---

IN THIS ISSUE

• Margaret Manning finishes her story of a memorable holiday
• Richard Ross concludes another Indian Chronicle
• Louise Kruithof recalls another adventure in China
• The editor thanks you for your condolences
• Rafiki forwards a story with a moral
• Betty Fehlhaber, Bill McNair, and Dick Monaghan recommend sites

Margaret Manning concludes her story of

A TRIP TO REMEMBER

The last morning at Stowmarket was traumatic as just about everyone we had visited rang to say goodbye, have a good trip back. There were so many hugs from Steve we thought we´d be crushed. This was the hardest farewell we´d ever had.

Our train from Stowmarket left at 1:25 p.m. Our special price tickets specified a particular train and seating. The train was full of football supporters travelling to Ipswich and nobody seemed bothered about sitting in particular seats, so we just sat down where it was a bit quieter.

We got to London´s Liverpool Street Station about 2:40 and decided to have a quick coffee before going on the underground. There was nowhere to sit and nowhere to put the empty paper cups. Apparently there are no rubbish bins for security reasons and that made sense.

We were told our rail tickets, bought weeks before for only eight pounds each, would get us right to Heathrow. The Liverpool Street Underground platform was packed when we arrived with little room for others, so we waited. We were going on the Circle line to South Kensington and then on the Piccadilly to Heathrow. Once on a crowded Circle line train we quickly realised we were going the wrong way, but that didn´t matter as it was the Circle line - we´d get to South Kensington. A roughly-dressed guy got on at one of the stations and did a "Rap" request for money, asking passengers to give him their small change. Some did, and he got off at the next stop. A couple of beautifully groomed males dressed in female clothing sat near us. At another station some noisy young women entered the train and were drinking alcohol. We found all this a bit unnerving.

When the train stopped at Edgeware Road we were told it wasn´t going any further and we had to go to another platform to continue our journey. Okay, this wasn´t a problem and we did get to South Kensington. We went down to the Piccadilly line. The notice said the train for Heathrow would arrive in four minutes. Trains came and went but not the one for Heathrow. A lot more time than four minutes had passed and the platform became even more crowded. We couldn´t hear announcements above the noise but someone told us the train at the platform had broken down and there would be a further delay.

We could tolerate this no longer so went up to street level to get a taxi. The train tickets did not work in the machine as they were for Heathrow, not South Kensington. At least there was an official nearby and we told him our predicament so he let us through. All this time we had been lugging our suitcases and cabin bags about, up and down escalators.

By now it was 4:30 p.m. It was raining and we must have looked very distressed because when I asked someone where we could get a taxi, he said, "There´s one just coming. I´ll hail it for you." Once in the taxi we wondered how much it would cost as we only had 50 pounds cash and no idea how much we would need. The taxi driver was marvellous and dropped us off right outside the departure doors at Terminal 4. The cost was 46 pounds and he got a four-pound tip - and would have been more had we had more notes. He got us there at 5:10 p.m.

At the Qantas check in we were told we were not travelling premium economy. Puzzled, we asked why not as we had paid extra to do so. "Mr and Mrs Manning, you will be travelling business class." Qantas had upgraded us. This enabled us to stay in the transit lounge until our flight was called. Oh, what luxury after all the hassles! As soon as we got on the plane I was asked how I´d been in England and if I was feeling okay. We could not believe the ongoing care shown by Qantas.

The flights to Singapore and then on to Melbourne were a breeze. Then we were back on economy for the hop skip and jump across the Tasman Sea to Auckland. It sure was great to get back to New Zealand.

A trip to remember for sure, but for many of the wrong reasons.

Richard Ross takes up the story of what he did last Christmas in his

INDIAN CHRONICLES

After two more sunsets in Sri Lanka, I was off to the next civilization-by-the-sea. Reentering India, I had taken an early morning flight from Colombo to Goa. Everyone had advised I stay clear of it, stay in Sri Lanka, change my plans. The rampage of terror was sure to continue, the terrorists were still hungry, and the flesh was ripe in Goa. I, too, second-guessed my itinerary, but the hype of a New Year in Goa had infected my mind. I was too curious. Eventually, in fact, I found solace in my decision. If I were to exercise good judgment, I would not have been going to Goa in the first place.

