26 August
Jacqui woke up ill with stomach cramps and clearly had a bug. We agreed that even if it was painful we would need to make the dash for Sarahan, where she could rest in peace, rather than in the flea-bitten noisy fumey rubbish dump that we were sleeping in, in Jeori.
She sat, morose with head down, on a bench, while we waited in the heat for a bus, then flopped into a seat, focussing hard on survival until the destination. It was a thankfully short ordeal, and she survived the journey - mostly asleep, as was Tamsin from the effects of the travel sickness pills, while Fia spent most of the journey fascinated by a giant locust that had found himself in the bus with us. We left Jacqui in a heap of our rucksacks at the side of the road in Sarahan, whilst the three of us raced around town looking at the accomodation options. The choice was easy - we found a wonderful room inside the Hindu temple.
Large, with a bathroom and a secondary annexe room where the girls would sleep on mattresses, and with an austere feel to it but spotlessly clean, and the key factor being that we were inside the temple - stepping out of our door onto a balcony adorned with sculpted wood, and overlooking the courtyard of the temple complex.
Jacqui slumped lifelessly onto the bed, and we decided we would stay at least 2 nights, and long enough for Jacqui to recover.
Fia, Tamsin and I went for an exploratory walk around the village. The renowned Bhimakali temple in which we were staying, dominated and formed the central heart, hemmed by a few streets lined with rudimentary stores and eateries, and with a backdrop of the green hills on one side and the view down the valley on the other. We stopped at a very basic restaurant and ate momos and rice, followed by an ice cream, before we headed back to the temple and launched into a maths lesson, and diary writing, sitting at the convenient table in our room.
Jacqui summoned her energy to join us for dinner at a fairly sad restaurant, but after two spoons of tomato soup she regretted the decision, and headed back to the room to be horizontal and close to the bathroom.
It was wonderful to be in the ascetic midst of this sacred site, but we all missed Jacqui and it made for a subdued day.
27 August
At around 4-5 in the morning (we can't remember exactly) the recorded music, piped out of a loadspeaker from one of the temple towers, started. A singer accompanied by a band churned out non-stop, presumably religious, songs. It reverberated around our room such that it seemed that they were there with us - the musicians with their sitar, flutes and drums at the end of our bed, and the moustachioed singer in his loose fitting shirt and large beaded necklace, enthusiastically delivering his musical sermon directly at us, one foot up on our bed. I was impressed to see Jacqui getting out of bed at one point to join the worship, but in fact she was just going to close the window, muttering some words that were probably inappropriate for our environment, and then adopted a posture of worship that was unfamiliar to me - lying with her face down and a pillow over her head.
Jacqui showed some improvement and had some first traces of hunger. She wanted however nothing but toast, and having curiously been told the previous night that toast was "out of season", we headed for the the one smartish hotel of the village. The waiter must have been slightly bemused when we delivered our all important question to him "do you have toast?", before even setting foot through the door, with all four of us waiting anxiously for his reply as if it was life and death, and sighing in satisfied relief when he answered positively, before we all piled in and ordered an enormous breakfast of fruit, cornflakes, eggs, and mountains of toast.
We had laundry to do, and for only the second time, could not find someone willing to do it for us. I managed to enthuse the girls about the task, and using a bucket in the bathroom and a bar of soap they set about the messy, wet and fun business. When all was washed, in an approximate sort of way, it came to finding somewhere to hang them out. Being in a building of religious sensitivity, I went to ask the temple keeper, who told me I could use the railings around the temple courtyard. I looked around me at this 600 year old sacrosanct establishment, with its trail of pilgrims and worshippers filing through to cleanse their souls, and admit feeling a little uneasy about his proposal. Nevertheless, I rallied the girls who duly jointly carried the heavy bucket of wet clothes and started hanging them over the railings around the courtyard. A little while later they brought the bucket to me with some clothes still in the bottom.
"What's this?" I said.
"We are NOT hanging out knickers.....it's EMBARRASSING" said Tamsin, the union spokesperson.
Sensing a solidarity resistance starting to build, I knew I had to be firm and act quickly to stamp it out.
"Don't be ridiculous! Everyone wears underwear. Just get on with it". It worked and the girls reluctantly shuffled back to the railings with the bucket, while I quickly sidled off inside, on the pretext of checking how Mummy was.
