Rabid Encounters (Ethiopia)

This post is aimed at anyone who is faced with a probable rabies encounter in Ethiopia. We spent hours of costly mobile data reading medical websites and blogs getting up to speed on the fatal disease. Also, it is important to note that I have no medical background and this is only an outline of the events that we were exposed to whilst travelling in Ethiopia.

1 January 2016, New Year, new start. Our first day in the Omo Valley region of Ethiopia, on a day-trip to Omorate, the morning was spent wandering with some new friends from the Daasenech tribe.

For lunch, we ate together in a local open-air eatery. Halfway through the meal, a small black bat flew into the restaurant hitting Zlat, my partner straight in the eye. The bat fell on our injera plate glared at Zlat with its fangs out, then fell on the floor and scrambled out the door as fast as it had come in. It all happened in a matter of seconds.

We cleaned the black dust that remained around Zlat’s eye area, couldn’t see any blood or clear broken skin, however there were two small marks on the side of his nose (could have been there before, however not sure). Our main concern was the transmission of bat saliva to the eye, as rabies can be passed on this way. And the bigger worry, why was a bat flying around in the middle of the day? Was this a sign of the animal being rabid?

Zlat's description of the bat staring back at him
Image Credit: Matt Reinbold/flickr/CC-BY-2.0)

Over my years of travel I had never educated myself on the severity of rabies, ie, if symptoms arise, it’s too late, medicine will only comfort you while you wait to die. Neither of us had had our pre-vaccination shots, and had been previously told by a doctor that if we were bitten we would need more shots anyway. It wasn’t something we worried about.

After much phoning around, reading endless rabies blogs and contacting travel insurance and family, we paid a visit to the local clinic in Turmi. Miraculously they ensured us they had the anti-rabies vaccine (we had initially thought we’d need to make a beeline back for Addis Ababa to receive medical care). The doctor told us she had the Human Dipoid Cell Culture Vaccine (HDCV), and that it would be administered in a 1ml dosage on Day 0,3,7,14 & 28. Great, a shot in the bum, and we could continue our southern Ethiopian travels with only minor disruptions.

Zlat getting his first shot of what we thought was the HDCV anti-rabies vaccine.

All good, or so we thought. On our Day 3 shot, I noticed the bottle of anti-rabies vaccine was due to expire the following day. I brought this to the attention of the clinic staff. They insisted the date was when the vaccine was opened and someone had written it incorrectly. I physically made them check again, they finally agreed it was the expiration date. Great, but not great. We now needed to travel to another town several hours away to get the Day 07 anti-rabies vaccination.

With almost no public transport in Turmi, it was a big struggle to organise a ride to the next town Jinka.

After more internet based reading between shots, we found The World Health organization advises ‘(The anti-rabies) Vaccine should never be administered in the gluteal region’ Another heart-sinking moment, as the past two vaccinations had been administered that way. We would ensure the next clinic in Jinka would inject in the correct location.

Arriving in Jinka for our Day 7 shot, the hospital staff were confused with our medical requests. (And it wasn’t because we couldn’t speak Amharic). The Doctor told us we were taking the wrong dosage of the anti-rabies vaccine and that it should be administered in a 5ml dosage every day for 14 days, and given in the stomach. With all this new information and further reading, we realised we were not given the ‘real’ anti-rabies vaccine, but the ‘horse serum’ version. This stuff is banned in many places around the world such as Thailand and India, Indonesia etc. 

The Nerve Tissue Vaccine (NTV) from Jinka Hospital. Avoid this one!

After consulting with our travel insurance, as we suspected, straight back to Addis. It’s worth noting the Nordic Clinic is the only place we found who stocks VeroRab (well, the only place who would answer the phone) and it costs approximately $30 USD a jab.

For post-prophylaxis exposure you will need shots on Day 0,3,7,14 & 28. Pre-exposure vaccinations shots should be given on Day 0,7 & 21 or 28.

For information of what to avoid; we were given the Nerve Tissue Vaccine (NTV), a vaccine created over 100 years ago, made from sheep brains. For this particular vaccine, the World Health Organisation states:

The use of brain-tissue vaccines should be discontinued. WHO does not recommend any schedule using brain-tissue vaccine. National authorities should recommend a schedule of immunization that has been shown to induce an adequate level of protection when brain tissue vaccines are available in that country.

 As far as we could ascertain, if in need of an anti-rabies vaccination look for anyone of the following: HDCV (Human Dipoid Cell Culture Vaccine), PCECV (Rabipur TM) or PVRV (Verorab, Imovax, Rabies vero, or Verovax).

