Three Cups of Tea," by Greg Mortenson, and 658 holds. There is obviously a long wait for this inspiring account of one man´s campaign to build schools in the most dangerous, remote, and anti-American areas in Pakistan.

I heartily recommend this book to everyone concerned about the situation in Afghanistan and Pakistan, and the involvement of our soldiers in a war against a population that has nothing left but pride. The location of Afghanistan astride the land routes between the Indian subcontinent, Iran, and central Asia has enticed conquerors throughout history. Its high mountains, although hindering unity, helped the hill tribes to preserve their independence. The might of the Russian army could not subdue the local population, and the subsequent attack by the US and NATO and Canada has been equally ineffective.

Greg Mortenson shows an alternative to bombs - books. Education of the remote peoples, especially of girls, empowers them to become independent and lessens the attraction of terrorism, which flourishes in poverty.

Don Henderson´s story illustrates the importance of education to

TWO REDNECK FARMERS

Two redneck farmers, Jim and Bob, are sitting at their favorite bar, drinking beer.

Jim turns to Bob and says, "You know, I´m tired of going through life without an education. Tomorrow I think I´ll go to the community college and sign up for some classes."

Bob thinks it´s a good idea, and the two leave.

The next day, Jim goes down to the college and meets the Dean of Admissions, who signs him up for four basic classes: math, English, history, and logic.

"Logic?" Jim says. "What´s that?"

The Dean says, "I´ll give you an example. Do you own a weed eater?"

"Yeah."

"Then logically speaking, because you own a weed eater, I think that you would have a yard."

"That´s true, I do have a yard."

"I´m not done," the dean says. "Because you have a yard, I think logically that you would have a house."

"Yes, I do have a house."

"And because you have a house, I think that you might logically have a family."

"Yes, I have a family."

"I´m not done yet. Because you have a family, then logically you must have a wife. And because you have a wife, then logic tells me you must be a heterosexual."

"I am a heterosexual. That´s amazing; you were able to find out all of that because I have a weed eater."

Excited to take the class now, Jim shakes the Dean´s hand and leaves to go meet Bob at the bar. He tells Bob about his classes, how he is signed up for math, English, history, and logic.

"Logic?" Bob says, "What´s that?"

Jim says, "I´ll give you an example. Do you have a weed eater?"

"No."

"Then you´re gay."

SUGGESTED WEBSITES

Bruce Galway writes: This site is truly worth watching, even if you are not a golfer. This is about a golfer, but it is much more than that. It is worth watching all the way through:

Richard Milner, a singing Darwinian scholar, celebrates the 200th anniversary of Darwin´s birth and the 150th anniversary of the publication of "On the Origin of Species":