And so it was that the worshippers at the revered BhimaKali temple, who rang the bell to summon the gods on their entry, removed their shoes and diligently washed their hands and feet before kneeling before the steps, clasping hands together then bowing to kiss the ground, were, on this day, likely to be distracted by the gentle flapping in the breeze of Jacqui's knickers in the corner of their eyes.
Jacqui was able to summon enough energy by the afternoon to join us on the visit inside the Temple. It had stricter rules than any other we had seen - all having to wear head scarves, and remove any leather articles or clothing. The temple has two main and historic towers - one, which we could enter, containing a consecration to Kali on the higher floor, covered with a silver canopy. We paid our respects and were acknowledged and blessed by the attendant, who administered the small handful of puffed rice pieces, some holy water and using his thumb, stamped a bright red bindi on our foreheads.
Legend has it that the rulers at the time of the princely states were descendants of Pradyuman (incarnation of cupid and son of Lord Krishna), who suceeded King Banasur when he had his head chopped off and buried at the front gate in a battle against Lord Krishna. The temple was bult by these descendents and dedicated to mothergoddess Bhimakali (a local version of Kali). Below the consecration of Bhimakali is one of Parvati, the consort of Shiva, and in fact the mother of Ganesh, the unfortunate elephant headed God.
To the side is the very old looking (before Christ according to some unreliable looking sources) Sikhara temple dedicated to Lord Narsingh,where human sacrifices were made up until 18'th century, and theoreticaly the practice still continues today with animals, or at least every couple of hundred years, with the last being in 1904 when 600 goats were given in an 11 day festival.
Jacqui retired back to bed after her fragile exertion, while the girls and myself went walking around the surrounding hills where we had lovely views of the temple from up above. We came across a man and two older ladies carrying baskets of apples that they had collected from the orchards further up and they offered us some. We gladly accepted and then unintentionally found ourselves walking alongside them back towards Sarahan and we started to make the simplest of conversation.
The large baskets were strapped onto their backs and I was intrigued to know how heavy they were, so when they stopped for a break I offered to carry one. They all giggled, but I went ahead and walked a while with it until the old lady, who clearly felt uncomfortable with me carrying her load, either because she felt it was her work, or because she thought I would run away with it, took it back.
28 August
I was waking earlier in the morning than the other three and inspired by our spiritually cleansing environment, as well as a large floor space in our room, had taken to doing some Pilates exercises in the morning before the others woke up. This morning, the inspiration spread, and first Jacqui, followed by Fia and Tamsin enacted a series of Yoga exercises in the form of the five Tibetan rights that Jacqui had learnt once from an Indian guru while we lived in Dubai. It all started well, but the concentration and the poses were not to last and it ended up in a heap of legs and laughter.
We breakfasted again at the HPTDC hotel (a state run hotel, we found out), counting on our supply of toast and eggs, but the waiter, by now getting to know us, cunningly waited until we were all seated and settled before he delivered the shattering news - they had no toast. We knew we had nowhere else to go, and that if this hotel was out of toast, then there was no toast available in the Sarahan district. It was a heavy blow, but we had to accept that we may have been partially responsible after our excessive consumption the previous morning, and we switched our order to chapatis.
Jacqui was on her way to recovery, and joined us for a thali lunch before taking the girls for a french lesson for the afternoon.
That evening, as with every other evening we had stayed there, Sarahan had provided a side show, that from our temple guest room, with views both into and out of the temple complex, we had excellent seats. There was a community of stray dogs, who cruised the town, normally in one large group. They were not at all aggressive to people, but often when they wandered inside the temple, the temple keeper chased them out by throwing sticks, to a cacophany of great yelping and whining. Any outsider to the community that appeared, even in the distance, provoked a territorial defence bark from the first dog to see him, which immediately sparked a community barking session from all the others, wherever they were - most without any idea what they were barking at. It could last for ages and they considered it a 24 hour duty.
But territorial defence was only the supporting act - the main show was copulation. This was not just a two dog show - the build-up involved a group of frenzied males, moving in herd formation, sniffing wildly and shunting each other to get to the front, where a female would be sauntering along, head held high as if she were the only dog in town, and apparently oblivious to this testosterone turmoil scrummaging along in her wake. Of course, only one male would get past the auditions and play the main role in the final act alongside the female star - but the rest of the cast was not discouraged and would hang around at different distances watching intently, daring an occasional sniff, patrolling for foreign dogs, as the two key players would stand motionless, locked back to back, tongues hanging out and grinning inanely.
