The walk It’s been raining in the night so I wear my locally-bought wellies, say good morning to our gate-keeper and venture outside our metal gate. The first 30 metres or so is down our ‘kocha’ – wider than an alley but narrower than a lane. This has an open ditch running down the centre, which is not to be studied too closely – fortunately it is winter and it doesn’t smell much. I slither along in the mud, which seems intent on trying to make me lose my footing. I must say at this juncture that the mud here has a quality all of its own, not unlike clay and mixed in with it are substances best left to your imagination!I get to the road without any mishaps and turn left opposite the white mosque. Choices: Do I walk on the road that is unmade but has rocks just underneath it, or do I stick (pun intended) to the path? It is early morning and the path hasn’t been too mashed up so I decide to keep to the path. I pass the nanwari (bakery) where the orange flames are shooting out of the circular hole in the side of the clay tandoori oven. I say “Salam” and think there are worse jobs – at least they can keep warm. The round nan bread is piled underneath a blanket to keep it warm and fresh and dust free. The bakers are there with heads wrapped in black and white patterned scarves. I often buy bread here, and sometimes buy the dough (it makes excellent pizza bread).A little further on I pass a lovely old bearded man in his ‘shop’. This shop is actually a tin hut on wheels, about the size of a beach hut. He sits cross-legged in his shop all day from about 7.00 am in the morning until it gets dark – about 5.30 pm at the moment. He always has a smile and greets me most politely every time I pass. I buy some crisps from him, which I notice have been sealed in a typical crisp type bag. However, it is inside out! There is a hole in the seal, which I had not noticed and the crisps are like cardboard I discover later.Inconsiderate donkeys Some donkeys are passing, carrying loads of firewood five times the donkeys’ width. I give them a wide berth, remembering the time I was caught between a drainage ditch and a donkey’s load. I had been on my bike and did not account for the lack of awareness or concern that the donkey had for its fellow road-users. Much to the amusement of the locals there was nowhere else for me to go and I had an encounter with a load of dry sticks. Secret gardensContinuing on my way, I pass several gates set in the high mud walls. It is considered shameful to look into people’s gardens, but if a gate is left open I cannot resist the temptation to have a quick peek. People’s yards are mostly dry mud with little else in them in terms of vegetation. There may be a tree and the better-off families may have a well. SchoolSeveral people greet me as I walk along, especially children who like to say “ ‘ow ar you?”, “thank you” or “what is your name?”; some even like to shake hands. Girls, with their black uniforms and white headscarves, walk along chattering in twos and threes and some dare each other to say something to me in English.Ten to 15 minutes later I arrive at my own school and prepare for the day ahead.
It’s been raining in the night so I wear my locally-bought wellies, say good morning to our gate-keeper and venture outside our metal gate.
The first 30 metres or so is down our ‘kocha’ – wider than an alley but narrower than a lane.
This has an open ditch running down the centre, which is not to be studied too closely – fortunately it is winter and it doesn’t smell much.