Granted, I had not been before, and of course, tourism is napping across the world, but the Goa I encountered was not groggy. Whether the numbers were lower than in seasons in the past, those who made the trip this year wanted to be there. I had seen nothing like it in India, where the majority live hand-to-mouth; in Goa, it´s sand- between-the-toes. Once colonized by a pious Portugal, Goa could be India´s Catholic keepsake, but surrounded by ceaseless sin, every crucifix that remained seemed to be crooked.

Entering North Goa, I was transplanted into a restless state of being. The bumpity bump of Goan Trance trembled from all directions - but never one in particular. That ancient promise of debauchery, why the Portuguese disembarked year after year, still remained. As if heaven had been sold to the devil, the air and the ocean, seeming fresh and pure at first, were in fact contaminated.

Most would dismiss them as delusional, freeloading hippies, and I agree, such a reputation retains truth, but they were every bit convincing. They live honest lifestyles, not hiding nor downplaying that they were high. The hippies of Goa have no interest in gazing through the pedestrian and predictable lens of sobriety. Their philosophy instead suggests that the human mind is too vast, too multidimensional for it to waste away on its own - it needs further experiment, it needs more exploration. Let it be said then, although Goa´s 125-kilometer coastline may once have been discovered, it will forever continue to be explored. If you arrived in Goa this morning or 20 years ago, it would not make a difference. From 10 p.m. on, with a water-bottle in hand, the trip for most has just begun.

Who were these people? They were Israeli and Iranian sensualists, forming mini peace agreements on the dance floor; Russian Mafiosos and their porcelain prostitutes. On the beach, there were the hairy, grotesque Indian men, straddling black Speedos, with their docile wives trailing behind, bedecked head-to-toe in dark radiant garb, perspiring needlessly. These panting Indian women, sweating products of a chaste culture, were of course juxtaposed to the topless and inconsiderate Europeans. The retired English couples, who were supine, unclothed, did little but sunbathe and squawk. The shriveling French women, as well, were unpleasantly peacockish, spending their days face-down in the buff, naively in the way of those who needed to get by. And the Americans you ask? Well, for better or for worse, there weren´t any.

Off to the side, the local Goan women pose as the God-sent beauty of South-East Asia - the Indian, so supernatural in her appearance, the drudgery in which she labors sneaks away and only her face shines. It´s a fresh concept for the American-construct: the pretty living meagerly - but throughout India, the beggar, the weary, the filthy - they behold the eye. For the rich silk-stocking type, they´re but gluttons - a mid-Elizabethan mindset somehow still resonates here, where pale skin and a pot belly dyes the blue in one´s blood.

The hawkers and peddlers in Goa were of another breed - some playfully frisky, others borderline pestiferous. At times, I was waist deep in the water, seconds from absolute submersion, and a young girl, with her right arm supporting 50 beaded necklaces, trying not to drown, would gurgle, "Sir, necklace, very good price." Or the many inert taxi drivers, as I zipped by them on my rented scooter, would not ask, but insist earnestly that I, already in locomotion, needed their service.

It was almost lunch time of 2009, when my New Year´s celebration made any hints at last-call. A night club, so magnificently located, the dance-floor was the beach; the ocean, the restroom. The energy was riveting. It was remarkably not about sex and seduction, but about movement and space - synergy and sensation. After the 1st, growing more exhausted and emaciated by the day, I had to leave. I packed my bags, kissed my chemical romance goodbye and boarded a bus to Mumbai.

