Dangerous Dogs or Dangerous Owners?

The government’s knee-jerk reaction to dangerous dogs.

The government are presently thinking about reforming the Dangerous Dog Act 1991 which clearly prohibits the ownership of certain types of dog.  This is based not on particular breeds, but “types” of dog deemed to be of dangerous heritage.  It also makes it a criminal offense to allow ANY breed of dog to be out of control in a public place, or a place where it is not allowed.  This includes causing fear or apprehension to a person, that it may injure them.  But some people believe that by creating a dangerous breed list, it has made such dogs even more desirable.  NHS statistics claim that the number of people being treated for dog bites has risen 40% in the last four years.  

So why are these dogs being so aggressive?  Is it the “breed” or “type?”  Or is the owners?  Having been raised with dogs my parents had boarding kennels, competitive dog training club, security kennels, and we also bred large breeds of dog, Irish Wolfhounds and Rottweilers, I have to say, it is 99.9% the owners fault.  I have also spent some of my working life as a security dog trainer and a city Dog Warden, where the dogs were the easy part.  It was the owners that came with them that were the problem, with a string of excuses for their dogs bad behaviour or frequent escapes and their claims that their dogs had "rights" over and above those of people.  The irresponsible owners always blamed their dogs, never themselves.

Excluding those who have some physical issues, such as a brain tumor or are the result of inbreeding, dogs will only exhibit “bad manners” or “naughty” behaviour if we let them do so unchallenged!  It’s as simple as that.  It is our complete lack of leadership skills that allow a dog’s bad/unsocial behaviour to continue.  Dogs are animals, and should be treated as such.  They need boundaries and rules, as would be perfectly normal in a pack in the wild, in which to live a happy, contented life.  Dogs are not people and many aggressive dogs are created from a life of misguided love and affection and not as most people would believe a life of bad treatment.   For example a fluffy puppy growling aggressively when you approach his favourite toy should be treated as an out-right challenge to your leadership and should be corrected there and then, but irresponsible owners see it as funny and cute, totally disregarding that it increases the puppy’s status and dominance in the household and by default encourages aggression.  The irresponsible owner sees they have done nothing wrong.  One of the outcomes of this is that dogs’ homes are full to capacity and are having to destroy many more dogs than normal.  BBC Panorama states that a large percentage of the dogs destroyed are Staffordshire Bull Terrier types.  Battersea Dog’s Home destroyed almost 3,000 dogs in 2009.  My parents’ kennels had the contract for stray dogs back in the 1970s on the Bedfordshire/Northamptonshire border and had to destroy over 360 dogs a year even though they only covered a radius of 30 miles.  They re-homed all they could, but 360 dogs one year becomes 720 the second year.  They had to be realistic then just as we have to be realistic today.   

The government’s plan to introduce more ways of simply taxing dog ownership, licenses, micro-chips, completing a list of details, compulsory vets bills and third party insurance costs, will simply not work.  It does nothing to promote responsible dog ownership, instead adding to the government income.   Only the responsible dog owners will comply.  

Interestingly, the rise in dog attacks seems to have increased with the rise in “animal lovers” criticizing owners who handle and correct their dogs firmly.  Perhaps if a lot more owners had been firmer with their dogs, there wouldn’t be so many tragic attacks and unwanted unruly dogs.  

Perhaps we should look at Germany, where (in addition to license fees, muzzling, micro-chipping, neutering) you are not allowed to own a dog that is considered potentially dangerous without having passed a special aptitude test that if passed only lasts 5 years and only relates to the dog that is tested with the owner.  You are also not allowed to own one of the listed breeds (similar but longer list than ours) if you have been convicted of committing a crime whilst under the influence of alcohol, or have an addiction to drugs or have a mental illness or impairment. There are a list of dangerous dogs in Germany that must be muzzled at all times in public unless they have passed a special test to prove they are obedient and harmless.  On top of this the penalties are very harsh for the owner if the dog causes injury to someone.  The owner is accountable.

The German way seems a much more effective way of handling the issue of breeds that are potentially dangerous in the wrong hands.  It is centered around the real “cause” (irresponsible owners) of the serious problem and not the result of it (innocent casualties and unwanted aggressive dogs).  This surely makes far more sense and encourages owners to take more responsibility for their actions.

Cindy Thompson

Speed Cameras, a Sinister Twist.

Speed cameras, a sinister twist?

In the early nineties, the British public faced the speed camera, introduced [we were told] to cut the 3,000 deaths on Britain’s roads.  Initially the fixed penalties rolled in, showing speed cameras to appear a very efficient way of policing motorists.  Ten years since the advent of robotic traffic policing, the number of actual traffic police has decreased from 8,900 to 6,500.   Speed cameras however, can only catch legal speeding motorists, and cannot catch motorists who use false plates, have no insurance, steal cars, or drive under the influence of drink or drugs, who amount to 1 million, and are 9 times more likely than legal motorists to be involved in an accident. 

Between 1994 and 2003 of the Safety Camera Partnership Scheme, introduced to significantly lower the number of road deaths each year, over 3,000 people were still getting killed on Britain’s roads even though motorists had significantly slowed down.  

Then something strange happened.  The cameras started to proliferate and were found in areas that had never had an accident, contravening guidelines that a camera be placed in a location which had had at least 4 fatal/serious accidents in the previous 3 calendar years.  As the number of motorists caught for speeding dramatically rose, so did the revenue obtained from them.   In 2002 5,000 cameras netted £7M in prosecutions.  Yet figures from The Department of Transport show that less than 4% of accidents are caused by exceeding the speed limit.  Safespeed find that in 2001 figures taken from 13 police forces show “inattention” to be the greatest cause of accidents at 25.8%.

