A small word for a big place. But before I begin to wax poetic, I've got to explain why there has been so much silence for so long and why the poor French are being forced to read in English, which is the greatest affront you can offer them. Echoes of Waterloo!

The silence has been due to our travelling hard and fast, often by bus. And the Froglessness of the site is due to the fact that our computer has crashed and we no longer have a French keyboard.

As it is, I am working out of a cyber café in Dharamkot. Dharamkot, I hear you sighing, where the hell are they?

OK, geography. We are in the state of Himachal Pradesh in the north of India, in that little finger that sticks into the ribs of China, Occupied Tibet, Pakistan and Disputed Territories, as well as Burma, Nepal, Kashmir and God knows what other strange soup.

The whole place is huge, breathtaking and endless. We have seen only a tiny part of it. The Parbati Valley, the Kullu Valley, the Spiti Valley, the Kangra Valley leading up to Dharamsalah, the seat of the Tibetan Government in Exile and finally to Daharmkot, where we are now.

Each valley is totally different. Each one has its charm and beauty. The one that touched us the most was the Spiti Valley. It's too late to venture into the Ladakh because of the snows, but Spiti is a wonderful second best. The population is not Indian but ethnically Tibetan Buddhist. The vistas are sparse, well aired. Temples and monasteries dot the hills.

The Parbati and Kullu Valleys are home to some of the world's most renown drug, charass. Cannabis grows wild everywhere. On the streets, in the spaces between houses. In the villages, men, women and children roll the cannabis weed in full flower between the palms of their hands to make 'cream', a very potent form of hashish. Selling price: about 70 rupees ($1.80) a gram. It was very strange being in malana for Yom Kippur and praying overlooking a field of flowering weed. Most touching of all was our trek to Malana. One of the funny things about the place is that if the police see you picking cannabis plants they will assume you are a botanist, but the minute they see you rubbing your hands together you become a dangerous criminal. Prison terms for simple possession, regardless of amount: 7 years.

Of the whole Tibetan scene on Dharamssala we have seen very little since we are up in Dharamkot, a tiny hamlet above the busy town of McLeod Ganj. There are more Israelis here than in Rosh Pina, and if there is panic in the air because of the war which is brewing back home, there is also the joy of celebrating Sabbath and the Festivals with the wonderful rabbi, Zohar, sent here from Habad (an Orthodox religious organization based in Brooklyn and Israel).

Finally, let me assure all of you that my right hand is still firmly in a cast. (See Varanasi) It has given me the opportunity to learn to write with my left hand, but unlike the Durrell character and my daughter's namesake, Cléa, I find this substitute less than satisfying. Even typing is disagreeable. The thing is uncomfortable and hard to clean and itchy and sticky and I've quite frankly had more than my fill of the damned thing. It comes off on the 19th, maybe for good and then we promise you prose galore. In any case we will be posting images.

Oh! One more thing. It's a little late but we would like to wish all our friends, family, readers, travelers, surfers, collaborators; all the people we have met on the way, every smiling face, helping hand, good mechanic, software genius; every Jew and every Christian and every Paseji (no hard feelings) and every Tibetan and every Moslem and every Hindu and every Atheist; every border guard and every honking driver and every direction giver; every tchaiwallah, momo maker and retsina brewer; every fellow camper, hotel owner and unwashed waiter; every urban sprawl and traffic jam and power cut; every open vista and forest and family farm…we would like to wish them all and you all a warm and sweet and beautiful Jewish New Year.


Maïr and Marie-Do