Oh, and if you have a serious bite and need the immunoglobulin, it doesn’t exist in Ethiopia. Flying to Nairobi is your closest/best bet.

Lessons learnt, in countries such as Ethiopia, it is integral to take control of any medical issues. Be aware of what medication is given to you and definitely check expiration dates. Always cross check the information you have been given, even if it’s from a doctor. The doctors and medical staff may laugh at your overreacting farangi (foreigner) ways, but don’t let this put you off. It’s your health.

Hyenas of Harar (Ethiopia)

Harar, Ethiopia and the great famine of the 1890’s. The landscape painted a dusty yellow, crops no more than dry seeds, farm animals faint figures of skin and bone and hyenas attacking what was left of villager’s livestock.

In efforts to wade off Harar’s hungry hyenas, residents began leaving porridge out for them to feed. Once the famine ended, residents of Harar continued this tradition as an annual feeding event, using the result to foretell the destiny of the year ahead.

If the hyena were to eat more than half the offering, the following year would be at ease, however if the hyena refused to eat or ate the entire serve, famine and disease would be predicted.

The modern day feeding of Harar’s hyenas began in the 1950’s. Known by most as the ‘Hyena Man’, Yusef and his family began feeding scraps of meat to the Hyenas for good luck. When tourists began showing interest, they started charging a fee, creating a spectacle of the event.

Existing blog posts describe the Hyena Man alike the dog-whisperer, possessing dimensions of communication and powers over a wild species. Writings allude that the Hyena Man has the ability to call out to creeping shadows by name, summoning the animals to eat shreds of meat that hang from a small stick which he holds between his teeth.

While the feeding methods are daring, impressive and true to the writings, the call to the Hyenas as I witnessed, was something much less.

As the sun begins to disappear behind the hills of Harar, Hyenas can be seen scavenging through the dumpsite. The Hyena Man’s son Abbas, a young, less-photogenic modern man, sits on the fringe of the dumpsite, throwing scraps of meat to entice hungry hyenas. The animals seem content foraging through the dumpsite, but as tourists begin to arrive, Yusef takes over the head seat while Abbas walks through the dumpsite forcibly herding the hyenas by flashlight towards the tourist crowd.

As dusk quickly turns to night, car headlights illuminate the scene, casting dramatic shadows of the ravenous animals. At first the animals approach the Hyena Man with caution, however once the feeding has begun, the hyena are more reminiscent to a pack of tame dogs. Most hyenas gracefully feed from the stick, gently grasping strips of meat before stepping back to consume.  A few hyenas are a little more aggressive in their feeding manner, hungrily snatching meat from the stick. Then there are those who break all rules, ignore the tiny strips of meat on a stick and go for gold. They bury their heads deep into the basket of meat and gorge on the offerings while the Hyena Man repeatedly smacks them over the shoulders to get them out. I doubt this would be attempted on a wild hyena.

There are a few tricks that are put on throughout show time, Hyenas are trained to jump on the backs of tourists while they feed and every tourist present has the opportunity to feed the hyenas themselves in whichever manner they prefer - if they dare.

After fifteen minutes or so, the Hyena Man packs up his basket of meat and waits for the next carload of tourists while an agent collects money from the spectators making the whole experience feel like SeaWorld.

Boys with Rocks (Ethiopia)

Today, rocks thrown at me. Three teen boys with a lot of cheek. First rock smacks me in the back of my shoulder. I yell profanities in the direction of the rock-throwers and continue on. Second rock, third rock, more come. Before I know it, fuelled with anger I am chasing boys down the narrow cobbled streets of Harar. I never run, but today I found my feet. Flip-flops, camera gear, rocky uneven ground - all a recipe for disaster for the accident-prone (me), but my blood is boiling, my focus is on the boys.

The fleeing boys pass a man further down the street. He sees me coming and I yell 'The boys throw rocks'. I don't know how he understood, but he starts chasing the boys and I chase him. The pursuit continues over many streets, but the boys are too fast and disappear into the labyrinth of the old city. We stop in a clearing, out-of-breath I thank the man, but the minute I sit on the side of the road, tears start flowing. Unbelievable, I can't stop them. I feel like a child wiping my wet face with my sleeve. The man looks at me helplessly, pleading with me 'Don't crying'.

I am making a scene. Locals are gathering and talking and I'm still crying. It's so embarrassing. It takes time to compose myself and I sit in disbelief at my reactions.

