The Kids Are Alright

Goat count: 21

Cow count: 145 (approx)

Mango chicken count: 0

St.Xavier's College in Hazaribagh is renowned as the best in the region. This morning, it is application day. As I gaze across the sports field to the main school gates, hundreds of eager parents have been waiting since 6am to collect an application form in the hope that their son or daughter might be admitted. In front of me, two women in vivid saris effortly balance stacks of 10 bricks on their heads, helping rennovate some of the dozens of guest rooms here.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of parents will apply. Only 80 or so new students will be admitted next year.

Brrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing. The jarring sound of a mechanical hammer-bell. Recess.

We walk past rows and rows and rows and rows and rows of parked bicycles and I smile at some of the students - aged between 6 and 18. They smile back. One comes up to greet me - he shakes my hand and asks me my name. Steeled by his friend, another boy comes up to me. Then another, and another and another. So this is what celebrity feels like. Before long, my whole family is swamped by easily 150 students.

"What country are you from? Austria?"
"What are your hobbies?"
"What is your facebook ID? What is your email ID?"

A flurry of hand-shaking.

"Where do you live?"
"Is Sydney the most famous city in Australia? I know Canberra"

I struggle to get too many words in, but "Teach me to say something in Hindi," I ask a wave of enthusiastic students.

They do.

"What does that mean?"
They tell me.

"Well I DO love India," I say.

The crowd - no exaggeration - erupts. The cheering is actually a little much to take.

We drag ourselves away ever so gradually - still being tailed by one boy - desperate for me to write down our facebook and email details. Which I do. Can't wait to get home and check facebook.

Fasting and Furious

Hazaribagh

Goat count: 7

Mango chicken count: 0

This is more like it. Ducking and weaving, barelling headlong into yet another set of headlights belonging to an even bigger, wobblier truck that will surely be the end of me. Horn blaring, our local driver plays a cheeky game of peek-a-boo with the oncoming traffic. He's too close to the lorry in front to be able to see around, so he swerves out and then quickly back to the safety of the left lane to avoid the truck, car, motorcyclist or cow closing in on us.

The drive from Ranchi airport to Hazaribagh, where the Jesuit mission has been in operation since the 1940s, is long and... bumpy. The driver speaks only Hindi, but when Father Tony - our host - utters a brief instruction to him, I am certain the instruction is to slow down on the potholes for our benefit. It's also possible that it's more along the lines of "it's pitch dark outside, better flick the headlights on", as we pass one of the only clear signs that Jarkhand is even aware of the 21st Century - a brand new KFC complex. It's only recently opened, but like everything here, no matter how shiny, high-tech and new, it somehow looks incomplete. Maybe it's the wild pigs walking around in the car park.

We whizz through village after village; markets of sellers with beans and bananas and potatoes and grains spread out on small rugs on the dust. Run-down, doorless corrugated iron huts with red Vodafone logos splashed across the front. A Bank of India branch appears to have only part of a roof. Instead of spending big on structural security, the banks here are instead protected by dozens of armed guards.

This is more like it.

Touchdown

First impressions of India? Just as everyone always describes. Bustling, chaotic, colourful and a mish mash of oldworld and newworld contrasts and contradictions. The people are lovely and personable. Especially the old couple dressed in traditional indian garb smiling at me from the back of a colourfully hand painted truck; the message "Please Honk" elaborately emblazoned across the back. Honking is just common courtesy here.

For a more detailed picture, read Shantaram. Gregory David Roberts is more poetic than I could ever hope to be.

After two hours here, I've seen two live goats along the side of the (main) road by the airport. So far, no Mango Chicken.

This post is pretty boring. They might get better from here.

Airport transfers can be long and boring. Nothing boring about the transfer to flight IT32 from QF6 at Hong Kong. It's a tight crossover, so Roy from Qantas is waiting at the gate as we disembark, to whisk us across the enormous complex via back-alleys, freight elevators, staff-only queues and a train. Best way to avoid waiting at customs? Have less than 60 minutes between your international flights.