When witnessing one of the largest cities in the world for the first time, you are always on the edge of your seat, but in the case of Mumbai, formerly known as Bombay, you´re perched on the outer edge of a moving train, latching on for dear life. From the inside looking out, Mumbai seems to be the most talked about city this year for Americans. Between the international media´s unabated coverage of November´s terrorist attacks and the buzzing success of Slum-Dog Millionaire, I´m sure you all have your own impressions - perhaps some more horrific than others. To me, however, Mumbai was the Indian fantasy. All that I had seen in India up until then was inconceivably aggrandized. For instance, in Delhi, where four may be saddled to a motor scooter, in Mumbai there are six. Mumbai, as well as being India´s business hub, serves as Bollywood´s center stage - a little like New York and a tad like LA. Indians are more caught up with self- image, self-expression, and self-identity. Fighting for recognition in a pageant of 12 million, many Mumbaites are India´s most unique. They´re goaded by money, driven by success. For many, it is the land of opportunity in a country that offers little. Mumbai, encouragingly, also proceeds with the blindest eye to caste and religion in all of India.

I am illustrating images that may not justify the grazing slums, the day-to-day struggle of those who pick trash and sleep on cement each night, or the many families who lost their loved ones in one of the greatest surprise triumphs in terrorism, but Mumbai, it seemed, did not indulge itself in sympathy. To slow down and observe, to soften the heart and appreciate the horror, will only lead to an inconvenient fender-bender. Mumbai is an urban culture shaped by the nouveau-riche, and thus, individuals are always swimming upstream. Mumbai´s treasure for most may be just on the other side of the run- way. For others, it´s that next casting-call, striking one more wicket, the nightshift at an emerging call-center, or more recently, the chance to go on Want to be a Millionaire. Wherever it is, no one wants to lose momentum, so no one looks back.

No highlight of Mumbai could of course outshine the reunion with my mother, Amy, and her boyfriend Richard. This time, although traveling a little farther than usual, they had not abandoned the life of luxury. Wherever they turned in India, the feather pillows were fluffed, the masseuses were knocking, and the morning buffets were, "Please sir, right this way."

In their first day or two here, retarded by jetlag and stomach- gurgling, they were not exactly sure what to expect. In the next two and a half weeks, however, from the South to the North, they delicately scraped off all of India´s delights - the food, the shopping, and the sunlight - and by the time they reached us in Delhi, their final destination of the trip, they were rhapsodic about the place. It was as if India had been once a googly-eyed monster, but as they grew more acquainted, sipped his tea, he was in fact a friendly creature. They are not alone in this respect. For so many who travel to India, it seems, what was strange when you arrived is special when you leave.

Once we split in Mumbai, I was butted by a hankering to return to Goa, which, in the darkness of night, I did. I won´t continue to blather about another week of sun-basking and merry-making but I will say, on my spontaneous return, I did feel just how thin the line is between just arriving for another week and remaining there for a lifetime. I told everyone I would visit again soon, but between you and me, I dare not go back - ever. Through and through, the experiences have been great - and less unfortunate than the saga in Chennai.

Once I resettled in Delhi, where I have been for the last month, I took a paid assignment for the International Center for Research on Women (ICRW), helping with the writing, editing, and publishing of a report assessing various micro-credit programs in India and their impact on women´s empowerment. The experience, to work at a very respectable Indian research center as the only non-Indian, was fruitful and rewarding.

In about four hours, I fly to Bangkok, trading my expatriate badge of India in for a grimy tourist-visa, to again trespass aimlessly in someone else´s country. As I´ve stated, my plans upon arriving are frighteningly unstructured. As I´ve said before, I would like to make my way south, following what Lonely Planet refers to as the "Beach Cure": passing through South Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, and on into Indonesia, hopping between Bali and a few other sun-drenched islands, ending in the untold mystery of Jakarta.

I do know, however; my time is not as boundless as it once was. My recent acceptance into the Peace Corps somewhere in West Africa, with a departure date in August (provided I am not carrying too many latent viruses) will rush me around the US, making my rounds and wishing everyone, once again, farewell - though this one will be much longer.

If I had to guess, I´ll be back in the United States by mid-April. But of course, an on-the-fly Chronicle of South-East Asia should precede my physical homecoming.

