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IN THIS ISSUE

• Margaret Manning tells of another busy day in their holiday
• Richard Ross has a humiliating experience in India
• Gerrit de Leeuw sends a story about a different perspective
• Dick Monaghan forwards a groaner
• Carol Hansen, Dick, Gerrit, Marilyn Magid, and Tom Kyle suggest sites

Margaret Manning continues her reminiscences about

A TRIP TO REMEMBER

The week at the cottage flew by. One morning we visited the nearby postal agency/shop for some stamps. We certainly stepped back in time there. Bags of bird seed were displayed on the counter next to cans of baked beans and packets of handkerchiefs. The very friendly elderly lady in charge told us the postal side was being closed down. She was upset about that, as she had worked there since she was 15. She rummaged about in her book of assorted stamps but could not find the denominations I wanted. She asked if I was sure I needed stamps of those values, and suggested some other ones. She couldn´t find enough assorted stamps to meet overseas postage. In the end we had to leave the shop without purchasing anything as Eric´s niece and her husband had just driven into our road to have lunch with us.

We had a lovely week in that cottage, going for walks down a few of those Norfolk byways, having a good look round Dereham, and visiting my cousins again. We passed a huge wind farm near Swaffham on our way to Downham Market to see our friend John. We thought we remembered where he lived, but got lost again and had to ask. As soon as we found the road name we recognized his bungalow. John had booked a table for lunch at Denver Sluice. The name did not sound very interesting and we didn´t know where it was but the main thing was - we could spend some time with John.

We had a lovely drive through part of the fens, travelling on very narrow roads, past fields of maturing grain, Denver Windmill, and the sluice. The venue was a pub right by the river. I would have loved to continue down the road just to see where we ended up as I am mesmerized by the unspoilt and unhurried atmosphere of fen country. The pub was the perfect place to reminisce about the good old days (the mid-sixties), take photographs of each other, and have time to enjoy the stunning landscape. All too soon it was time to take John home and for us to return to Suffolk.

As we drove south, I noticed a signpost on the left pointing to "Iceni Village". We didn´t know how far away it was, or whether it was open that day, so decided to visit that another day. We also saw the sign in Thetford Chase for Grimes´ Graves. This is the site of Neolithic flint mines that date back over 4,000 years. I had been there in the 1950s and was not keen to re-visit, although it is very interesting.

There are several stopping places in Thetford Chase. It is popular for hikers, horse riders, cyclists, and indeed anyone who appreciates the natural beauty of this area. The long-running English T.V. Comedy "Dad´s Army" was filmed at Thetford, which now has a "Dad´s Army Museum". Many of the people involved with making and acting in the programme visited Thetford while we were in England to celebrate the 40th anniversary since the comedy first screened.

We didn´t see much traffic until we were almost back to Stowmarket, which is the town that was our main base. Although we had had a lovely week at the cottage, it was great to return to the bungalow and our cosy surroundings. And of course it was super to be with our nephew again.

Next day we went to the library to check our e-mail and found we had 58 new and unwanted messages. We noted that that many of these originated in Britain and we wondered how our e-mail address was known to "them". But they were all just as rubbishy as the unwanted mail we get in N.Z. and were quickly deleted.

We were supposed to go to friends in the New Forest (Hampshire) a couple of days later, but I did not relish the long car trip as I had not felt 100% ever since being in England. We reluctantly cancelled and thought we should consider our return flights. We thought it would be great to travel back business class, so we rang Qantas and quickly realized that was not an option. The price for two of us was $29,000 Australian one way from Heathrow to Melbourne only. An attractive alternative was premium economy, which would cost us "only" $6200 Australian. We decided to do that and think about the conversion to New Zealand dollars later. Well, that´s what credit cards are for, isn´t it?

To be continued.

Richard Ross resumes his

INDIAN CHRONICLES

Greetings from Goa!

As you´ve probably gathered, each chronicle is e-mailed a month or so after the experience. This one is no different. Although I have covered much ground since we last met, I cannot jump the gun - I must remain true to the chronology I´ve set forth. Below takes you back just to where we left off, on my way to south India.

