Welcome to India

Always the first impression of India is the hustle and bustle, people and traffic consume every inch of the cities. It’s dusty and polluted, the cloying filth coats your throat and lungs. Pavements are either non-existent or a veritable obstacle course, everyone walks down the side of the road. It’s a game of dodgems, weaving in and out of the virtual impenetrable wall of humanity, with bikes and cars brushing against you in passing. The noise hammers your eardrums from every direction, engines revving, horns blaring, people jabbering. Yep, this is India in its full glory! It’s a full body experience, every sense assailed, total sensory overload. Being fair, it isn’t so different from a multitude of Asian cities, but it’s distinctly Indian. You can get a good taste of it in Colombo (Sri Lanka), or the Little India sector of Penang city (Malaysia), but this is pure India. There is no China town around the corner, no discernible tourist hub to hide within. (Photo: Young cobblers - Aberdeen Bazaar, Port Blair)

The knack is to focus your individual senses, otherwise the tendency is to shut them down, try to ignore the mayhem. For me it’s like opening every atom of my being, allowing myself to be receptive, absorb it all whilst plucking out what’s of interest. I hear the unmistakable throb of a large single cylinder motorbike, and look for a Royal Enfield, there is only vehicle here that sound can come from. Rivulets of colour flow down the sidewalk, bright saris of silk or garish polyesters wafting in the breeze. Large families cram themselves onto 125cc motorbikes; husband riding, young kid on the tank, wife and two more kids squeezed onto the pillion. But of course, these are the relatively poor, those of better breeding don’t encumber themselves with so many children, they’re too busy enjoying the merits of privilege. Eating well and showing it is a sign of wealth here, or status. The middle-aged middle-classes proudly display the signs of fortune, slabs of flab cascade from the folds of saris, pot bellies perched on the petrol tank wobble like jellies fresh out the mould. (Photo: Sheet metal worker, recycling old tin cans - Aberdeen Bazaar, Port Blair)

When being open and receptive India is both dazzling and appalling, hence the oft-heard phrase, “you either love it or hate it”. I swing between the two. If trying to achieve anything without delay frustration sets in, and I struggle. When relaxed and responsive the nation’s gregarious nature never fails to touch me. People will always catch your attention, under any pretext, if only to say hello, unless your demeanour excludes the outside world. If I flash my gnashers a positive response is almost guaranteed, and Indian Indians have one of the most appealing smiles imaginable. A line of guys sit on a wall watching my progress along the road, I notice them, smile and call a greeting. Their faces light up, beaming smiles shine forth, and they all do that endearing Indian head wobble in unison. You can’t catch those moments on film! So when I’m hard pushed to cope with the harsh side of the country, all I need do is flash a smile at someone and my troubles should melt away. (Photo: Pounding t the laundry clean - Hidden Ghats, Port Blair)

 Having been fairly low for months India could have been a bad choice for a holiday destination, it’s a place of extremes, with little ground in the middle. Maybe that was part of the attraction, I know I would like to try spending more time in more rural areas. Poverty breeds a generous nature into people, the farming folk here are among the most genuine and hospitable I’ve ever come across. Mind you, I was whisked out into Madras for an all expenses paid night as a welcome to the city, by a stranger I met on the street. Ok, he was a bit of an alky, if fact he turned louder and more embarrassing the more he drank. And he had to get me back home on his bike, I hadn’t a clue where I was. It would have proved less of an ordeal riding back if I’d been half cut too. Now he wants me to help him entice clients to invest in his business, by pretending I’m a foreign investor. Of course he’ll have to buy me a set of smart business clothes, it wouldn’t cost me a penny either. All this and he never once tried to grope me, he must have been serious. (Photo: Using parrots as a means of predicting the future - Somewhere in the depths of Chennai)

So I made it to the Andaman Islands in one piece, despite throwing myself at the mercy of fate in Madras. This long haul flying takes it out of you though, it’s taken a couple of days to get my wits back. During which time hours each day have been spent pounding the pavements of the capital, Port Blair. Please believe me this has nothing to do with Tony, if it did the closest I would have come would be to piss on it as I flew overhead. I’ve been trying to suss out how to get to the Nicobar Islands, which are completely out of bounds to foreigners. Actually most of them are out of bounds to Indians too, in an effort to protect the indigenous tribes still refusing to join the modern world. There is a chance I could get there, if I hung around and went through a shed load of bureaucracy. Another guy just got a permit, for one of the islands, but he was not entirely forthcoming with how he managed. Shame, but never mind! I’m off to a nice secluded island in the Andamans on Monday, so I’ll be off-line for a while. (Photo: Hung out to dry - Town Ghat, Port Blair)