Louise Kruithof writes another account of their visit to China last spring. By way of preamble, she says her sister had wondered if it was not dangerous for her to go out by herself into places she did not know. Louise said she found the people to be very decent and always willing to help. What surprised people on the street, or even at tourists places, was that she was alone, or with only her husband. Most tourists still go to China as part of a group, so while people are used to seeing foreigners, they seldom see just one at a time - unless it is someone there as an ESL teacher. Hence the looks of wonder or curiosity she kept getting.

A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

In April of 2008 I was teaching English to a large group of executives at the company my husband was working at. It was very demanding because not only was I teaching them English, but also how business is conducted in Western countries and Europe and when I had the whole group, they were all at different levels of knowledge of English. When they decided to learn about something though they worked very dilligently, which meant that as a teacher I always had to have lots of material ready on a variety of subjects and at different levels, with enough exercises to give a good idea of what was being taught.

One Wednesday I had no classes, so I had a leisurely breakfast, did some reading, and then decided to go and find silk by the metre. I was, after all, in China, in a city known for being the last stop on the famous Silk Road. I had asked many people about where to find silk by the metre, but all the information I managed to get was that people do not sew any more because it is much easier to go to a store and buy ready-made clothing. So there was no-one to direct me to where I could buy silk by the metre.

To get to work every day my husband had hired a driver who picked him up every morning to take him to the plant, which was a one-hour drive away from the hotel where we stayed. I joined him every day except Wednesdays. The driver, we soon realized, was a fountain of knowledge about the city of Luoyang and its surroundings. So, dictionary in hand and with my little notepad and pencil and drawings, I managed to get him to understand what I was looking for. When the request finally got through he said something that sounded like, "Ha Ha!" which in Chinese stands for OK or yes, and he wrote the name of a shopping area on a piece of paper. He told me to show this address to a taxi driver and there I would find what I was looking for. This was my chance to go and investigate.

It took almost a half hour to get there and it cost 30 yuans, a fair sum for a taxi ride. I got out of the taxi and looked around. Whow! This looked more like a whole street full of shops and I did not see anything that looked like a fabric shop. Where to start? I had made it there to find silk so I was not going back until I had given it a good try.

I had been in China only one month and the Chinese language was still a mystery to me so I was counting on visuals, those little pictures that often show what is being sold in any particular shop. There was no such thing here: only chinese characters!

I saw a three-storey building and decided to start there. In China, there are a lot of malls consisting of small vendors showing their wares in a small 10 feet by 10 feet area. Each one is separated from its neighbour either by a thin wall, backing onto another wall so that it becomes a three-sided enclosure and it is closed by a curtain, or a large plastic tarp, on the side facing the corridor. This was what was in this particular building: three floors of small stalls. I started going from one to the other, everyone looking at this foreigner, all by herself. After looking at what felt like 100 stalls, I asked one of the lady vendors about where I could find silk by the meter. She tried to tell me but - language barrier - and the notebook came out again. She drew the stairs at the end of the building, the exit door, the street, and which way to go. Travelling around, I learned that, generally speaking, one can trust women, particularly middle-aged and older women. My grey hair probably helps as well.

I followed her directions and started looking at the shops along the street where she had sent me. I walked and looked and walked and looked and the street seemed to me to have no end and definitely no hope of a fabric shop. Ready to give up, I asked a woman on the street, showing her all my papers and drawing again what I was looking for. She indicated that I should go further down the street. By then I was starting to think that I was walking all the way back to Luoyang.

After what felt like another kilometre away, I asked a woman again. Ammunition in hand, i.e. the notebook, the dictionary, and the notes written by the other women, I asked. She told me to go one block further and then to follow the alleyway on the right. More drawing and sign language that is, not the spoken word. On I went, and lo and behold, it was an alleyway lined with shop after shop selling fabric and notions between shoe stall and shoe stall.

Now the search had taken a different focus, the one I wanted, silk by the meter. Shop after shop I kept asking about silk. Most people would say, "No," "Sorry," "Not available," or some other form of regret for not having what I was looking for. Some told me that there was no such thing available anywhere; some offered me satin or sateen. The whole of it was that it was not available. Picture this: I walked and asked at what felt like 100 vendors and the answer was always: no, no, no.