Tamsin and Fia watched the whole show whenever they could, both leaping up from a maths lesson whenever they heard the give-away barks or whining down below, as if it was the end of school bell.
29 August
Jacqui was better, and it was time to leave Sarahan and our wonderful temple home. As if the temple itself wanted to say goodbye to us, we woke to find a barely dressed sinewy Sadhu, with a knotted grey beard and ash-darkened skin hanging loosely off fragile bones, sitting cross-legged in front of a fire, chanting together with two other swamis and throwing seeds or other bits of food onto the fire. Sadhus have renounced everything in life - materials and family - and have dedicated themselves to the pursuit of worship. We stared at this quintessentially indian scene of spirituality before we were able to drag ourselves away and move on.
We were heading to Mandi, as a stopover on our way to Dharamsala. We caught a bus to Rampur from Sarahan, nearly losing Jacqui on the the way when she took the opportunity of an extended bus stop to descend, but took so long hunting around the backs of buildings for a suitable place to go to the toilet, that Fia, Tamsin and I had to hold the driver from leaving, while 38 faces on the bus scanned in all directions looking for signs of her.
The bus arrived at the bus station in Rampur at 12:30pm, but we discovered the next bus to Mandi was not until 4:30 pm, and also learnt (admittedly a little late) that the journey to Mandi would take 8 - 10 hours, meaning that we would be arriving and searching for somewhere to stay in the middle of the night.
We decided to stay in Rampur the night - feeling a little ashamed of ourselves for failing to get to Rampur in time for an earlier bus, after having lingered and dawdled in the morning.
We caught a local bus back up into the centre of this bustling, noisy town, and started hunting for guest houses. Rampur is of course not a tourist location (most tourists managing to avoid it by demonstrating a little more forward thinking and travel discipline than we were capable of), and we covered half of the main street of Rampur without seeing any sign of a guest house.
Fia then noticed a smiling security guard beckoning over to us. This was not an uncommon friendly gesture as many indians were curious and keen to help us, but we jumped on this one as we hoped he might be able to guide us in the right direction to find somewhere to stay. We asked about a guest house, but he had no English and pointed us towards his colleague sitting behind a table in a side room.
"Hello, do you know where we can find a guest house?" we asked.
"Shared bathroom" he said and pulled a key out of the drawer. We were a little confused until we realised that we must actually be in a guest house - there had been no sign on the door, and there was little other indication, but we followed him to the room. The place had an institutional feel to it, and there was a fairly unappealing shared bathroom with its row of dire cubicled "hole in the ground" toilets, but the room was spacious, and he eventually agreed to bend the rules to give us an extra mattress for the girls, so we took it.
We were by now hungry and we asked our new friend for a recommendation on somewhere to eat. He suggested the "canteen" just across the road.
"Are there any other options?" we asked. "no..no.. no others" he replied, thoughtfully. We laughed a little to ourselves at the impossibility of Rampur having only one restaurant but anyway followed his directions up an outdoors concrete staircase, onto a rooftop where we squeezed into a tiny makeshift room, along with a handful of others crowded onto the only 3 tables, and ate our dahl and rice, the only choice available. What it lacked in choice it made up for in quality, and we ate as much as we could for 70 rupees (1 €) for us all.
On our way back to the room seeing for the first time our "guest house" from the outside, everything became clear. Above the main entrance door, just to the left of the door through we had entered, was a red cross and underneath it was a sign saying "Rampur Geriatric hospital". We were staying in a room, completely unknowingly, in a geriatric hospital.
We all took a little time to relax and read, but the e-books dropped and eyes submitted to the inevitable as Jacqui, Fia and Tamsin each in turn slipped into a travel weary siesta. I left them sleeping and went to explore the town which was much bigger than the one main road we had scouted, with a market coating the hillside down to the river at the bottom. It was an eruption of commercial activity compared to the sleepy villages that we had become accustomed to. Rather than a handful of outlets selling nothing more than the bare necessities, the Rampur bazaar streets offered everything - frying pans to flowers, creosote to coffins - and shelves were no longer garnished with a lonely 'out of date' and dusty packet, but were full to overflowing and bursting with variety. Temples or Hindu shrines were around every corner - now it was Budhism's turn to take the back seat.
