Trekking in Nepal

Before Nepal, my longest hike was three days. Several years ago after trekking in Morocco's High Atlas mountains, by day three I was utterly exhausted and my legs were so sore I could barely walk.

Last month I trekked the Annapurna Circuit and Sanctuary in the Nepalese Himalayas to raise money for British non-profit MAG (Mines Advisory Group). My friends Peter, Meg, Liam (who we met in Nepal) and I, organised the trek and paid all expenses ourselves. All money raised goes straight to MAG, to remove landmines from countries like Laos and Cambodia. Nothing like a charity counting on you to keep you going during a challenging 21 days at high-altitude. Yep, that's seven times longer than my previous treks and with an elevation of 5,416m (17,769ft) at Thorung La Pass, the highest point. Before setting off I felt anxious and extremely excited.

Annapurna Circuit and Sanctuary are two separate treks and most folks do one or the other. We decided to do both. The Circuit trail connects a series of charming villages in a giant upside-down horseshoe with Thorung La Pass at the top. We began Sanctuary at the tail end of the Circuit climbing steadily up to Annapurna Base Camp (aka “ABC” - elevation 4,130m/13,549ft) and back down the same path.

Fun and Games
At high elevation, trekkers are advised to sleep no more than 500m higher each night. During the day you can hike as high as you like as the guideline only applies to sleeping altitude. The rule of thumb is, “Hike high, sleep low.” This meant on the way up to the Pass we had some very short days where we met our 500m quota after only two or three hours and had to stop. This gave us ample time for reading, journal writing, clothes washing and playing cards. Our favourites were “500” (an excellent team trumps game), “Casino”, Aussie rules rummy, “Shithead” renamed “Full Retard” and “Solitaire” with several backseat drivers. Our deck of cards was very ordinary and we were in awe of a Welsh couple's see-through plastic glow-in-the-dark set and a beautifully illustrated taro-like deck from Bavaria belonging to three German trekkers.

We played pool in a dive called, “Local Bar” and inside a garage next to racks of drying yak meat.

Thanks to Liam we found ourselves singing a great deal. We sang the full score of “The Sound of Music” through a forest and Top 40 Hits from the 80's and 90's on the way up to ABC in the snow.

You Know You're Trekking in Nepal When...
* You have to wait five minutes to let a caravan of heavily laden donkeys cross a bridge.
* The correct trail is marked with a littering of banana gum wrappers and coconut biscuit packets.
* Guesthouses advertise “hot showers” but they're solar powered so the best you're going to get is “warm”. Arrive late in the afternoon and you're looking at cold water or wetwipes.
* Dinner costs about four times more than your bed for the night. (Guesthouses make their money from meals and as it is assumed you will eat where you sleep, a token amount is charged for rooms. Our record low was US$1 for a quadruple room.)
* Apple pie, spring rolls and Mars rolls are all wrapped in dough and deep fried. My group also sampled Snickers rolls and Twix rolls (you get two).
* Apple is the only fruit you see for three weeks. You can have apple muesli, pancake, pie, juice, tangy dried apple slices, or just plain apple.
* You get breathy hiking up a mild incline. It's the altitude!

How hard was it?
The trek was challenging for me though it wasn't as difficult as I anticipated. Because we had never done this sort of thing before we hired two Nepalese porters. This provides employment and made the experience more enjoyable for me only carrying my daypack. We met a lot of trekkers who were carrying their own backpacks and a lot who weren't. Those without porters covered the same ground as us each day, they were just generally a bit slower. One of our porters didn't work out for us, so after the initial 15 day contract was up, Peter volunteered to carry one of the bags. He appreciated the added challenge.

The funny thing about altitude is you never know how it is going to affect you. You might be lucky and only experience minor symptoms (breathiness, loss of appetite, frequent urination) or you may suffer full-blown flu-like symptoms, bad headaches or worse. We met some people who were so ill they had to turn around for lower elevation until they were better. One unwell Irish woman hired a horse to carry her over the Pass.

On the way up to the Pass, Peter and Meg had trouble sleeping. Liam had headaches and wasn't hungry. Personally I fared well and other than breathiness and slower hiking speed was grateful for my good health.

On both treks there are villages all along the way. It's easy to regulate accent and the next teahouse is never more than an hour or so away. Those who fall fowl of the altitude can descend a few hundred meters and rest until acclimitised.