Onwards and upwards

Despite frequent thoughts of posting updates life just hasn’t directed me towards that particular task. It isn’t as if nothing has happened in the last six months, more that I’ve been unwilling to harp on about the same droll garbage all the time. But now, continuing the same blog, I feel duty bound to bring everything up to date. As to the decision whether to continue with this blog, or start a new, fresh episode, I’ve merely followed the precedent set before. I’m still committed to publicising my Tibetan odyssey, still intending to write my second book. The aim is to catch up with myself, to try and bring my focus fully into the present. It’s a strange situation really, writing about my own life experiences. You can’t help but live in the past. Writing may heighten the experiences at the time, and indeed provide a much deeper understanding of the world I pass through, but it can also hold me back. (Photo: A new flashy business card, with all my current details)

At the time my reasoning for a return home was to promote the sale of my book, and I’ve done that to a greater extend than imagined. I don’t want to mislead people though, I didn’t give it much thought, assuming it would pick up it’s own momentum. It didn’t, there have been no reprints, it hasn’t found it’s way onto the best-sellers lists. There again it wasn’t why I wrote the book, I wanted my story told. The moment when I held the proof-bound copy in my hand was emotional, I felt so proud to have succeeded in seeing my first effort in print. It was never about the money, while it would have been nice I didn’t expect to recoup the financial outlay of self-publishing. A lot of lessons were learnt, mainly the more pro-active you are in promoting yourself the better it goes. To my chagrin an expensive attempt at employing a professional PR company (BookedPR) was an utter failure. My own efforts with the media proved a much greater success. (Photo: The Menai Straits and the old suspension bridge - Nr Bangor)

People are hesitant about approaching an author, or is it just me? I don’t think so, most people go around in their own little bubble. How many times have I written about doing this myself? How many times do I rely on creating my own protective bubble as a buffer from the surrounding world. The general public don’t like to be singled out, made special yes, but not to receive uninvited attention. A series of book signings at local libraries proved this point very well, it was a long quiet week when I undertook to hold six signings on consecutive days. Miraculously a severe lack in sales figures failed to perturb me, making money wasn’t the aim, at least I persist in this claim. Raising awareness of it’s existence was the main goal, and at least in this I’ve had greater success. The libraries have copies of my book sat on their shelves, a fact I was happy to point out to all and sundry. So no, it isn’t about selling copies alone, I simply want my story read. (Photo: A room with a view - Menai Straits, between the bridges. At high tides the water washes straight through the property.

The most successful events were those at which I gave a presentation, being well attended and much appreciated. I guess there’s a knack to self-promotion, and on my last event I seemed to have realised the most effective way. Maybe if I’d kept my mind on the job at hand the realisation would have come sooner, but common sense overcame me. When I set off last year, into the unknown, it was without a clear idea of exactly where to or for how long. The possibility of encumbering myself with property and the associated responsibilities were not on the agenda, that all changed in the last few months. I’m now the rather nonplussed owner of a quiet house on the outskirts of Rachub, or should I say landlord of an ideal investment property? OK, the idea is that I can eventually have a home to settle into, but that’s in the unforeseeable future. I’m not settled and don’t feel that it’s just round the corner either. (Photo: My house/investment - Rachub)

Though feeling no desperate compulsion to be anywhere in particular, I really didn’t feel like staying in the UK for too long. Is it me, or has the recession beaten folks into a miserable submission? After the standard of living I was surrounded with for so long I fail to see what people’s problem is in the western world. Life really is not that bad here in comparison, yet everyone is much less content. Does it take poverty and real hardship to make people realise how lucky they really are? I don’t think it should, there are always those less fortunate in plain view. And so we come full circle, living in our own bubble, blinding us to the goings on around us. Well I’m taking my bubble to India and the Andaman Islands. It really should be with the express intent to get my next book written, but before that can happen I need to burst that bubble, it’s time to let my world wash away. Yes, I’m off again. Hopefully I won’t be travelling anywhere fast or frequently, it’s time to kick back and reintroduce myself to the real world. (Photo: Landscaped and walled, a promising garden space - Les Maison, Rachub)