Later we all went for a stroll, checking information about the bus, ambling around the outside of the flamboyant timber and stone Padam Palace, built in 1925 for the then Maharaja, and taking a milky chai at the deserted Sutluj view hotel. We walked through the bazaar down to the river and a small temple beside it, where Fia and Tamsin took off ther shoes and entered to chat to a cross-legged resident sadhu, before working our way back up, collecting some fruit on the way for an early get away in the morning.
Sarahan and Rampur photo album
Click here.
She sat, morose with head down, on a bench, while we waited in the heat for a bus, then flopped into a seat, focussing hard on survival until the destination. It was a thankfully short ordeal, and she survived the journey - mostly asleep, as was Tamsin from the effects of the travel sickness pills, while Fia spent most of the journey fascinated by a giant locust that had found himself in the bus with us. We left Jacqui in a heap of our rucksacks at the side of the road in Sarahan, whilst the three of us raced around town looking at the accomodation options. The choice was easy - we found a wonderful room inside the Hindu temple.
Jacqui slumped lifelessly onto the bed, and we decided we would stay at least 2 nights, and long enough for Jacqui to recover. Fia, Tamsin and I went for an exploratory walk around the village. The renowned Bhimakali temple in which we were staying, dominated and formed the central heart, hemmed by a few streets lined with rudimentary stores and eateries, and with a backdrop of the green hills on one side and the view down the valley on the other. We stopped at a very basic restaurant and ate momos and rice, followed by an ice cream, before we headed back to the temple and launched into a maths lesson, and diary writing, sitting at the convenient table in our room.
Jacqui summoned her energy to join us for dinner at a fairly sad restaurant, but after two spoons of tomato soup she regretted the decision, and headed back to the room to be horizontal and close to the bathroom.
It was wonderful to be in the ascetic midst of this sacred site, but we all missed Jacqui and it made for a subdued day.
27 August
At around 4-5 in the morning (we can't remember exactly) the recorded music, piped out of a loadspeaker from one of the temple towers, started. A singer accompanied by a band churned out non-stop, presumably religious, songs. It reverberated around our room such that it seemed that they were there with us - the musicians with their sitar, flutes and drums at the end of our bed, and the moustachioed singer in his loose fitting shirt and large beaded necklace, enthusiastically delivering his musical sermon directly at us, one foot up on our bed. I was impressed to see Jacqui getting out of bed at one point to join the worship, but in fact she was just going to close the window, muttering some words that were probably inappropriate for our environment, and then adopted a posture of worship that was unfamiliar to me - lying with her face down and a pillow over her head.
Jacqui showed some improvement and had some first traces of hunger. She wanted however nothing but toast, and having curiously been told the previous night that toast was "out of season", we headed for the the one smartish hotel of the village. The waiter must have been slightly bemused when we delivered our all important question to him "do you have toast?", before even setting foot through the door, with all four of us waiting anxiously for his reply as if it was life and death, and sighing in satisfied relief when he answered positively, before we all piled in and ordered an enormous breakfast of fruit, cornflakes, eggs, and mountains of toast.
We had laundry to do, and for only the second time, could not find someone willing to do it for us. I managed to enthuse the girls about the task, and using a bucket in the bathroom and a bar of soap they set about the messy, wet and fun business. When all was washed, in an approximate sort of way, it came to finding somewhere to hang them out. Being in a building of religious sensitivity, I went to ask the temple keeper, who told me I could use the railings around the temple courtyard. I looked around me at this 600 year old sacrosanct establishment, with its trail of pilgrims and worshippers filing through to cleanse their souls, and admit feeling a little uneasy about his proposal. Nevertheless, I rallied the girls who duly jointly carried the heavy bucket of wet clothes and started hanging them over the railings around the courtyard. A little while later they brought the bucket to me with some clothes still in the bottom.
"What's this?" I said.
"We are NOT hanging out knickers.....it's EMBARRASSING" said Tamsin, the union spokesperson.Sensing a solidarity resistance starting to build, I knew I had to be firm and act quickly to stamp it out.
"Don't be ridiculous! Everyone wears underwear. Just get on with it". It worked and the girls reluctantly shuffled back to the railings with the bucket, while I quickly sidled off inside, on the pretext of checking how Mummy was.