The duration was not the obstacle I anticipated. The trek was seven times longer than Morocco but it was certainly not seven times harder. We got into a rhythm of rising early, walking, eating lunch and walking some more. Nights were bitterly cold but during the day the sun was warm and hiking pleasant. Especially challenging were the steep climbs and decents. Hiking up then down then up again in a single afternoon can be a bit soul destroying. We kept telling ourselves it all is part of the process and was making our legs stronger. Other days were more enjoyable. I loved having endless hours to talk with my friends and other trekkers from around the world, while passing gobsmacking scenery.

Scenery
Spectacular views of the Himalayas are some of my lasting memories of the trek. The varied landscape on the Circuit was particularly rewarding. We hiked through subtropical forests, past chalky blue lakes, across vast valleys, along narrow rocky trails with gushing rivers far below and over wobbly suspension bridges. We saw yaks grazing on scrubby plains. We visited remote stone villages that are many days' walk from the nearest road. We were blessed by a 92 year-old lama in a tiny Buddhist temple built into a cliffside. We trekked in the shadow of snow covered mountains and eventually through the snow itself.

On the approach to the Pass, I was surrounded by rounded, snowy mountains. Whereas previously the mountains had towered above us, now they seemed closer and in the early morning light, smoother. I felt a surge of joy. Visually the landscape was one of the most stunning we had seen so far, but it occurred to me at this could have been the view from the top of a ski lift in the French Alps or perhaps the American Rockies. What blew me away were two things:
1) I knew I was looking at the Nepalese Himalayas, nearing the highest point of our journey. It was exotic because I knew it was exotic.
2) It had taken us nine days to walk there. In short, there was no ski lift.

I would highly recommend the Annapurna Circuit to anyone who is a reasonably fit hill walker. It's not just for young people either. We encountered many dozens of trekkers in their 50's and 60's and one incredible woman who was 72.

We are still accepting sponsorship in support for MAG. So far we have raised £318 and we would love to reach £500. All donations however small are greatly appreciated. Please visit: www.justgiving.com/riceherders Thank you!

- Panauti, Nepal

Baby's First Food

"Hi there Maude. How're things?"
"Oh, real good, Nancy. Would you believe it, little Timmy's on solid foods now?"
"You don't say. They do grow up fast."
"The other day we gave the little tyke banana and rice for the first time."
"Isn't that sweet. My Alice used to love mashed pumpkin."

The world over, eating solid food for the first time is a baby milestone along with the first smile and sleeping through the night. In the West, proud mothers might share the news with friends. Steamed carrots brave the blender or parents buy puree in diminutive glass jars. And that's pretty much it. The baby eats her first "meal" in front of a doting audience of two.

In Nepal they throw a party. Today I was fortunate enough to be invited to a baby's first food ceremony. Nepalese babies continue to nurse until they are two or three, but at six months real food is introduced into their diet. As of this morning, an infant known to me as "Babu" ("Baby boy" in Nepali) had only consumed breast milk. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, milk was the only thing on the menu. Today all that changed.

I was welcomed into a simple house, much like the 150 year-old guesthouse where I am staying. I sat on a mat on the dry mud floor, next to Suresh, the president of Panauti village's tourism development committee, who acted as my guide. He explained the baby's family is Bramin, the highest Hindu caste. Lucky Babu should have access to education and the resulting better job prospects.

An imam officiated the ceremony. Spread in front of him on the floor was what looked to me like a chaotic mess of religious trinkets, a brass teapot, spilled rice and grain, leaves, garlands of marigolds, incense and so forth. Babu sat contentedly in his uncle's arms, decked out in a little hood and cape and wearing thick eyeliner to ward off evil. The imam began chanting, flinging grains of rice and painting dots on the teapot. Guests continued to arrive and were seated on the floor.

Babu's father, chin-length hair framing his round face took turns holding his son. He is a Hindu priest and an astrologer. He was clearly enjoying his role in this joyous day. A young woman took dozens of photos with her mobile, calling, "Babu!" and clapping her hands to get his attention. Curiously, for a while Babu's mother was nowhere to be seen. Suresh thought she was downstairs, so perhaps she was busy helping to prepare food. However even when she did appear, she lingered behind the other guests, as if reticent to get involved. Is this custom, I wondered, or is the woman just very shy?

A tray containing a book, brick, knife and pencil were placed in front of Babu. Suresh explained this was a test. The chosen object gives an indication of the baby's future. Babu picked up the pencil. A cheer went up in the room. This means he will be a good student. It's hard to imagine an infant picking up a brick, but if he did he would be a skilled builder. Fortunately he didn't go for the knife as this could signify a future as a thief.