In my first journey to south India the sun rose with fiery promise, beaming a reflection of levity, warmheartedness and laziness I hadn´t seen in the north. However, for all her warmth while I was there, the sunset was not pretty. The sun sank unnoticed amid an unforecast squall of misfortune.

The largest city on the south-eastern coast, Chennai, once Madras, was not handsome or terrifically tropical, but a valuable city nonetheless. Valuable in its own right as a sound sanctuary for south Indian culture. Still undeniably in Bombay´s shadow, Chennai breathes without the cosmopolitan fluff and western indulgence. Instead, food grubbing, lungi´s*, and the Tamil language are the norm - all considered uncouth in the upper-crust, old-money circles of Delhi. (*A length of cloth wrapped around the lower half of the body, comparable to the Malaysian sarong.)

The same Indian pandemonium and pollution reign, but here it´s scented with the salty air of a forlorn sea. The roads are even more clogged and the equatorial heat, the scalding pavement, and the sooty exhaust come together to release unbreathable smoke like that of burning plastic. On the surface, the neighborhoods along the coast appeared unusually egalitarian. However, when I voiced this observation, a local responded, "The poor? They were washed away with the tsunami." A theory, need I say, that wrenched my heart.

My being there had much to do with an ultimate Frisbee tournament. Eight teams had journeyed from all across India to take part in a round-robin contest. We, being the most American-rooted team, thought we would cake walk end-zone to end-zone, leaving the bulk of competition, all of them Indian-born, beseeching for our autographs. Hell, we invented the sport! But the curse of cockiness curled our throws and cramped our muscles; what we anticipated and what took place bred humiliation to the nth degree. We were the Soviets, with the ice still in our veins, denied the Gold, and by whom? Amateurs, a litter of copy-cats that took the American import and ran with it.

Once defeat had been swallowed and digested and my teammates had hurried back to their jobs in Delhi, I, having been invited to my first Indian wedding, had to stay on. With a few days to kill before the "auspicious" morning, I fled the grungy stew of Chennai and headed for fresher air.

Pondicherry, another coastal city four hours south, draws tourists for its French flavor - France´s piece of the pie in the colonial free-for-all that India once was. I, a closet Francophile, was not impressed. The Gallic architecture was there, but you could easily tell, as time passed, the Indians had painted on a few shabby coats of their own. For the most part, the Indo-French culture was wearing thin, but what thankfully remained were the outdoor-seating cafes. One in particular proved delightful. Sipping a frothy cappuccino, I relaxed and recharged, for little did I know that le bon vie only had a few hours left.

I rarely offer any real travel advice in the Chronicles, but when an incident unfolds so nefariously, yet so easily avoidable, I will reveal an episode of hard luck, not as a chronicle, but as a precious lesson to you, but more for myself: "Richard, the Travelling Klutz."

One afternoon as I was waltzing northward, switching from one dilapidated bus to another, the thickening fuliginous sky signalled I was near to where I needed (not wanted) to be. I was making great time. Punctual as a priest to Sunday mass, I was sure to make it to Chennai airport for my departing flight. In fact, two hours before take-off, I had enough time to dicker with a rickshaw driver over 200 rupees, but hard-pressed, I pursued a recommended alternative, delivered in broken English, "bus - airport - abi." Indeed, among the milling crowd of this nameless Chennai suburb, the approaching bus read, for all 137,367,876 eyes to see, AIRPORT.

In India, buses rarely come to a full stop; they simply accelerate and decelerate. A complete stop would be opening the floodgates too wide - the hordes would rush in too fast. So instead, it´s roadside Darwinism. Only the fastest and most ferocious can ride.

With some practice, not a lot, I darted towards the transient bus. A gladiator as such, I wrestled for space and fought for air - anything it took to repel the rushing hordes. Emerging, I relaxed. I was king of the mountain - or so I thought.

Somewhere in the stampede I had been outfoxed, defiled, my invincibility kaput. I was the victim of the classic tale of travelling pick-pocketing. Yes, I had made it aboard, but my wallet, passport and camera had not.