Ready to give up, I decided to go to the bitter end and look in the last one of those alleyways.

At one of them, there was a little toddler running around who decided that he had to relieve himself right there and then and I could see the floor getting wetter and wetter, so laughing (I am a grandmother after all), I went in and asked, having resolved that this was the last shop I would look into. Again, I was shown satin, to which I said no, that was not what I was looking for. The two adults in the shop looked at each other and the man went to the back of his stall and returned with a bag similar to the plastic bags one gets at the grocery store and opened it. In there was an absolutely marvellous looking piece of the most beautiful red silk, meters and meters of it. That was absolutely delightful, worth all the walking.

Trying to look very cool and detached, I asked for the price, bargained, and got it for 30 yuans a meter, quite a substantial sum for a Chinese person. In the bag was also some white silk, more like ivory colour, which I thought would make a great blouse, so I bought some of that also. Now, very happy and with a bounce in my step despite the 30 degrees C weather, I went looking for a taxi to get back to the hotel. All this took the whole afternoon.

Back at the hotel, I started checking my purchases a little bit closer. The red silk was so fine that I put all six meters of into a medium-size zip-lock bag. Whow! I made a pashmina with about 2 1/2 meters from it and I can pull the whole thing through one of the rings on my fingers. With the rest, I will make a blouse and a skirt. Yes, there was all that much of this gorgeous red silk. I was and still am very pleased with this purchase. The whole adventure was worth the time and the walking - a well-spent afternoon!

THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND WORDS OF CONDOLENCE

on the death of my sister, Nell, which I mentioned in last week´s issue. It is comforting to know that others are thinking of one during times of great loss.

Rafiki forwards this

STORY WITH A MORAL

A drunk man who smelled of beer sat down on a subway next to a priest. The man´s tie was stained, his face was plastered with red lipstick, and a half-empty bottle of gin was sticking out of his torn coat pocket. He opened his newspaper and began reading.

After a few minutes the man turned to the priest and asked, "Say, Father, what causes arthritis?"

The priest replied, "My Son, it´s caused by loose living; being with cheap, wicked women; too much alcohol; contempt for your fellow man; sleeping around with prostitutes, and lack of a bath."

The drunk muttered in response, "Well, I´ll be damned!" then returned to his paper.

The priest, thinking about what he had said, nudged the man and apologized. "I´m very sorry. I didn´t mean to come on so strong. How long have you had arthritis?"

The drunk answered, "I don´t have it, Father. I was just reading here that the Pope does."

MORAL: Make sure you understand the question before offering the answer.

RECOMMENDED WEBSITES

Betty Fehlhaber writes: This is an awesome dance, called the Thousand- Hand Guanyin, which is making the rounds of the net. Considering the tight coordination required, their accomplishment is nothing short of amazing, even if the dancers were not all deaf. Yes, you read correctly: all 21 of the dancers are deaf. Relying only on signals from trainers at the four corners of the stage, these extraordinary dancers deliver a visual spectacle that is both intricate and stirring. Its first major international debut was in Athens at the closing ceremonies for the 2004 Paralympics, but it had long been in the repertoire of the Chinese Disabled People´s Performing Art Troupe and had traveled to more than 40 countries. Its lead dancer is 29- year-old Tai Lihua, who has a BA from the Hubei Fine Arts Institute. The video was recorded in Beijing during the Spring Festival celebrations this year.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xgHmSdpjEIk

~~~~~~~~

Bill McNair writes: Today I down loaded the FREE "OpenOffice.org" and installed it. OpenOffice is filled with several new concepts that MicroSoft hasn´t yet thought about, let alone considered. If you know anyone who does not have a good Office program, this OpenOffice.org is as good as it gets. They have scooped MSOffice by a long shot. And it is free!

~~~~~~~

Dick Monaghan recommends this very clever advertisement:

http://arunaurl.com/30be

"As I got, I gave ... as I give, I get. - Mary McLeod Bethune