A woman entered the room carrying a mallard. One of the main ways Nepalese and Indian Hinduism differ is in the former's use of animal sacrifice. Most Indians are vegetarians so killing animals ceremonially or otherwise is a big no-no. I happen to be fond of ducks. I think they have a lot more personality than chickens. I hoped this duck was not about to be slaughtered. The truth as it turns out was significantly more unpredictable. Babu and the duck were going to kiss. It is good luck apparently. The woman gave the duck's bill and webbed feet a little wash. You know how babies like to put everything in their mouths? The duck's bill was held closed near to Babu's face and he happily latched on to it for a taste. Someone wasn't fast enough with her camera and wanted the kiss repeated. Babu and duck obliged.

Babu's clothes were removed and he was wrapped in a red shawl. He sat on his uncle's lap and his father fed him some banana. Another piece was lit on fire for the sun god. Large platters of food were set down. Babu was given rice, egg, and small tastes of many other foods. He seemed to like everything.

Babu was dressed in special red and gold ceremonial clothes. The guests showered him with petals and popcorn. Someone offered a handful to Babu's mother, still lingering in the back, but she declined. We filed outside, Babu in tow and made a tour of the village's closest seven or so Hindu shrines.

Back inside the house, it was the guests' turn to eat. The feast was staggering. Rice with almonds and raisins, tender stewed goat, chickpeas, potato and aubergine curry and tomato curry. Our hosts kept ladling more food onto our metal plates. I got to eat with my hand which was enjoyably tactile but messy. Dessert was yogurt with sliced fruit. Heavenly. Fortunately I was served my yogurt in a mug with a spoon, though some dexterous folks ate it with fingers off plates.

Before leaving I congratulated Babu's father and thanked him profusely for letting me take part in this special day. I told him the food was delicious. I would have thanked his shy wife as well but she was nowhere to be seen.

- Panauti, Nepal

Deconstructionist Nepal

We got up early to see the sunrise and take some footage of the temples. But there wasn't much of a sunrise. I suppose I've been spoiled lately with some spectacular dawn displays in the Himalayas where the crimson heavens appeared to be cracking open. My friend Liam borrowed a video camera from work and I've enjoyed hunting for distinctively Nepalese shots with him. Flapping prayer flags, spinning prayer wheels, women carrying baskets strapped to their foreheads, that sort of thing.

I had just been lamenting the morning's non-event of a sunrise when I noticed a young water buffalo lying on the bricks with its legs hobbled together. A small crowd was starting to gather around. I spotted knives and large basins. I knew what was about to happen even if the beast did not. Liam, focused on the temple, hadn't noticed the animal yet. “Liam, come here,” I called. “I think they're about to slaughter this water buffalo.”

And they did. A sharp knife punctured its throat. Another incision was made lower down on its neck. Blood poured into a basin. Steam rose out of the two cuts into the cold morning air. The creature struggled a little and made a few noises, but then fell quiet. I kept thinking it must be dead by now and then it would surprise me with a convulsion. I thought it might put up more of a fight, but even for a large animal there is a limit to what you can do when you're tied up, restrained by several people and literally bleeding buckets. Liam had asked permission to videotape and recorded the whole thing. This was not the "Beautiful Nepal" his work wanted, but it's not every day you stumble upon butchery and we thought it would make an interesting short film. It was certainly fascinating watching it all take place in front of me. The small children were riveted. Liam said it was different watching through the viewfinder than seeing it all for real. Perhaps the cameraman is a film's first spectator and is therefore one step removed.

The water buffalo's head was separated from its body and placed ceremonially in front of a small shrine. The offering was blessed and a candle was placed on its head. Straw was arranged along the beast's flank and set on fire. This was repeated again and again in order to burn off the fur. Men heaved the carcass onto its other side and created more fires. By this point most of the children had lost interest and walked away. Liam was offered what he initially feared must be hot blood but thankfully turned out to be tea. I sipped mine and watched the blaze. At what point does something cease to be an animal? Is it the moment of death, when its head is cut off or sometime later when its innards have been removed and its bones are hacked apart with a hatchet?

