Many arrivals in India are at some absurd time in the morning, since most of the long distance transport happens at night. And so it was that the bus deposited me and a couple of posh young English girls absolutely nowhere well before dawn, and we had to wake the sleeping taxi drivers and pay whatever they asked to take us up to McLeodGanj, which is where the Tibetans and travellers live, and where we knocked on random hotel doors until one of them took pity.

I woke up weak and realised that the bug which I picked up in the Parvatti valley rainwater, had followed me here. That day was the worst. Munchie kept me company in bed as I dozed and dashed. The next day I managed to move and the day after I had to get to Dharamsala to withdraw some cash. On the way down I met an American who was even weaker than me. He was looking for a hospital so we exchanged sympathies and stuck together. The next day he introduced me to his Tibetan monk English student called Ngawang (pronounced Nawa) and I agreed to take him on.

When the young Dalai Lama escaped to India in 1959, dressed as a soldier, (as documented in the movie 'Kundun') he made his base here in McLeodGanj. After him came monks and temples and lay people, and now there are more Tibetans than Indians here. There are many pro-Tibetan organisations around, and political posters and an orphanage, and refugee camp out of town. Down the hill a bit the whole Tibetan government comprises another village, and various monasteries are prominent on the hillsides. Every shop and restaurant displays the Dalai Lama's portrait and the spiritual leader of Tibetan Buddhism and also the political head of the Tibet. This will often be supplemented with pics of the Potala palace in Lhasa, (quite a Chinese tourist attraction these days) and other favoured lamas.

There's a street CD shop just outside my fave cafe. Though they have lots of CD's on offer they always play the same buddhist chant - Om Mani Padme Hum, which eventually goes round and round and becomes the song of Mcleod.

Did I mention the Panchen Lama? He's Tibet's no.2 Lama but unfortunately as soon as the present incarnation was identified (as a 5 year old), the Chinese took his family into 'protection' and, televised the enthronement of their own Panchen Lama, the son of a local communist official - (don't forget the Chinese have been so adamant about the harmful effects of religion on their people that they have killed over a million Tibetans, mostly monks, so this enthronement should be taken with a pinch of salt). There is a question as to what will happen to the Tibetan people and Tibetan Buddhism when the 14th Dalai Lama dies. He has emphatically stated that he will not be re-incarnated into China!

Being built on a mountain, the roads in McLeodganj don't meet, except once at the busstand in the middle which is absolute chaos. From there they spread out in all directions and gradients. Town planning seems to be somewhat adhoc, while roadworks and waterworks are very much an ongoing process. Men and women break rocks for hardcore and lay them in the path of the road. Then one morning a load of stones and tar appears and smelly fire is built. One man wields the shovel, and another pulls a rope to make the horizontal stroke. Then if they are lucky their work will be properly steamrolled. By the next year the tarmac has worn thin and maybe crumbled, exposing a buried pipe or two. These pipes aren't the worst though, since they are well embedded and sturdy. The pipes that cause problems are the ones that run in bundles alongside every road, pathway or gutter. Whenever someone installs a new water supply, they don't tap off the nearest pipe, they add a pipe to the nearest bundle. These pipes are often exposed, bent and fragile, and they hiss all over town.

A great number of lepers have staked out spots along the main streets. With bandaged toeless feet they beseech with open palms. To give them a coin you have to balance it on their palm or throw it straight into the tin. They seem greatful for anything, and content with nothing. On the other hand there is a troupe of young women who wonder round with a sleeping babies under their arm, accosting everyone who passes. Apparently they exchange babies in the morning and drug them so they sleep all day. Although many indians don't like to receive thanks for their charity, these women hardly acknowledge my gifts, but are already targeting the next recipient of their mournful stares. In india, begging is as acceptable as working. That unfortunate whose leg corkscrews below the knee, and all the others who were mutilated as toddlers all have their careers mapped out. Its hard to decide who is worthy and who is less worthy - that's if I can find any coins; there's such a shortage of small change in India that I've been accumulating a portfolio of 2 rupee debts.

I mentioned how there was only an annual litter in Arambol - well here there are vehicles in circulation picking up waste which say: "Keep McLeodGang Clean - Sponsored by Gere Foundation, USA" The actor Richard Gere is a proffessed Buddhist and friend to the Dalai Lama. As I savoured my porridge today, a lorry passed the cafe overflowing with waste as the waiters rushed through the dining area with bins to add to the pile. I'd like to quote you from the aforementioned local mag:

A quick Mcleodganj eco-primer
Visitors to McLeod Ganj quickly note the garbage on the hillsides. The "Oh-my-look-at-this-mess" refrain is by now a discussion that barely stands out from the "where-should-I-go-to-renew-my-visa", the "I-hate-to-take-antibiotics-but..." and the comparative hotel rent conversations that grace every tourist's visit to India. Everytime you eat in a restaurant, you are probably contributing to the trash problem. Drink milk? Eat porridge? Tibetan noodles? Like butter on your toast? Like plain toast? Well then, the one place to point that accusatory finger is in the mirror.

The staff in this cafe absolutely fell in love with Munchie and gladly took her off my hands while wondered around sick. Munchie was happy at last to have a constant place to be, and lots of people to meet. I soon tired of recounting her adventures to cooing females, and learned whenever I saw a suprised, inquisitive, adoring face, just to pass her over for a cuddle and gaze the other way. The highlight of this week was when Damien turned up about half way through. He was one of the three English boys I met in my first week in Goa, and has been there ever since - He was the same as before, but perhaps more relaxed into India. He's on the sick in England, for depression, and with the money, which he doesn't have to sigh for, he can live like a prince here. So he has a spliff every few hours, sits in the sun, and gets to grip with intellectual books. Soon he hopes to make up his mind and get a proper career, but for now he's very easy company, and always willing to engage in conversation. Such was my first week here. I was hoping that Bjorn and Georgie would turn up to keep me company, but they didn't.

It turned out that my job was to be delayed for a couple of weeks so suddenly I had the perfect time gap to squeeze in a Vipassana meditation course, which I've been challenging myself to do since Bjorn's glowing descriptions in Arambol.