And so it was that the worshippers at the revered BhimaKali temple, who rang the bell to summon the gods on their entry, removed their shoes and diligently washed their hands and feet before kneeling before the steps, clasping hands together then bowing to kiss the ground, were, on this day, likely to be distracted by the gentle flapping in the breeze of Jacqui's knickers in the corner of their eyes.
Jacqui was able to summon enough energy by the afternoon to join us on the visit inside the Temple. It had stricter rules than any other we had seen - all having to wear head scarves, and remove any leather articles or clothing. The temple has two main and historic towers - one, which we could enter, containing a consecration to Kali on the higher floor, covered with a silver canopy. We paid our respects and were acknowledged and blessed by the attendant, who administered the small handful of puffed rice pieces, some holy water and using his thumb, stamped a bright red bindi on our foreheads.
Legend has it that the rulers at the time of the princely states were descendants of Pradyuman (incarnation of cupid and son of Lord Krishna), who suceeded King Banasur when he had his head chopped off and buried at the front gate in a battle against Lord Krishna. The temple was bult by these descendents and dedicated to mothergoddess Bhimakali (a local version of Kali). Below the consecration of Bhimakali is one of Parvati, the consort of Shiva, and in fact the mother of Ganesh, the unfortunate elephant headed God.
To the side is the very old looking (before Christ according to some unreliable looking sources) Sikhara temple dedicated to Lord Narsingh,where human sacrifices were made up until 18'th century, and theoreticaly the practice still continues today with animals, or at least every couple of hundred years, with the last being in 1904 when 600 goats were given in an 11 day festival.
Jacqui retired back to bed after her fragile exertion, while the girls and myself went walking around the surrounding hills where we had lovely views of the temple from up above. We came across a man and two older ladies carrying baskets of apples that they had collected from the orchards further up and they offered us some. We gladly accepted and then unintentionally found ourselves walking alongside them back towards Sarahan and we started to make the simplest of conversation.The large baskets were strapped onto their backs and I was intrigued to know how heavy they were, so when they stopped for a break I offered to carry one. They all giggled, but I went ahead and walked a while with it until the old lady, who clearly felt uncomfortable with me carrying her load, either because she felt it was her work, or because she thought I would run away with it, took it back.
I was waking earlier in the morning than the other three and inspired by our spiritually cleansing environment, as well as a large floor space in our room, had taken to doing some Pilates exercises in the morning before the others woke up. This morning, the inspiration spread, and first Jacqui, followed by Fia and Tamsin enacted a series of Yoga exercises in the form of the five Tibetan rights that Jacqui had learnt once from an Indian guru while we lived in Dubai. It all started well, but the concentration and the poses were not to last and it ended up in a heap of legs and laughter.
We breakfasted again at the HPTDC hotel (a state run hotel, we found out), counting on our supply of toast and eggs, but the waiter, by now getting to know us, cunningly waited until we were all seated and settled before he delivered the shattering news - they had no toast. We knew we had nowhere else to go, and that if this hotel was out of toast, then there was no toast available in the Sarahan district. It was a heavy blow, but we had to accept that we may have been partially responsible after our excessive consumption the previous morning, and we switched our order to chapatis.
Jacqui was on her way to recovery, and joined us for a thali lunch before taking the girls for a french lesson for the afternoon.
That evening, as with every other evening we had stayed there, Sarahan had provided a side show, that from our temple guest room, with views both into and out of the temple complex, we had excellent seats. There was a community of stray dogs, who cruised the town, normally in one large group. They were not at all aggressive to people, but often when they wandered inside the temple, the temple keeper chased them out by throwing sticks, to a cacophany of great yelping and whining. Any outsider to the community that appeared, even in the distance, provoked a territorial defence bark from the first dog to see him, which immediately sparked a community barking session from all the others, wherever they were - most without any idea what they were barking at. It could last for ages and they considered it a 24 hour duty.
But territorial defence was only the supporting act - the main show was copulation. This was not just a two dog show - the build-up involved a group of frenzied males, moving in herd formation, sniffing wildly and shunting each other to get to the front, where a female would be sauntering along, head held high as if she were the only dog in town, and apparently oblivious to this testosterone turmoil scrummaging along in her wake. Of course, only one male would get past the auditions and play the main role in the final act alongside the female star - but the rest of the cast was not discouraged and would hang around at different distances watching intently, daring an occasional sniff, patrolling for foreign dogs, as the two key players would stand motionless, locked back to back, tongues hanging out and grinning inanely.