"Stop!" I bellowed and dismounted from the bus. In some south-east Indian hinterland, with a heart racing and a face paling, I gazed over some three hundred culprits, and wondered what one does now? My wallet, bearing the high-value bulk of my most recent withdrawal, both my credit cards and driver´s license, my US passport with my Indian visa and a camera, brimming with memories of the trip, were all concentrated into the same zippered pouch. I was a sailboat that had suddenly capsized, with all hatches open and every fender untied.

To be continued.

Gerrit de Leeuw (who lives in Alberta), says that when you live in Alberta ranch country, you look at some things a little differently:

ALBERTA STUD SERVICE

A Pincher Creek rancher got into his pickup and drove to a neighbouring ranch and knocked at the door. A young boy, about nine, opened the door.

"Is yer Dad home?" the rancher asked.

"No sir, he ain´t," the boy replied. "He went into town."

"Well," said the rancher, "is yer Mom here?"

"No, sir, she ain´t here neither. She went into town with Dad."

"How about your brother, Howard? Is he here?"

"He´s at work at the gas plant."

The rancher stood there for a few minutes, shifting from one foot to the other and mumbling to himself.

"Is there anything I can do fer ya?" the boy asked politely. "I know where all the tools are if you want to borrow one. Or maybe I could take a message fer Dad."

"Well," said the rancher uncomfortably, "I really wanted to talk to yer Dad. It´s about your brother Howard getting my daughter pregnant."

The boy considered for a moment. "You would have to talk to Pa about that," he finally conceded. "If it helps you any, I know that Pa charges $500 for the bull and $50 for the hog, but I really don´t know how much he gets fer Howard."

WARNING: This story sent by Dick Monaghan may cause extreme discomfort:

MURDER AT WAL-MART

Tired of constantly being broke and stuck in an unhappy marriage, a young husband decided to solve both problems by taking out a large insurance policy on his wife with himself as the beneficiary, and then arranging to have her killed.

A "friend of a friend" put him in touch with a nefarious dark-side underworld figure who went by the name of "Artie".

Artie explained to the husband that his going price for snuffing out a spouse was $5,000.

The husband said he was willing to pay that amount, but that he wouldn´t have any cash on hand until he could collect his wife´s insurance money.

Artie insisted on being paid at least something up front, so the man opened his wallet, displaying the single dollar bill that rested inside. Artie sighed, rolled his eyes, and reluctantly agreed to accept the dollar as down payment for the dirty deed.

A few days later, Artie followed the man´s wife to the local Wal-Mart store. There he surprised her in the produce department and proceeded to strangle her with his gloved hands, but as the poor unsuspecting woman drew her last breath and slumped to the floor, the manager of the produce department stumbled unexpectedly onto the murder scene. Unwilling to leave any living witnesses behind, ol´ Artie had no choice but to strangle the produce manager as well.

However, unknown to Artie, the entire proceedings were captured by the hidden security cameras and observed by the store´s security guard, who immediately called the police. Artie was caught and arrested before he could even leave the store.

Under intense questioning at the police station, Artie revealed the whole sordid plan, including his unusual financial arrangements with the hapless husband, who was also quickly arrested.

The next day in the newspaper, the headline declared ...

(You´re going to hate me for this ...)

"ARTIE CHOKES TWO FOR $1.00 AT WAL-MART!"

Oh, quit groaning! I don´t write this stuff; I receive it from my warped friends and then send it on to you.

SUGGESTED SITES

Carol Hansen suggests this site to test your knowledge of the 25 most commonly misspelled words:

http://arunaurl.com/2mbb

Dick Monaghan writes: I thought I knew my geography, but was I humbled! However, it was fun. I am guessing that most of us do not know our geography in the Middle East. Many countries have changed names since we studied them in school, but since so many of these countries feature in our nightly news bulletins it would be good to know where they are:

http://www.rethinkingschools.org/just_fun/games/mapgame.html

If you have not already seen pictures from the crash landing on the Hudson River, go to this site sent by Gerrit de Leeuw:

http://www.sacbee.com/static/weblogs/photos/2009/01/018657.html

Marilyn Magid forwards this video of engineers´ cat scans:

http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=mHXBL6bzAR4&NR=1

Tom Kyle sends this example of great graphics in an advertisement for a Dutch department store:

http://producten.hema.nl/