Paradoxically, the proliferation of cameras could actually be a factor in road accidents, if you note the “inattention figures” above.  No motorist wishes to obtain a speeding fine or points on their licence, so often reacts erratically near a speed camera, by slamming on the breaks, or driving too slowly, or simply focusing all attention on the speedometer and not on the road.   With the alarming propagation of road signs, sheer number of cars on the roads, and advertising signs, driving on Britain’s roads is a serious assault on anyone’s senses.  Helping us poor motorists, the world car industries have designed ever faster, more responsive and powerful cars as standard, coupled by TV car programmes testing these models with emphasis on speed, handling and acceleration.

Drivers are now guilty of a robotically generated crime, the introduction of which has no basis of truth, with the punishment based on what “could have been,” and not on the actual outcome.  

Children should also have a responsibility of awareness in road safety. Back in the 60’s and 70’s children were taught the Green Cross Code, the safe way to cross the road, both at school and between children’s prime time TV.   No such adverts seem to be between modern day programmes.

We have all slowed down, yet the number of road deaths has stayed at over 3,000 per year.  Speed cameras therefore have had no effect at all, on the very thing [we were told] they were introduced to change.  But were they really introduced purely as a revenue collector?  Cameras will soon be widespread that are capable of logging your every mile, with calculation of mean-speeds on any given journey, times and dates, which will be linked to DVLA, government data bases, and insurance companies.  A blatant erosion of our civil liberties.  

“If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about” comes to mind, but the trouble with that is, insidiously, ever more decisions are being taken away from us to a point that we may well [in law] not be allowed to think at all for ourselves.    You may not have to have done anything wrong, to kick the wheels of Big Brother and the Thought Police into action against you, telling you that with a negligible probability your actions could be dangerous/fatal so you must be pre-emptively guilty and punished accordingly.  

Many laws outlaw common sense, simple decision making, truth, and concept of the individual, and the repercussions of such laws are something we should be seriously concerned about.  

Speeding is just one of those laws.

Cindy Thompson

It's Just a Piece of Cloth.

It’s Just A Piece Of Cloth.

Pressure is mounting for the government to follow our European neighbours in the ban against veils in Britain, but what issues must the proposed ban address?  

On the side of the veil wearer they will have us believe that the challenge is to exercise their religious duties, even though it is NOT a religious requirement, but one of tradition, leaving the wearer free to choose.  We believe here in the UK that we have the right and freedom to wear what we please, yet do we?  What of the man in London who wore a t-shirt that said “B******s to Blair” who was asked by a policeman to take it off and turn it inside out or else face a fine and/or prosecution?  What of motorcyclists who walk into a bank or shopping centres with their crash helmets on, or “hoodies” who wish to visit a shopping centre?  What of their freedoms?  In an age where we are obsessed with identification, as an English woman I would not be allowed to hide my identification by swathing myself in fabric and coming up with the excuse that it was based on some religion or other.  Realistically, the practicalities are obvious, and other countries such as Afghanistan who have gone to the extremes of imposing the complete covering of women, have enforced appalling degradation on over half the population.  The more serious side to the identification issue, is the fact that such ridiculous attire in the 21^st C is open to abuse, the proof of which would be impossible to challenge.  

Having travelled independently to Iran a country that enforces the modest covering of all women, Moslem or otherwise, I have experienced the issue from another perspective.  During my 6 weeks in Iran I had to wear a head scarf, a loose long coat and ensure that my arms and legs were covered regardless of the temperatures outside.  Had I not observed these laws, I would have been arrested and punished.  One day a man started speaking to my husband and I whilst we were visiting a mosque in Esfahan.  ‘What do you think of Iran?’ he asked me.  I told him that I found the people extremely friendly and helpful and that we were enjoying our drive across Iran, but I didn’t like having to wear the head scarf.  ‘But why?’ He quizzed.  ‘It’s just a piece of cloth.’  Then my husband asked him, ‘OK, if you and your wife were to visit the UK and found that your wife had to remove her veil for the visit because that was OUR law, what would you do?’ The man was horrified. ‘This can’t be, my wife must be covered.’  ……’But it’s just a piece of cloth.’ We told him.

Even in other Moslem majority countries who would be considered to ‘understand’ such issues, such as Egypt, total covering is not encouraged or in some situations tolerated.  I was extending my visa one day in Cairo at the huge government building that processed passports for Egyptian citizens.  I was studying for the second year of my Arabic degree.  As I sat at the desk of the official who was to stamp my passport, a gofer entered the room with a passport application of a completely veiled woman.  The official took one look at the photograph of the piece of cloth with two eyes peeping out from a slit opening and threw it back on the desk towards the gofer.  ‘What is this?’ He shouted in Arabic.  ‘She must show her face.  Take it back and tell her if she wants her passport she must show her face.’  He added, ‘You are wasting my time, now go.’  I can only assume that for her passport application to be processed, she had remove the veil covering her face, though for the woman this would have been little different to uncovering in public, given that forbidden men would be free to see her face.  

As for other women in the UK who wish to keep their faces completely covered, when in Iran I had to follow Iranian laws, so they should be able to accept our rules and regulations with the same dignity, after all it’s just a piece of cloth and England is not ruled by Islam, ……..yet!  

And neither do we want it to be. 

Cindy Thompson   

A Rubbish Problem.

A rubbish problem.

There has been much talk lately about recycling and wheely bins, with folk complaining and not relishing the hike in waste disposal charges.  Waste disposal is a huge problem facing our future planet, and we all have a responsibility to help the changes, though most of us seem to think it is not our problem, but that of the council’s, or the government, or that of any one else’s other than their own.  

Yes, we have to recycle, and yes, we must take more care about our rubbish, but there is another part in the equation that no one seems to have mentioned.  Why don’t we stop making and importing so much rubbish and tac in the first place, then we wouldn’t have so much to dispose of.  The world seems to be on a roller coaster making huge amounts of utter rubbish, using huge amounts of resources, then taking up vast amounts of space to get rid of the stuff.  