That was fun, but the Kingfisher flight itself is impressive - the staff are fantastic and the A330 aircraft is significantly more upmarket than the Qantas 747. The personal touches - a porter to meet you at the taxi and help you check in - make travelling a pleasure. They're probably also part of the reason Kingfisher is in receivership. That, and the anti-competitive nature of the Indian aviation industry.

On the Farm

Chiddes

Burgundy, France

Je suis ici.

I'm hanging out (and doing a bit of help around the place) on a Farm in France – not far from Switzerland. I arrived yesterday afternoon and was greeted at the station by Gilles and Zena, my hosts. They're brilliant. They've got a small business which they run on site restoring (and making) stained glass windows. It's beautiful. There's chickens, dogs, cats, strawberries, beans carrots, radishes, lettuce, flowers and a real live pumpkin patch. The horses died. Some time before I got here, I assume.

My boudoir for the next few weeks is an open barn - more or less under the stars - and I love it. There's no hot tap; showering entails boiling some water, standing on a shipping pallet and pouring water over oneself with an old cooking pot. The place is undergoing a bit of rennovation at the moment, so not everything is hooked up to the main water line. Flushing the toilet involves a trip across the garden to fill up a bucket to pour into the bowl. Fortunately, the lavatory is connected to the sewerline. I think.

And all this French is giving me headspins. But I'm sure it's good for me.

Oh, Think Twice, It's Just Another Day for You and Me in Paradise

Paris

Ile-de-France, France

This post is dedicated to Oscar

This story begins in a supermarket in Monmatre, Paris. Our Hero, escaping the drizzle outside, stands patiently in line at the QuickEat counter. Oh, the choices. What to eat? Une Baguette? Une Croissant? Un Croque Monsieur...?

"J'ai faim, monsieur."

The timid voice comes from a young, inward man of around twenty-five years. He's hungry. But there's a problem. So is Our Hero.

"Mais non, désolé."

But he's not the only one to turn down this Hungry Soul. Will no one stop to give him some spare change? It seems not.

Une Croque Madame? Un... Finally, Our Hero decides upon Pizza-Baguette. Valiantly, he asks for it to be cut in two, and offers one half to the Hungry Soul.

"Non merci. I don't eat crap."

Apparently, beggars can be choosers.

What's the Buzz? Tell Me What's Happening

London

England, UK

Once again, I've outdone myself in the don't-post-for-months-at-a-time stakes. So let's get up to date.

Edinburgh ¦ Scotland, UK

I spent a few weeks in Edinburgh, where the highlight (nay, pretty much everything I did) was the Edinburgh Festival. Now, they call it the Festival - singular - but it's actually a whole collection of festivals crammed into August. There's the original International Festival (think Sydney Festival and Carnivalé). Then, there's also the EFF - the film festival, the EIBF - the book festival, the Mela - a festival of cultures and the Edinburgh Tattoo - a spectacular military to-do of marching bands, horses, dancers, motorcycles and anything else that might look impressive on the forecourt of Edinburgh Castle.

And then there's the grand-daddy of them all, the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. 'Fringe' is a misnomer. This has grown into the main event. It's drama, it's comedy theatre, it's stand-up, it's music, it's experimental, it's impressive. This year there were 2,050 shows to choose from, some of them running every night of the festival (30 nights). Incredible. Of course, with that many shows on, there's going to be some rubbish - it's unavoidable. But there was some brilliant stuff too. Of all the shows I saw, two stand-outs were Chaplin, a one-man show about later-life Charles Chaplin's struggle with his alter-ego Charlie; and Something Blue an all-female clowning show (and we're talking the full-gamut of clowning - comedy, tragedy, physical theatre, mime).

Oh, and if you ever get a chance to go to the Tattoo, do it.

Aberdeen ¦ Scotland, UK

Lake District, Newcastle, Leeds, York, Cambridge, Surrey, Birmingham, Stratford-upon-Avon ¦ England, UK

London ¦ England, UK

I'm back in London now, sitting in a £0.50/hour Internet cafe on Tottenham Court Road. The woman next to me just screamed and jumped up onto her chair. Most likely because of the rat that's running around in here somewhere. I guess you get what you pay for.