Tamsin and Fia watched the whole show whenever they could, both leaping up from a maths lesson whenever they heard the give-away barks or whining down below, as if it was the end of school bell.
29 August
Jacqui was better, and it was time to leave Sarahan and our wonderful temple home. As if the temple itself wanted to say goodbye to us, we woke to find a barely dressed sinewy Sadhu, with a knotted grey beard and ash-darkened skin hanging loosely off fragile bones, sitting cross-legged in front of a fire, chanting together with two other swamis and throwing seeds or other bits of food onto the fire. Sadhus have renounced everything in life - materials and family - and have dedicated themselves to the pursuit of worship. We stared at this quintessentially indian scene of spirituality before we were able to drag ourselves away and move on.We were heading to Mandi, as a stopover on our way to Dharamsala. We caught a bus to Rampur from Sarahan, nearly losing Jacqui on the the way when she took the opportunity of an extended bus stop to descend, but took so long hunting around the backs of buildings for a suitable place to go to the toilet, that Fia, Tamsin and I had to hold the driver from leaving, while 38 faces on the bus scanned in all directions looking for signs of her.
The bus arrived at the bus station in Rampur at 12:30pm, but we discovered the next bus to Mandi was not until 4:30 pm, and also learnt (admittedly a little late) that the journey to Mandi would take 8 - 10 hours, meaning that we would be arriving and searching for somewhere to stay in the middle of the night.
We decided to stay in Rampur the night - feeling a little ashamed of ourselves for failing to get to Rampur in time for an earlier bus, after having lingered and dawdled in the morning.
Fia then noticed a smiling security guard beckoning over to us. This was not an uncommon friendly gesture as many indians were curious and keen to help us, but we jumped on this one as we hoped he might be able to guide us in the right direction to find somewhere to stay. We asked about a guest house, but he had no English and pointed us towards his colleague sitting behind a table in a side room.
"Hello, do you know where we can find a guest house?" we asked.
"Shared bathroom" he said and pulled a key out of the drawer. We were a little confused until we realised that we must actually be in a guest house - there had been no sign on the door, and there was little other indication, but we followed him to the room. The place had an institutional feel to it, and there was a fairly unappealing shared bathroom with its row of dire cubicled "hole in the ground" toilets, but the room was spacious, and he eventually agreed to bend the rules to give us an extra mattress for the girls, so we took it.
We were by now hungry and we asked our new friend for a recommendation on somewhere to eat. He suggested the "canteen" just across the road.
"Are there any other options?" we asked. "no..no.. no others" he replied, thoughtfully. We laughed a little to ourselves at the impossibility of Rampur having only one restaurant but anyway followed his directions up an outdoors concrete staircase, onto a rooftop where we squeezed into a tiny makeshift room, along with a handful of others crowded onto the only 3 tables, and ate our dahl and rice, the only choice available. What it lacked in choice it made up for in quality, and we ate as much as we could for 70 rupees (1 €) for us all.
We all took a little time to relax and read, but the e-books dropped and eyes submitted to the inevitable as Jacqui, Fia and Tamsin each in turn slipped into a travel weary siesta. I left them sleeping and went to explore the town which was much bigger than the one main road we had scouted, with a market coating the hillside down to the river at the bottom. It was an eruption of commercial activity compared to the sleepy villages that we had become accustomed to. Rather than a handful of outlets selling nothing more than the bare necessities, the Rampur bazaar streets offered everything - frying pans to flowers, creosote to coffins - and shelves were no longer garnished with a lonely 'out of date' and dusty packet, but were full to overflowing and bursting with variety. Temples or Hindu shrines were around every corner - now it was Budhism's turn to take the back seat.
Later we all went for a stroll, checking information about the bus, ambling around the outside of the flamboyant timber and stone Padam Palace, built in 1925 for the then Maharaja, and taking a milky chai at the deserted Sutluj view hotel. We walked through the bazaar down to the river and a small temple beside it, where Fia and Tamsin took off ther shoes and entered to chat to a cross-legged resident sadhu, before working our way back up, collecting some fruit on the way for an early get away in the morning.
Locust, grasshopper - whatever, it was big!
Click here.
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