For example supermarkets could do their bit and stop buying fruit and vegetables that are unnecessarily swathed in plastic.  Why does an aubergine have to be in a plastic tray, both of which are in a plastic bag?  Perhaps us the customer should start unwrapping these items and leave the packaging in the supermarket for them to dispose of it.  After all they chose to buy it.  In our greed to have out of season fruit and vegetables we knowingly increase the amount of rubbish produced.

We only have to walk down any high street in any town in the UK and see amount of rubbish on sale.  We should stop buying all this unnecessary rubbish, much of which is useless and ends up in the bin, so we are not only paying over the odds to buy this rubbish, we are also going to have to pay to get rid of it!  Where is the logic in that?  We should start thinking about what we buy, why and of what use it served apart from decrease our bank balance.

A far better way of approaching the rubbish problem to cut down on the amount of rubbish created in the first place and to stop it being produced, not moaning about it once it has been produced at a profit and sold to everyone and even bigger profits.

Cindy Thompson

War On Drugs Isn't Working.

The War On Drugs Isn’t Working!

Many politicians have been waging ‘war’ on drugs for years, making policies that don’t work, and doing little to help those who are addicts.  

We all know how the drug chain works.  Drugs are grown in Third World countries, often with aid money from the West, they are then sold on by drug cartels, who ship the consignments to drug dealers who sell them on our streets.  Drug addicts however, contribute greatly to the crime rate in our country causing untold misery and mayhem.  The solution, I believe is quite simple.  Give the addicts their fix.

Put into context the costs are as follows;

Cost of a fix for an addict at present. 

1) Police time and staff, documenting the robbery, catching or attempting to catch the offender.

2) Forensic scientist, who search for evidence that will help convict the offender.

3) Glazier, if a window has been broken.

4) Locksmith, if a lock has been damaged.

5) Counselling, if the robbery has been a traumatic or violent experience.

6) Insurance, whilst an insurance company might pay over and above the premium paid on the policy, they are a business and as such make a profit from all their clients who don’t get robbed.

7) Businesses who sell goods to replace the stolen items, also make money on this deal.

8) Lawyers who prosecute the offender.  (they seem to make the most money from this deal)

9) Judges and jury, who judge the offender and court room staff who make this possible.

10) Prisons and their staff, who might eventually keep the offender.

11) Drying out clinics, that will only work if the addict wants to dry out.

12) Politicians who waste valuable tax payer’s money, talking about and passing ineffective laws, which fail the law abiding citizen and the drug addict.

13) Money is also made from the sale of stolen goods on the Black Market.

14) The chain of drug dealers make huge amounts of money, along with the transporters and human carriers.

15) Customs officials at ports, who try to stop drugs destined for the streets entering the country.  Many companies are involved in designing methods and machines to beat the dealers’ ever more ingenious ways of getting drugs through customs.  

Add to all this the fact that all these professional people cannot work without all their support staff, who have to be paid.  (ie. office workers, cleaners etc.)  Added to that is the tax paid on wages and goods needed to carry out these jobs and services.  

The cost of the addicts fix could be much less if laws were changed to help those who needed it.  If drugs (not substitutes) were given by a doctor on the NHS and the cost to the tax payer would greatly reduced as the addict would have no need to offend in order to cover the costs of the street drugs.

Alternative cost of an addict’s fix.

1) 10mgs of dia-morphine would cost the NHS £6 to £7.  100mgs of dia-morphine £26 from a family doctor, yet to give these drugs to an addict is seen as unethical! (unethical for whom?)

2) Doctor (and his staff) to prescribe the drug.

3) Chemist and their staff to dispense the drug.

4) Education of the dangers of the misuse of drugs. 

5) Drying out clinics and their staff to help those addicts who are ready to stop taking drugs.

Addicts need help, not punishment.  No one lives their life with the intention of becoming a junkie.  Most addicts hate themselves and what they do, but until they are ready to give up and change their life, they are trapped in a cycle of crime and hostility, which doesn’t help anyone, only those who stand to make money out of it.  An addict’s prime objective is not making money, or committing a robbery, but getting their next fix.  Addicts are the bottom line of a chain of events that is created and supported by the system and as such they take the brunt of all the hatred.  

Opponents of this idea will argue that drugs for addicts should not be made easily available at the tax payer’s expense and that those who are not addicts, could easily become addicts.  Illegal drugs are already easily available on our streets, and the expense to the tax payer is far greater than it ever need be.  If addicts were able to obtain their drugs from a doctor, the dealers would simply be put out of business and crime figures would plummet. 

Why then are the drug laws not changed?  I believe that they are not changed, simply because if they were, too many important people and businesses would stand to lose too much money.  It has nothing to do with ethics, or the illegality of it all, but purely to do with money.  

Evil will flourish, when good people turn the other way.

Cindy Thompson

TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 9

WARM COKE AND WEEVILS

The Indian/Nepali border town of Sonali was rather confusing, with the customs check point secluded and nestling in between two sari shops.  We drove straight past it, only to find ourselves hotly pursued by a worried customs official shouting at us to ‘Stop!’ as we drove down the high street.  The man behind the customs desk started flicking through our now rather full and busy looking passports.  He was amazed at the number of stamps we had collected and asked what we did for a living to be able to afford all this travelling.  Not wanting to go into our private finances, Alan replied.  ‘Nothing!’  The customs man looked shocked.  

‘Nothing?’  He quizzed.  With passports and vehicle carnet stamped, we left the customs.

The Nepali side was easy and was completed without any hitches.  Just across the Nepali border we had completed 12,464 miles, through 13 countries, in 7 months, had 5 broken springs, replaced 1 fan belt, had 5 punctures, 3 oil changes and used 519 gallons of diesel!