Wishing to warm up, we went to our favourite cafe in the village, a family-run place with superb milk tea. When we returned half an hour later, they were at the internal organs/ hatchet stage of the operation. The stomach the size of a small beanbag, was spliced open to reveal what appeared to be a lawn's worth of partially digested hay. We watched until the end. Everything was carefully cut and washed with hot water. Nothing was wasted. From start to finish the whole process took two hours. The short film will cover everything in about three minutes. Meat requires a lot of work. I was struck by the process of deconstruction. The village men transformed a living, breathing water buffalo into a series of parts. They turned an animal into raw pieces; ingredients.

Later in the day, Krishna, our guesthouse owner, accompanied me to a fabric shop. I told him I was interested in having two traditional Nepalese tops made for myself. These wrap-around, tie at the side, shirts are still worn by many women in rural parts of the country. They're form-fitting, distinctive and I think very flattering. I get excited by fabric stores. All those different colours and textures. I selected a heavy black and red print and a retro design of rhododendrons, the country's national flower. Krishna brought me to his own tailor, an old man with a hand-crank machine who has sewn Krishna's clothes since he was a little boy.

The tailor's wife measured me and the tailor set to work, eschewing the tape measure, deftly inching his hands and fingers across the fabric. He had no pattern. The shapes were in his head. He swiftly cut the forms which were to become sleeves, front, back and darts, out of my material while we watched. Once again Liam's video camera came out. It was the opposite of the water buffalo. I wanted to record the transformation from cloth to clothes. Parts to a functioning whole. Constructionism.

In the West, our animals are slaughtered and butchered out of sight. The process is discreetly hidden from view. Our clothes are now made in the developing world, often here in Asia. We buy meat and clothes from shops as finished products. We don't get to watch patterns being cut. It happens somewhere else.

At the village tailor's, a crowd of young children gathered around. They can see clothes made every day, so naturally the magic occurring on the sewing machine wasn't what piqued their interest. They were watching me.

- Panauti, Nepal

Pilgrim's Progress – Jodhpur to Ramdevra on Foot

"Try to have no expectations," they told me. Volunteering is never what you think it will be. Sure enough, rather than teaching English and crafts in a classroom for the Sambhali Trust, in Jodhpur, India, I spent the first week of September walking in the Thar Desert. Most mornings we woke while it was still dark and walked a few kilometers before sunrise. After sun up, in a sort of plodding race against the clock, we tried to cover as much ground as possible before 11am when the heat became unbearable.

Each year over a million Indians take part in the Ramdevra Pilgrimage. They walk from all over Rajasthan (and sometimes further afield) to the temple where Baba Ramdev Ji, a Hindu saint and incarnation of Krishnu, is buried.

Peter and I were accompanied by an entourage of twenty Dalit (Untouchables caste) girls and women from Sambhali, the charity's founder Govind, three other Western volunteers and a support team of a few drivers and cooks. Hundreds of thousands of people traversed the same route that week. We walked 165km in just five days. One day we walked more than the distance of a marathon, only to wake the following morning and walk another 30km.

It was exhausting, exhilarating, hauntingly beautiful and remarkable.

We followed the road past pastel scrubland and through rural villages. Lunch, often in the company of goats and transfixed children, consisted of delicious dhals and curries. We relaxed in the shade or washed ourselves and our single change of clothes at water pumps. Around 3pm, though the heat was still powerful, we were able to start walking again. We exchanged warm greetings with old women, families and children, all on foot. We had started our journeys from different towns, but we were all headed to the same place. As the sun grew low in the sky, the colours of the Thar Desert began to intensify. This was one of my favourite times of day. In terms of sheer beauty it was rivaled only by the vast, starry night sky.

We five foreigners were apparently the first to ever make the pilgrimage in its five-hundred-odd year history. It's hard to believe, but everyone we met enroute attested to this, including a kind doctor who had made the trip for the past fifteen years. Consequently we received a lot of attention, both from the media (we were interviewed by a number of newspapers and TV stations) and from the people we encountered on the way. Although most were simply curious, sometimes we were given a little too much attention. Once when we stopped in a tent for chai, a crowd gathered around us and a few men leaned so far in to get a better look that they nearly fell on top of me. In these instances Govind and the girls snapped into action and shooed the men away with wonderful Hindi witticisms such as, "Yes, they drink tea too just like you," before telling them to get lost and give us some privacy.

It was this protectiveness from the girls which I found particularly endearing. Although they had only met me a few days before, they were brilliant at carefully guiding us through crowds and loudly telling off leering young men. I was grateful to them for helping me navigate this at times bewildering environment. Also I was delighted by their boldness. They never hesitated to stand up for us and showed phenomenal strength of character. Sambhali aims to empower girls and women. It is clear to me it has been doing its job.