Home and away

Flashing through the proof bound copy didn’t show any glaring mistakes, I wasn’t about to read it thoroughly all the way through, I’ve done that so many times already. I know it was my last chance to pick up mistakes, but I was prepared for a product slightly lacking in perfection. That wasn’t quite the way I viewed it at the time, impatience ruled I must admit, seeing the first print run roll off the production line was my only focus. I’d timed my return for the books release only to find it delayed by a month, my main concern was not to delay it any further. That proved a touch rash; the first copy I picked up, the first page I perused, glaring at me from the page was the first mistake. It’s not the only one, though they don’t come thick and fast by any stretch of the imagination. It has to be sorted, before a second print run, and despite being so familiar with the story I still feel I should read it as a printed book. (Photo: Penrhyn Quarry across the valley - Bethesda, North Wales)

Most of my time has been spent organising the promotion of the book, tackling the local media and booking venues to host the book signings were relatively easy really. The story has had plenty of publicity locally, which stems right back to Cai and me leaving for our amazing father and son adventure through the Americas. In some ways the publicity has come back to bite me on the arse, Cai’s demise has provided the sensationalised aspects of the media interest. I don’t want to sell the book on the strength of losing my son, but there’s no denying that it’s what makes the story special. It isn’t just the story though, the telling of it has to be done skilfully otherwise an inspirational story could turn out to be boorish, or cumbersome to read. Over the years I’ve read a phenomenal number of books, I have a wide range of interest and form clear impressions of a good author when reading their work. It doesn’t matter how good a story line is, it must read well to be a success. So I guess it was with baited breath that I waited for feedback once it went on sale. (Photo: A walk down the valley - Nant Ffrancon, Nr Bethesda)

First things first though, I had to sell copies! Impatience again ruled the roost, I booked venues and arranged interviews with local reporters before there were actually any books available. That’s me all over though, impulsive and once I get an idea in my head can become a little obsessed about it. It was rushed, I should have taken more time, allowed more time for advertising, but it had been five years in the coming. Friends and family were always going to be amongst the first customers, they were also going to be the least likely to give damning criticism, especially after being given a copy free gratis. It was the public interest I had to attract, which is why the first book signing was arranged at the Bangor public library, I was also lucky enough to have a TV crew agree to cover the launch. Unfortunately rain stopped play, Aberystwyth flooded and the cameras decided that made better news than a local author’s debut publication. (Photo: Llyn Brenin towards Nant Gwynant, Nr Capel Careg)

I must be honest the number of books sold was a bit of a disappointment, at all three venues. You have to start somewhere though, more important were those rare moments where a real connection was made. In the library a random passer-by was asked to pose for a photo with me, and what a strange occurrence. Sitting down she asked what the book was about, so I explained about my motorbike ride through the Americas, the mileage, the basic route. Only when turning a book over did she notice the photo of Cai and me, she asked about who I did the journey with. That was the moment I had to be totally open and honest, “that’s my son, he lost his life in an accident at the very beginning of the journey”. At which point she dropped her own bombshell, having lost her brother recently she’d come in the library looking for something on bereavement, to help her to deal with her loss. So it wasn’t necessarily about the number of sales, if only one person in Lhotse’s situation found inspiration in my words it made all the writing and publishing worthwhile. (Photo: Book launch, with Lhotse - Bangor Library)

 Definitely mixed blessings are felt about settling into being home again. I felt at odds with my bike, appreciated having some private space but felt not quite fully at ease in someone else’s house, and was keen on promoting the book though somehow wished some high flying benefactor could have pushed sales straight into bookstores. I got used to the bike, and now fling it around with gay abandon. Accommodation, I can’t fault the generosity of a friend who allows me to use his empty house, and yet I haven’t settled into it the way I had last time at home. I’ve not seen that much of friends, my decision not theirs, the dynamics have changed, between many of them rather than with me. On a personal level I’m middling, emotionally neither high nor low, though I have my moments. Maybe the biggest change is the decision to make my next trip abroad a longer-term move. I’m not happy in the UK, the world at large may not offer guaranteed happiness but the atmosphere in this part of the world is so negative. (Photo: My slightly battered BMW - Back safely in North Wales)