Nepal like India was a stunningly beautiful country.  It was an endless spectacle of undulating hills, covered with a carpet of terraced, cultivated plateaus.   Roads clung precariously to the valley walls at the bottom of which flowed fast milky green rivers.  Small villages were scattered along the roads, many of which seemed to be barely clinging onto life.  The occupants looked ragged and poor and their wooden houses looked old and tired.  Some families made a living by offering refreshments to travellers.

Our Sherpa was ‘home’ and was pulling up the foothills of the Himalayas in style.  We thought back to the person who told us the week before we left England that our Sherpa wouldn’t even make it to Dover!  We believe that we are the only people to have taken a Sherpa van to Nepal.

Just a few miles outside Kathmandu, we spotted the new Dalima Resort, and as it was getting dark we decided to camp in the car park for the night.  This was the easiest way to travel, to find a restaurant for dinner, then ask permission to park up for the night.  We were never refused. The place was empty except for a security guard, who kept saluting our every move, and the manager who welcomed us to eat in his brand new restaurant.

It was an impressive sight, built on a 4-tiered garden terrace, with small cottage accommodation on the uppermost terrace.  The chicken curry and rice tasted good, but Alan’s Coka Cola was warm!  He called the manager and asked for it to be changed for a cold one.  The manager apologized, saying that he couldn’t give him a cold one as the fridges didn’t have electricity during the day, only at night.  We thought no more of his explaination and having eaten our fill, retired to our Sherpa for the night.

The following morning we were both very unwell, with stomach cramps, diarrhoea and feeling nauseous, but we pushed on the few miles to Kathmandu.  By the time we made it to Kathmandu, we were in such a state with our illness that we didn’t even have the energy to haggle with the first hotel manager we met.  He charged us an extortionate NRs 300 per night.  Just to park in the car park!  For that we couldn’t even use the toilet when we needed.  We had caught a bad bought of Guardia, from the incorrectly kept food at the Dalima resort.   Having bought a course of Flagyl at the local chemist, we were soon on the mend.  This was the only illness we experienced during our 12 month drive.

Walking through Kathmandu can only be likened to walking back in time.  ancient rustic timber framed buildings overhung, crowded dusty narrow streets, lined with hawkers of all descriptions.  The hawkers not only catered for the tourists, but for the locals.  Foods, handmade pots, crafted shoes, Yak’s wool jumpers, and a whole range of hippie attire.  As we walked through the very dry dusty streets, getting increasingly sore throats, a middle aged Nepali man tapped us on the shoulders.  

‘Hash.  You wanna buy hash?’ He quizzed in a rather strange way.  Of course his hash was a cheaper price and a far superior grade than all his counterparts on the streets.  …we carried on walking.  With renewed appetites the best meal we had in Kathmandu was a huge buffalo steak at the Everest Steak House.  Highly recommended.

Having recovered from our illness and feeling fighting fit, we went back to the hotel to try and argue the price of the car park down.  The hotel manager was having none of it, but somebody from the Swiss Medical Centre just across the street overheard us and invited us to stay free of charge in their car park.  This we did for a week while we explored Kathmandu.  We wanted to take our Sherpa into Durbar Square for a photo shoot, but this was not possible.  So we drove  to the nearby Buraktapur, which also had a Durbur Square, but with fewer tourists, and we were allowed right into the middle of the Square for a photo shoot.  Incredibly, some English tourists walked right past our UK registered Sherpa without noticing!  Then an American came up to us and looked at our list of countries painted on the side of our Sherpa and said, 

‘Gee, how’d ya git through Eye ran?’ (Iran)

A drive into the foot hills to see the Himalayan mountain range was a must, so drove North from Buraktapur to the Tibetan/Chinese border and the “Friendship Bridge.”  The Himalayas were truly stunning, but we couldn’t decide which peak was Everest.  Each peak was snow capped, crisp and clear, standing proud and poking into the heavens above.  It was one of those tranquil awesome sights that you just had to sit and soak up in silence.

At the Tibetan/Chinese border we were allowed to travel no further.  It was a reported US$175 per day for a vehicle pass and a Chinese chaperone.  We weren’t even allowed to walk onto the “Friendship Bridge” which didn’t seem very friendly to me!   We had to be content with a night spent at the Tibetan/Chinese border.  The following morning we stopped at another impressive looking restaurant.  I played safe and ordered porridge.  I’m rather fussy about my porridge.  I like it thick with creamy hot milk poured over the top.  When it arrived, it looked perfect. But having eaten a few mouthfuls, I thought it had an unusually crunchy texture. On closer inspection, to my horror I discovered weevils wriggling in my porridge and swimming in my creamy buffalo milk!  I sent it back, asking the chef to do it again.  He did just that, but with fewer weevils!  I haven’t eaten porridge since.

On our way out of Nepal, we stopped over in Royal Chitwan National Park.  The Tiger Tops resort wanted to charge us US$50 per night to park up in their grounds, but Ganesh, who had just opened the “Tiny Shop” invited us to stay on his property.  Ganesh was just starting a backpackers stop over, with meals and guides into the park.  He had a row of small rooms to cater for the budget travelers like us.  Ganesh charged only a fraction of the price of Tiger Tops and only Rs75 per meal cooked by his wife, compared to the Rs300 at Tiger Tops.  We were squeezed into his garden, where we stayed for 4 days.  Ganesh was born in the park and knew all the animals and places to see them.  He was very knowledgeable.  It was a quiet time for the park and we had Ganesh’s undivided attention.  He took us for walks in the park, where we saw Hog Deer, Golden Pheasants, Paradise Fly Catchers, Rhino, Vultures, Mongoose, and we even identified footprints at a watering hole of Tiger, Rhino, Civet Cat, monkey, and Sloth Bear.  Ganesh took us on an elephant ride where we saw Rhino and almost saw a tiger.  The elephant ride was rather uncomfortable as we had to sit astride the 3 tonne male tusker, but it was an excellent way to see the animals as they didn’t seem to see us only the elephant.  The elephant of course posed no threat to any of the animals and we were amazed at just how sure footed and steady it was, climbing up and down steep banks and across some deep rivers.  Another day we were taken on a canoe ride and spotted 3 Caracol on the riverbank. Alan kept wobbling the canoe, which was rather worrying.  It was a fantastic few days.  We were so impressed with Ganesh, that when we came to pay, we doubled the bill.  A first for us, but we felt it was worth every penny.