Over the course of the pilgrimage the contingent of Westerners fell foul of a variety of ailments from massive blisters and sore legs to hurt knees, knotted stomachs, sunburn and colds. We loudly discussed our latest debilitating pain and generally moaned a lot. The Sambhali girls on the other hand put us all to shame. The walking wasn't easy for them either, but they didn't complain, at least not to us. Additionally many were fasting, eating only one small meal a day. The girls were stoic, but at times I worried for their health, particularly when one started throwing up. Dehydration in a desert is a serious cause for concern. After a little bullying, she agreed to drink rehydration salts and fortunately was alright.

Incidents like these made it clear that although we were walking to Ramdevra together, we were on a very different path. For our little group of largely secular foreigners, it was about taking part in a distinctively Indian experience, spending time with each other and the girls and testing ourselves physically. For the girls and indeed the million other Ramdevra pilgrims, it was about faith. This was the largest display of faith we had ever seen. Although we were taking part, we also stood apart.

This was clearest to me when we finally reached the temple at Ramdevra. At this point everyone was exhausted, including the girls. We walked through the town barefoot, sidestepping mud and filth. Due to Govind's connections, we bypassed the hours' long queue and went straight into the temple. Inside we were whisked from one room to another. It was frenzied and confusing. I remember a baby's cradle and people offering alms for a personal wish. Immediately outside by a holy lake, we splashed ourselves with water. Our newly painted bindis ran red down our noses. A true religious fervor overtook the girls. Their aches and pains forgotten they formed a circle and began chanting. Yelling. Singing. Suddenly I really was just a spectator. They were experiencing something I can't understand. The temple, the lake and indeed the previous five days of walking meant something to them of which I was not a part.

We drove to Setrawa, Govind's hometown and the village where Sambhali's other project is based. It felt strange and good not walking. Utterly worn out, we laid our blankets on the roof of the Setrawa school. One last night sleeping under the stars.

- Jodhpur, India

Shoe Repairs and Chai Tea

On the warm nighttime drive from Delhi airport, we passed cows resting on the road and a cyclist on the motorway. The old brick buildings with crumbling plaster reminded me of Morocco. There were dogs everywhere. Apparently they form vicious packs at night, but during the day they seem sweet and docile. Still, we know not to touch them.

We have arrived in India. It is a country I have long dreamed of visiting. It is famed for its exotic, rich culture. Spices, saris, sitars. Bollywood and "off shore" call centres. Travelling here is said to be both difficult and deeply rewarding. After the ease of negotiating Japan and South Korea the past several months, I was anxious that my travel street smarts had atrophied through lack of use. However, many of my fears have been unfounded because our first two days in India have been amazing. Thanks to the country's colonial past, people speak excellent English. I'm having so much fun joking with the locals, something which was very difficult in northeast Asia where we had no shared language. Peter and I have been enjoying Delhi's markets, enlivening hustle bustle, beautiful historic buildings and of course the delicious food. To avoid being taken for easy targets by scam artists, we told anyone who asked that we'd already been in India for "several weeks" and even that this was our third visit to the country (lies, all lies). However, yesterday really was our very first day in India. The following is an account of our first day.

"Your shoe is broken," said a voice from the ground.
"Yes, I know," Peter said. "I will fix it," said the streetside cobbler. When you spend hours of every day walking, as we do, your shoes take a real beating. A few days earlier in South Korea, the leather strap of Peter's hiking sandal separated from the base of the shoe. I joked that someone in India would be able to mend it for him.

"How much?" We asked the cobbler. He had set up shop on the ground in a market with a small arsenal of tools, polish and a bag of leather scraps. He turned Peter's shoe over in his hands.
"Ten Rupees," he said. We were amazed. Ten Rupees is US$0.22.
"Can you really fix it?" We asked. The man assured us he could.

We squatted beside him and watched. As the craftsman expertly glued and stitched a new piece of leather to the broken strap, he told us he has fixed shoes for 30 years. He has four children. He is not originally from Delhi, but I did not recongise the name of his hometown. Carefully, he prized the sole away from the inner and wrapping sturdy string around a hooked implement, punctured through the layers of leather and rubber and deftly stitched the strap back into the shoe. The workmanship was staggering to watch.