Feet from the Chinese border in Nepal. Chinese hills in background.

Indian/Nepali border nestled between 2 sari shops!

Into Nepal.

Local transport.

A Sadu in Kathmandu.

Swayamnbhu Nath Kathmandu.

A local in kathmandu.

Sherpie in Bhakatpur.

The Himalayas.

"Sherpie" in the "Himalayas" ...get it?

TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 8

ELEPHANTS AND CELEBRATIONS.

En route to Jaipur, we stopped at Amber, to visit the rather splendid Amber Fort built in 1592 on a hill overlooking the town which was once the ancient capital of Jaipur State.  We parked up and watched the elephant taxis arriving carrying their breakfast of dried grass in their trunks.  The elephants were the main mode of transport carrying tourists up the steep hill to the fort.  We went and bought our tickets from the booking office, which cost 400Rs (£5) and we were given elephant number 10.  Her name was Powan and she was a sprightly 25 years old.  I rather thought she looked fed up of the whole scene, having to ferry tourists up and down the steep hill many times a day.  Her eyes looked sad.  She was draped in a large piece of red floral material, on top of which perched our seats.  The driver had the best seat, sitting astride her neck.  We climbed aboard from an elephant stand and set off up the hill. John the photographer shouted, 

‘One photo, 100Rs, ready for when you return.’  We agreed and he took our photo.  It was a very steep climb and took about 20 minutes to complete.  As we reached the top we were amazingly met by John, waiving our photo in his hand!  Now that was what you called an express service.  At the top and at the entrance to the fort, the doormen wanted too much money for allowing 

us to take our cameras inside.  If we didn’t pay we would have to leave them in what looked like a very unsafe place outside.  We refused and they refused to let us in.  It was stalemate.  We climbed aboard Powan again and made our way back down the hill.  Near the bottom Powan started swinging her trunk about, accidentally knocking my flip-flop from my foot.  I called to an Indian passerby,  

‘My flip-flop, I’ve dropped it.’  Pointing to where it lay.  The Gandhi look alike just stood staring at the situation.  I tapped the driver on the shoulder half expecting him to have to climb down from Powan to retrieve my flip-flop.  With just one word from the driver Powan stopped, reversed until she was level with my shoe, then sort of pirouetted on the spot and picked up my flip-flop with her trunk and gave it to the driver.

Later whilst we sat in the our Sherpa deciding what to do next, a very scruffy, longhaired, bearded man came up to us, to say ‘Hello.’  He didn’t beg for money and I thought he was drunk as he reeked of alcohol.  He walked away, only to return a few moments later.  He had forgotten to tell us about the dancing ladies.  

‘Very good dancing ladies.’  He told us, then walked off!

In India there are an unusually high number of roaming cows.  They wonder at leisure all over the road eating any rubbish they can find.  Newspapers, discarded vegetable matter and any other food, and cardboard.  They are natures recycling plants on legs.  I asked one Indian where did they all come from?  He told us that people in India own cows, like Westerners own dogs.  They keep them for their milk and that whilst they wonder around all day, they all know where they live and return home at night.  They were ‘homing cows!’  A cow is a sacred animal in India and must not be harmed or killed and as a result is accommodated and respected by all Indians.

In Jaipur we decided to visit the Zoo.  It was a large Zoo with a wide variety of animals. They had a rather large crocodile collection and we were lucky enough to see them getting fed.  As we stood watching another visitor coolly told us that only two days ago, one of the big males had escaped and managed to break his way into the enclosure next door, where he attacked, killed and half ate one of the rare Blue Cows.  The keeper found the gruesome remains the following morning.  It was time to move on.

It was while in Jaipur that we met a rather special Hindu, whose philosophy on life was to have a profound effect on our lives.  Cheetan was a tall and handsome Prison Governor, who we came to call our Guru.  He told us that knowledge comes only from within, and not from books, which hold only information.  It’s what you do with information, which makes it knowledge. He believed that everyone’s destiny was pre-ordained and that there was little point dwelling on the past, which cannot be changed, or the future, which has yet to happen.  One should be concerned with the ‘now.’  He told us that everyone has a soul at different levels of awareness and that wrappings are shed as awareness grows.  He said that people all over the world are fed garbage by governments and the media and waste so much time and money on petty pointless rules and regulations. 

‘Wisdom is not taught in schools any more.’  He told us.  ‘The children are just taught to regurgitate mostly false information.’ We had many deep conversations with Cheetan.  His philosophy made such sense.  Cheetan confirmed and strengthened what we knew deep within.  He also gave us inner strength to stand up and be different and to make a stand against the West’s false and plastic throwaway society that was on the slippery slope to self-destruction.

It was December in Jaipur and the temperature was a humid 85°F. As we stood in the sweltering heat, we were looking for something that might cool us down.  I saw a shop advertising ice cream, just what we needed, so I went to investigate.  I was astounded by the shopkeeper’s reply.  

‘Oh no ma’am.  It is now winter.  I am not selling ice-cream!’