He wanted to polish the shoes with sandpaper and rebuild the scuffed sole, for an additional fee of course. But Peter declined, explaining they'll only get dirty and rescuffed again. Considering the amount of filth in Delhi's streets, it would only take a matter of days. However the man did apply a little glue to the other shoe, so we thought fifteen Rupees was fair. We paid with the exact amount which neatly ended any further negotiations.

Next we visited Jama Masjid, one of India's largest mosques. Admission is free, but if you want to bring your camera in with you, it will cost 200 Rupees (US$4.35). It seems like a disproportionately large amount to take a few photos, but it was a moot point for us as we'd decided to explore without our camera. We wanted to be a little less conspicuous on our first day. The mosque was nothing short of stunning. The grand, domed roofs were reminiscent of the Taj Mahal. Food was set out for pigeons in the central square and they frequently took flight, decorating the negative space between the scalloped archways. We climbed the narrow minaret for a view of the old town. The buildings are all short and squat, so the minaret towered above them. A little ways off we spotted the Red Fort, a sprawling rust coloured structure.

Between the mosque and the Red Fort is a bazaar which sells bric-a-brac and religious paraphernalia. Piles of cheap watches were submerged in paddling pools as proof they are water-resistant.

Hot and tired, we stopped at one of the market's chai tea stands. Glasses were lined up and the vendor poured a messy cascade of tea down the row from on high. The tea was poured through a net which filtered out the leaves and spices which looked like coffee grounds. Sugar was heaped in along with dollops of foam. The sweet drinks revived us. A cup cost 5 Rupees (US$0.11).

Beautifully dressed women in saris came to the counter to beg. Appearance seems to be very important and even beggars are tidy and well presented. They transferred a fistful of coins to a friend and begged with only two coins in their open palms. As routinely as pouring chai, the tea vendor doled out a one Rupee coin to each.

For dinner we went to a simple, brightly lit restaurant which was so packed there were no free tables. We asked two local men if we could sit with them. One said it was fine and gave a friendly Indian head wiggle. We ordered a vegetable thali, (a selection of different curries and flat breads on a platter like a painter's palate) and Kashmere paneer, one of the day's specials which turned out to be a wonderfully smoky curry with onions and cheese. As we ate, the place became even more crowded with families waiting for tables and ordering take away. No surprise the restaurant was a big hit, the food was incredible. Curiously, throughout the entire meal, the men at our table did not say a word to each other.

"Do you think we cramped their style?" I asked Peter after they'd left.
"No," he said. I guess they just didn't feel like talking.

Our bill for two mains and two sodas came to US$5.50. On a good day, this is what we would have paid in South Korea for one main and the food would not have been any where nearly as enjoyable. I think I am going to like India quite a lot.

On the way out of the restaurant, plodding along the dark street with the autorickshaws and buses, I spotted an elephant.

-Delhi, India

Will Work for Fruit - Volunteering on Japanese Organic Farms

After several days of volunteering we were considering staying a month. The friendly host family consisted of American Michelle-san, her Japanese husband Haraku-san and their two little kids. The title "san" denotes respect and we became Fay-san and Peter-san. Thrown into the mix were two additional volunteers from the US and Taiwan.

A rice paddy, we learned, is called a tombo and our hosts only had four (one of which fed them). The household's real income appeared to come from Michelle-san's English lessons. Rather than farming, as we had been expecting, the bulk of our time was spent restoring an old Japanese farm house which will become the family's new home.

Our hosts were thrilled when they learned Peter-san had tiling experience. He was put to work straight away in the new kitchen and seemed to thrive on the task. However the jobs I was given were a bit less fulfilling. The day I spent hunched over a short-handled brush, sweeping out a barn was not so enjoyable. Even more frustrating was when Haraku-san remembered they had a vacuum cleaner.

This was our first experience with WWOOF Japan. WWOOF stands for World-Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. Founded by a British woman in the early '70's, the organisation is now global but its simple premise has endured; volunteer on an organic farm in exchange for free room and board.

My first time WWOOFing was in 2002, harvesting pumpkins in the Netherlands. The monotony of slicing stems in vast fields was broken by hearty meals with the Dutch family. We always worked together and I was made to feel like part of the household. In England I WWOOFed at three different farms and I have returned to one near Brighton several times. Its doctor owners always make time to teach me about chickens or tell stories about their donkeys.

Peter and I were already ankle-deep in mud when we learned the Japanese work ethic extends beyond the cities and into the countryside. WWOOFers in Japan are expected to work a six day week. This came as a blow as we were counting on weekends to explore the surrounding area. Perhaps this was negotiable, we hoped.

Our work day began at 5:30am with two hours of pre-breakfast tombo weeding. This was followed by house renovations and ended with cleaning up after dinner. It came to over nine hours a day. It was exhausting, but it felt good to throw ourselves into the work. Besides, we liked the family and felt motivated to help them.

The departure of the other two WWOOFers marked a U-turn. Haraku-san had seemed happy with us. Michelle-san was uninvolved with our work, however this didn't stop her from telling us we weren't working hard enough. A new schedule had been drawn up which curiously had us working fewer hours. The priorities had shifted. Despite being desperate to move into the new house, we were now to do more weeding and kitchen chores.

The household's inconsistencies were hard to swallow. That morning, Michelle-san had offered fresh fruit to all four volunteers. In the evening, with the other two gone, we were told off for taking a banana and peach each. We became increasingly aware of dozens of strange house rules. Chopsticks don't go on the table. Certain dishes are stored in a different cabinet. You can't have a shower on a bath night.

We bought our own bananas (hardly worth quibbling over at US$.30 each). We bought cereal and local milk for breakfast. Michelle-san told us it was the wrong brand because they are "not happy cows". Due to our extended morning weeding, we were no longer eating elaborate miso soup, rice and bread breakfasts with the family but they still wanted us to have some later so we would be obliged to wash up all the dishes. We stuck to cereal and they got the hint.

By this point Peter and I were cycling to the tombo and the new house across town, rather than being driven. This freed up Haraku-san's time considerably, but as he wasn't at the new house very much, asking him questions was difficult. Projects were mentioned and then dropped the next day as the priorities shifted again. Once I cleaned up my painting supplies and cycled home in the heat to start cooking dinner only to be told that there had been a change of plan. I wouldn't be cooking after all and should go back to the new house.

Haraku-san wanted us to repaper old sliding doors. He had never done it before either, but not to worry, his mother would show us. Perhaps this was never communicated to her because she came and left without giving a papering lesson. We eventually figured it out for ourselves and the doors turned out beautifully. However WWOOFing should be an exchange of knowledge, not just winging it on your own.

Morale was particularly low amongst the Riceherders when Haraku-san took his children to the beach while we had to work on the house. This was a far cry from harvesting pumpkins with my Dutch hosts. Furthermore, the little kids mainly communicated by whining and seemed to find the endless household rules as confusing and frustrating as we did. The house was a stressful place to be. We started taking the bikes out in the evening and pottering around town or strolling past lush green tombo just to get away. As a small act of defiance, we started dropping the "san" off Michelle's name when we talked about her to each other.

We had hoped to stay for all of July, but we decided to only do two weeks and move on.

Next we went to an organic fruit farm in the Japan Alps. There were already five other volunteers and a separate, purpose built WWOOFer house. Akeio-san and Terumi-san had been hosting for seven years compared with just five months at the previous farm. "Great!" We thought, "They'll be super organised and we'll have all the fresh fruit we can eat." Our first assumption quickly proved accurate. On arrival, Akeio-san talked us through the daily schedule. Good news: Six hours a day. Bad news: It was a six day week with a 5am start in order to avoid the most punishing hours of summer sun. Even so, by 9am it was boiling.

A note to the uninitiated: Starting work at 5am hurts. We gave ourselves a child's bedtime, but the early starts were still hard. My "rebalancing" tomato plants or worse still, Peter strimming weeds, when we should've still been asleep, was not easy.

Although the work was physically challenging, thankfully the home life was a breeze. The hosts' kids didn't whine or cry. With so many WWOOFers, we didn't have to wash dishes after every meal. Plates were stacked on labeled shelves. Chopsticks were allowed to rest on the table. The schedule remained constant, the farm work more supervised and we were shown how to do every task.

Now how about that fruit? Two days in and the table had a decided absence of the apples or peaches we saw in the orchards.

"The fruit is not ready yet," Terumi-san explained.
I asked, "Do you ever buy fruit for WWOOFers and your family?"
"No," was her reply.

Somehow we'd gone from a rice farm where they were too cheap to buy enough bananas for their free labourers, to a fruit farm with no fruit at all.

The location was also an issue. Being a proper farm with lots of land, it was rural. There were only two bikes between the seven of us and the nearest shop was a 30 minute cycle each way in the blistering heat. In the name of love and fruit, Peter cycled to get us bananas, oranges and other treats. But the bike was terrible and he vowed he would not make the trip again. We had several hours free in the middle of the day, but there was no where to go. I have new empathy for isolated migrant workers, unable to speak the local language.