‘Why don’t we get a tok-tok rickshaw to the main market?’  I said to Alan.  We flagged one down.  It was driven by an old wizened, toothless man, who when we asked how much, he promptly told us the right price of 30Rs.  We climbed aboard his tok-tok, which must have been as old as him.  It was rusty, full of holes and clattered, coughed and spluttered as we mingled with the Jaipur traffic.  The extent of the rust was rather worrying.  Whilst this guy was old, he wasn’t taking any nonsense from the other motorists.  This became apparent when someone tried to cut him up, causing him to take evasive action.  Gripped by road-rage, like someone possessed the old man clattered down a gear and lurched his tok-tok forward in hot pursuit, weaving and ducking a diving around any vehicle that dared to get in his way, whilst waiving and shouting at the accused.  We had a most entertaining drive for 30Rs.  At our destination he turned to us and asked with a wide toothless grin,  

‘Good ride, you enjoy?’  

‘Yes.’ We told him, glad that we were still in one piece.  

‘I’m 65 years old and in good health.  I’m strong.’  He added, squeezing his matchstick arms.  He certainly had a strong will.  No doubt of that.

Back in Delhi, it was the Sikh Tri-Centenary celebrations.  Sikhs from all over the world came home to celebrate 300 years of their relatively new religion.  It was a carnival atmosphere, with floats carrying the Sikh religious leaders, free food and refreshments, followed by dancing horses, camels, and elephants.  One elephant led the procession and Alan was invited to sit on it through the streets of Delhi.  As we stood and watched, we became engulfed by a sea of bright orange turbans. Everyone was very friendly and kept giving us food and milk shakes.  A couple of elderly Sikhs became attached to us, inviting us to be part of the final celebrations.  They showed us around a marquee, which was a flurry of activity.  Huge vats of dhal and other vegetable dishes were being cooked and groups of women were making unleavened bread.  For some reason unknown to us, we were guests of honor and were given seats on the stage where the holy Sikh book was carried on beside us in front of hundreds of people.  One Sikh called Satnim even invited us to go and meet his friend Sonia Gandhi, but Alan declined adding later that he didn’t want to sit and listen to a load of old political drivel!

India was a fabulous place and we can’t wait to return.  In India, people accepted you for what you were and not what they thought you should be.  Unlike the West, you are not judged by your wealth or looks, but your wisdom.  India encourages you to contemplate things that really matter and to accept that everyone can be different, yet the same.  This helps us to understand who we are and to accept that none of us are better than the next, but just different.

Elephant taxis arriving at the Amber Fort.

The live refuse collectors, the "homing" cows.

Women making bread for the Sikh celebrations.

Cooks attending the Dahl for Sikh celebrations.

Camped on a beach in Goa. Sherpie in the middle.

Christmas Day with all other overlanders in Goa.

Having our evening shower.

Hampi temple complex.

TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 7

TAJ MAHAL AND MONKEY BUSINESS.

Driving from Delhi Campsite to Agra, we came to a fork in the road.  With no indication as to which road we should take, we asked some people standing around.  

‘Agra, which road?’ My question was met with a myriad of glazed looks.  ‘Agra, Taj Mahal, which way?’ I repeated.  

‘Ah, Agra.  No, this no Agra, this Delhi.’ Came the reply. As if we didn’t know.  

‘Yes, this Delhi, but which way Agra?’  I repeated. 

‘No this Delhi.’ One insisted pointing at the ground by his feet for emphasis.  Over hearing our request, a very thin knowledgeable old man, without any teeth stepped forward from the crowd and offered to put us on the right road. He pointed precisely between the two roads, adding in a very definite tone, ‘Agra.’ 

 ‘Two tickets please.’  We asked the man in the ticket office of the Taj Mahal 

‘Fipty Rupees.’  Came the prompt reply from a man with a waggling head in the depths of the tiny ticket hut.  

’50 Rupees!’  Alan exclaimed.  ‘We were told it was only 15 Rupees.’  

‘Yes OK then, fipteen Rupees.’  He said rather sheepishly as a muffled laugh came from inside the ticket hut.  The Taj Mahal is a truly stunning building, magnificent from every conceivable angle.  The fact that it was built for the adoration of a woman, only deepens its beauty and splendour.  The story, which led to the existence to this awesome building, is rather sad. The construction of the Taj was started in 1631 after Mumtaz Mahal, wife of the Emperor Shah Jahan, died giving birth to their 14^th child.  So distraught was the Emperor from losing his beloved wife after 17 years of blissful marriage, that he built the Taj Mahal as a token of his love to her. Built on the edge of the River Yammuna, it took 22 years to complete.  20,000 stone masons from afar afield as France, Italy, were under instruction of the main architect who was from Shiraz, Iran and whose name remains a mystery.  Ancient records refer to the semi precious materials used brought in from all over the world.  The marble walls are adorned with inlayed Ko’ranic inscriptions and floral designs, of which a flower could be composed of up to 48 pieces of precious stones. The four minarets, which stand 40.23 meters, lean outwards by 6°, so that in the event of an earthquake the towers will not fall onto the main building.  The finial was covered in 44,000 tolas of pure gold, which was plundered by the British troops in 1803.  No expense was spared to build what was to become the finest mausoleum ever created by man, much to the disgruntlement of the Shah’s subjects.   When the Taj was completed, it was agreed that the stonemasons could continue to live in houses they had built around the main entrance.  Generations later and stonemasons still live there and are employed to carry out renovation work, as well as providing stone inlay pieces for tourists.  The story doesn’t end there because Shah Jehan never recovered from the loss of his beloved wife.  So deep was his grief that the Shah locked himself away for five years.   For his own death he planned to build a mirror image of the Taj Mahal, in black on the opposite side of the River, but when his son and heir heard of this, he had the Shah deposed and imprisoned in the Red Fort, believing that he had gone mad.  It was in the Red Fort that the Shah spent the rest of his miserable days, looking out along the river at the final resting place of his beloved Mumtaz.

We left Agra and made our way towards Sariska Tiger Reserve.  The road out of Agra provided some sad sights.  We were appalled to see a number of magnificent Himalayan Bears, being goaded and prodded by men holding sticks and pulling a length of chain which was firmly fixed to a ring on the end of the bear’s nose.  These were so called ‘dancing bears’ which were illegal in India.  As we approached the bears the men forced them to ‘dance’ in our path, causing us to swerve to avoid them.  One bear was proving to be a handful and was fighting his handler.  I realized that being angry with the men would not be helpful.  They were only doing something that had been done for centuries, to put food on the table for their growing families.  In the past we all loved to see the performing animals in the travelling circuses and would not question for many years the fact that many of the circus animals were kept in degrading unhealthy conditions for our own pleasures.  

We stopped further down the road at a market to buy some provisions.  As we walked through the market I almost tripped over a man. His appearance I found most shocking. He was shuffling along in the dirty, dusty street on his back.  He had lost his toes and fingers and had deep festering raw wounds over at least 30% of his thin undernourished body.  All he wore was a loincloth and no one took any notice of him.  In fact the locals were more intrigued with my reaction to him, than with his awful situation.  As a Westerner it is almost impossible to comprehend how a man could exist under such conditions.  I felt helpless and very sad and walked away feeling I should have done something.  Such sights in India are common.

One section of the road to Sariska, went through the middle of what looked like a man made lake, with a couple of roof tops poking out of the water. We gingerly carried on, to discover the road had disappeared into the middle of the lake!  Not knowing how deep it was and unable to turn around as the road was too narrow, we decided to wait for another vehicle.  We didn’t wait long before a truck squeezed past us and we watched as he drove onwards over the hidden road.  We decided to follow, keeping to the path made by the truck.  At first the water didn’t seem that deep, until we saw the rear axle of the truck disappear under water.  Our poor Sherpa van was not an off road vehicle and we braced ourselves, fully expecting to get stuck. 

‘Oh no.’ I groaned.  We did make it to the other side, but only to be greeted by one almighty bang from under the van.  A rear back spring had snapped clean in half.  It was the first of six to break in India. We ended up having to have the main ones specially made which was very time consuming, frustrating, and costly by Indian standards.

At Sariska Tiger Reserve we decided to splash out and spend the night in the government run Tiger Den Hotel.  We asked the receptionist if he had a room.  After 20 minutes deliberation and much paper shuffling, he decided that a room was possible, but which one!  This posed a few more minutes deliberation and booking alterations, in what appeared to be an empty hotel. ‘What on earth is the problem?’  I quizzed, having stood for what seemed an interminably long time.  It had been a long day and we needed some rest.  ‘OK, I give you room 211.’  He said handing us the key to room 121.  We followed him to room 231, and crashed down on the bed almost immediately, only to be woken a few minutes later by what sounded like a dog whining at the balcony doors.  We ignored it, but the whining became more urgent accompanied by a forceful rattling of the doors.  Alan leaped out of bed and started to fill a bucket with some water.  

‘What are you doing?’ I mused.  ‘I’m going to get the little buggers.’  Retorted Alan.  

‘Wait. Let me help.’  I said half asleep and falling out of bed to fill another bucket up not knowing what would greet me the other side of the door.  We stood there poised by the doors then opened them at the same time as blindly throwing the water onto the balcony.  The monkeys scarpered, but one was too slow and got a liberal dousing of cold water.  He screeched the loudest.  In the kafuffle I ran out onto the balcony and trod in something wet and sticky.  It was the monkeys’ latrine!

We did eventually fall sleep.  The following day we saw a magnificent wild tiger, which came almost as close to us as the monkeys!

One of the naughty monkeys.

Taj Mahal.

Red Fort, Agra, India.

Taj Mahal, as seen form the Red Fort.

One the road in India.

Shooting a tiger with a shaky camera, Ranthambore Tiger Reserve.

Getting springs fixed in Sariska, India.

How many on a rickshaw?

Delhi campsite.

TRAVELS WITH OUR SHERPA. Pt 6

NOVEMBER 1998 AMRITSAR.  THE PUNJAB. INDIA;

The Golden Temple in Amritsar was high on our list of ‘Not to be missed’ and having found a small guest house car park to spend the night in our camper, we spent the rest of the day looking around the beautiful Sikh Temple.  Built in the 16thC the Temple stands in a ‘tank’ (or pool) of constantly changing fresh water, called ‘Amritsar,’ meaning “tank of nectar or immortality,” and although the water didn’t look that fresh to us, it was home to some huge fish.  The Sikhs welcome and encourage everyone to spend at least 3 days in the calm and thought-provoking atmosphere of the Temple grounds, and offer a free bed and food.  The Golden Temple is affectionately named because of its complete covering of gold leaf, which is said to weigh many tons. Glass boxes are placed around the grounds for visitors to donate any unwanted gold towards ongoing restoration. 

Instead of walking back to our camper, we decided to flag down our first cycle rickshaw.  Our peddler was old and thin and should have been taking life easy.  He wore a cut of worn out material wound around and tucked precariously around his waist and legs and on his feet were what looked like remnants of plastic flip flops.  Slung over his shoulder was another length of material, which he used to periodically to mop his sweating brow.   

‘Tourist Guest House, near the railway.’  We told him.  