The fatal flaw with WWOOF Japan is that rather than volunteering to enable travelling, the farming becomes your whole life. Our first hosts were using WWOOF for very cheap labour to renovate their house and to enable Michelle to teach more. Our second hosts had a steady stream of WWOOFers which served as an integral part of their farm's business plan. When you're not getting much back in return, it feels a little odd realising you're just helping them make money. It is a shame that unlike my hosts in England and the Netherlands, in Japan neither hosts had the time to teach us very much.

During our three weeks volunteering, we stained wooden beams with persimmon oil and charcoal. We learned how to tell the difference between actual rice plants and "fake rice", a grass which cunningly looks a lot like the real thing. Peter made metal lampshades, fitted glass and constructed screen frames. We thinned carrots and peaches. We quite literally separated the wheat from the chaff. I won't be going back.

If I'm ever lucky enough to have keen young people volunteering for me, I promise I'll be very generous with the fruit.

- Osaka, Japan

Capsule Hotels and Rebel Calligraphy in Tokyo

I am surrounded by beautiful words I cannot understand. Vast canvasses of inky black shapes. Brushstrokes. Lines. Squiggles. I see thin, scrawny marks which bloom unexpectedly into dark splotches. Others were painted heavily with a fat brush allowed to run dry partway through a word, as though alternating between shouting and whispering. Characters descend rapidly down long strips of paper as though falling to the floor. They all appear to be penned with great confidence. Stark black on white. Some look as though they are blowing in a windstorm.

I am at a calligraphy exhibit at the National Art Center in Tokyo. I study the museum-goers enjoying the art. "Can they read the pieces?" I wonder. Some of the Japanese characters seem so abstracted, it's hard to imagine they can be deciphered. If they can, then the art would be half painting, half poetry. If not then they are experiencing the same things I am.

The longer I examine the canvases, the more certain I am that this is modern Japanese calligraphy. The old conventions have been broken. These artists have eschewed neatly ordered characters painted in uniform strokes. This is rebel calligraphy. Suddenly I am desperate to talk with someone and find out more.

After a few false starts, I manage to find a young Japanese man who speaks English. Excitedly, I ask him if he can read the paintings. "Not really," He tells me. "I can read a little but mostly no. You have to be a calligraphy expert to really read it." He gestures to the elderly women at the ticket counter suspecting they fall into this category. I learn that these pieces I've been admiring were painted at a local calligraphy school by teachers and their best students. Only after they master the traditional methods may they develop their own personal style with unique flourishes. I thank the man and he hurries to catch up with his group.

This calligraphy strikes me as a fitting metaphor for Japan. In our nine days in the country, we have seen white gloved bus conductors help old ladies. Bicycles are left unlocked and our umbrellas are still waiting for us when we come out of shops. People are astoundingly polite. They offer gifts for minor inconveniences and bow constantly. It is so foreign yet it's a little familiar because our own societies used to be a bit like this.

But on the other hand, Japan is more modern than home. Commuters watch TV on their mobiles. Phones convert 2D barcodes on posters into web addresses which can then be visited while waiting for a bus. In fact, our mobiles don't even work here. (The system is G3.) There are vending machines on the street everywhere, dispensing Asahi beer, green tea and the best ice cream we've had in months. In Hiroshima, we encountered a group of American tourists visiting the city as a daytrip from Kyoto. The two cities are almost 200 miles apart, but that's only two hours on the bullet train so why not?

Here in Tokyo, we're staying at a capsule hotel. Space is at a premium in this sprawling metropolis and consequently, stacked private pods make sense when all you need is a place to sleep. Considerably more spacious than a coffin, each capsule is tall enough to sit up in which makes it a lot more comfortable than plenty of sleeper trains. There are lockers to stash your things and Japanese baths upstairs. For 3,000Yen a night (about US$30), these hotels are popular with Japanese businessmen who have stayed out drinking and missed the last train home. They're also a hit with foreign travellers like us, who enjoy drifting off feeling like we're on a spaceship.

The country is so traditional and so modern. In Tokyo we've seen women walking down the street in kimonos and teenagers dressed as manga characters. But my favourite so far has to be the Kyoto shrine with a UV sterilizer for its ceremonial water scoops.

At the Art Center, delicate lines bleed into thin rice paper to form grey inky starbursts.

- Tokyo, Japan