‘OK.’  Came the reply, with the customary waggle of the head.  We assumed that he knew what he was doing!  We gingerly climbed aboard the rather rickety rickshaw and set off amongst the hustle and bustle of Amritsar traffic.   We passed cart stalls selling all manner of items, linen shops, restaurants, hardware shops, and sari shops.  We dodged around cows with a death wish, wandering aimlessly amongst the manic traffic.  Motor rickshaw drivers who weaved all over the road, and buses whose capacity for passengers seemed limitless, with ‘hanger’s on’ taking things a bit too far.  We pulled alongside one bus and just missed one of the passengers as she scrambled to a window, just in time to poke her head out and vomit down the side of the bus!  Thankfully, she missed us, but caught someone else.  

One shop caught my eye “Le Pâtisserie” which sold an array of interesting European pastries.  Our peddler was working hard and seemed to know all the short cuts, weaving, ducking and diving through the narrow jumble of busy streets.  He continued peddling once more passing “Le Pâtisserie.”   

‘That’s the second time I’ve seen that shop.’  I commented to Alan.  We both sat there silent trying to soak up the assault of sights, smells and sounds coming from all directions.   Some minutes later, after much peddling and brow mopping,  

‘That’s the third  time I’ve seen “Le Pâtisserie.”’  I told Alan, this time poking him to make sure he took notice of my observations.   Alan had had enough.  We had been on a 20-minute ride to cover what was only a 5-minute walk!  

‘We are just going round in bloody circles.’  Said Alan, as he lent forward to tap the shoulder of what was becoming an increasingly tired and dizzy rickshaw peddler.  ‘I’ve had enough of going round in circles.  You don’t know what you are doing.’  A heated exchange was now taking place, with neither party understanding the other, amidst a gathering crowd who seemed to think the incident most amusing.  I rather fancy that the cycle rickshaw peddler was on a bet.  A bet that he could take some foreigners around a said circuit at least three times before they noticed.

One day in Amritsar we had a puncture, but it was no problem, as within sight was a puncture repairman.  He sat on his hunches outside his dilapidated wooden hut surrounded by old tyres, blown up inner tubes, a water bath and a past its best compressor.   He didn’t understand any English, so we pointed to an obviously flat tyre and pointed to the tyre man to fix it.  Surely he would understand what we wanted, wouldn’t it?  No, he just sat there waggling his head.  We tried again, but to no avail.  A passer by who had overheard our efforts shouted something to him, where upon he jumped into action and mended our puncture, by sewing a patch on the sidewall of the tyre.  The tyre man’s neighbours had offered us some tea, though something a little stronger would have helped to soften the blow of watching our brand new tyre being assaulted with needle and thread.  Alan gave the tyre man another job.  He showed him how to check the tyre pressures with our fancy digital pressure gauge and told him what pressure was needed all round and left him to it while we finished our teas.  Ten minutes later tyres all pumped and teas finished, we set off on the road again, but the ride was so bumpy that it was making me feel very sick.  It had to be the tyres, so we stopped to check them out.  They were supposed to be 50psi, but each and every tyre was a different pressure, with readings ranging from 25psi to 85psi!  This was India where everything was no problem, which would test your patience to its limits.  We managed to deflate the tyres as necessary and the patch lasted the 11,000 miles back to England without any problems.  But when we took our Sherpa for its MoT test back in England, the tester almost had a heart attack when he saw the patch.  

‘Get that tyre off straight away.  It’s very dangerous and could blow at any minute.’  

‘Yeh, sure.’  We told him in a chilled out sort of way.  ‘No problem!’

One afternoon, whilst driving the trunk road we stopped at some roadside services.  Not the sort of sanitized services we have in the UK, but large and clean with plenty of parking spaces.  Next to where we parked was a young Indian snake charmer, who was perhaps no more than 8 years old and was charming a real cobra with a wooden flute.  As I knelt down to get a good photo, the snake turned and swayed in my direction.  It was time to go.

On the Aires was a large well furnished restaurant, which boasted a tasty menu.  We went in and sat down and thought it odd that we were the only customers in what was a very busy Aires.  The waiter came and gave Alan a menu and ignored me.  We made our order of chicken and rice, and 2 cold coffees with ice cream, then sat and waited.  The waiter returned and told us that he didn’t have chicken and rice, so Alan ordered another dish. 

‘No sir.  We don’t have that either.’  So we ordered yet another dish.

The waiter came with 2 drinks and to tell us that he didn’t have the last dish we ordered either.

‘Well what do you have?’  Asked Alan as he sipped his drink.  ‘And what is this?’

‘That is vanilla milkshake sir.’  Answered the waiter.

‘But I didn’t order vanilla milkshake, I ordered cold coffee and ice cream.’

The waiter looked at Alan with such a shocked expression and added.

‘What’s the matter?  Don’t you like vanilla milk shake?’

We were confronted with experiences like this throughout India, every day, which tested your limits of endurance, and pushed you, even if you didn’t want to go there to teeter to the very edge of your sanity.  If you were the type to get stressed and hot under the collar for anything that threatened to ruin the smooth running of your day, you would be very sadly disappointed in India, for India is like an unsolved puzzle.  You will never be able to make sense of it, however hard you try.  A seemingly chaotic order applies, which will always defeat your efforts of logic to beat it.  India changes the way you think, and the way you live your life forever.  The most striking difference is that Indians are accepting of their lot in life.  A tea boy seems to take great pride in making and delivering tea to thirsty people.  He realises that his job is important and a welcome addition to others in their day.  In the West making tea would be seen as a lowly job and not worthy of any respect.  In India it is a vital job, the stopping of which could bring the country to its knees.  We westerners can never accept the present.  We are always striving for bigger, better and more, regardless of the cost to others, the mark of a capitalist society.  Paradoxically, the majority of Indians have little or nothing compared to us, yet they are disproportionately happier than us.  This is the puzzle westerners have yet to solve.

Into India from Pakistan.

50 rupee bank note.

Golden Temple Amritsar, India.

On the road in India.

A young snake charmer.