Moments later another man appears dragging the three boys to where I am. Once I identify them, the rock-throwing boy immediately cops a clobbering. I intervene before it gets serious. The now-sobbing boy apologises. I tell him off, pick up his school books that are scattered on the road and he goes to school.

Dire Dawa's Train Yard. (Ethiopia)

Spent the morning wandering around the train yard in Dire Dawa. Marvelled at this crumbling abandoned carriage, imagining what these walls had witnessed in its heyday years. How much life had moved in and out of its doors, the endless views of dry countryside scrub it would have passed and what towns it would have seen develop in its time. It was almost as if we could still smell the snacks and coffee that were consumed on its long journeys, the presence of life was still raw and very real and turns out with good reason. We were told this little carriage was actually the functioning 3rd class 7-hour ride to the Djibouti border and had just arrived back in town last night.

On my way out I passed by the carriage’s toilet, which had most definitely seen better days, and noticed the English script scrawled above the non-existent door stating ‘My home is clean and sweet’.

When Travel Goes Wrong (Bangladesh)

The front gates of the guesthouse.

Out from a week in the jungle, and into town. I checked into the local (and only) government guesthouse. Upon check in, the caretaker required two copies of my passport, my visa and my permit papers; I obliged and thought nothing more of it.

I spent the afternoon walking around town, drinking tea with the locals, snooping around the bazaar and seeing what Alikadam had on offer. In the late afternoon, on my way back to the guesthouse, I passed a small row of shops. A teashop worker chased after me and summoned me inside his stall, saying that the Police wanted to speak to me.

When I entered the teashop, a large burly policeman, who was eyeing off my camera, barked at me in Bengali. He was clearly looking for someone to bully. I gave him a blank uninterested look, and as soon as he realised that I was a foreigner his mood changed. The policeman and his associates became curious about me, where I was from and what my business was in Alikadam.

I sat and politely drank some tea with them, humouring them for a while.  The burly officer began to question why I hadn’t submitted my permit papers to the police station on my arrival. As far as I was aware, this was not a requirement for travel in this area, and he was abusing his power, trying to control the movements of a foreigner in his territory. I flatly told him that I had already given all my papers to the guesthouse. Hearing this, his mood changed back to dictatorial status.

He started screaming, telling me that the guesthouse staff were “very stupid” and “they have done something very, very wrong”. I tried to calm him by telling him that perhaps they were going to submit my papers later as I had only arrived several hours ago, or that maybe they were not familiar with the protocol when dealing with foreigners.

He belted out that it was not my fault, then started dialling furiously. Through the speaker of his phone everyone in the tea shop could hear his screaming argument with the man on the other end; he was in a fit of rage.

When he finally got off the phone I asked if everything was ok. He repeated, “This guesthouse man is very stupid, but you have nothing to worry about’’. Thinking it was over, I excused myself and left.

I strolled back in the direction of the guesthouse and chatted to a few other locals along the way, and by the time I arrived back at the guesthouse the Police were already there. The burly Policeman was on his motorbike with a civilian passenger; they ploughed through the gate with their motorbike, forcefully entering the premises. A tom tom (3 wheeler taxi) followed closely behind with an entourage of 8 – 10 men. The burly Policeman began violently screaming in the guesthouse grounds. He jumped off his bike and went straight for the hotel staff. The screams soon turned to fists being thrown and soon the whole entourage was involved with the beating of the guesthouse owner. I tried to intervene, but I was out of my league. The mob cuffed and dragged the owner and the caretaker into the tom tom, and drove into the falling night.

The guesthouse grounds were now eerily empty as I stood in a daze watching the front gate, as if they would return any minute.

After the initial shock of the incident, I made a few calls to my family to talk the situation over and work out what to do. I was gravely worried about the fate of the guesthouse owner and the caretaker, but was in a powerless position. All I could do was wait.

A couple of long hours later, the caretaker returned, looking worried. Every time I asked if everything was ok he replied with a yes, but I could see in his face that it wasn’t. I asked where the guesthouse owner was; all he could say was ‘Police’.

Half an hour later the police came knocking on my door. They made me sign some documents and said I had to come back to the police station to sign out again before I left. I tried asking them if I could sign out there and then as I planned to leave first thing in the morning; they denied my request.

It was another couple of hours before the guesthouse owner returned. He seemed ok - maybe a little shaken up over the whole incident, but with my limited language skills I wasn’t able to find out what had happened while he had been arrested. Two plain-clothed men, who claimed they were part of the Army, accompanied him, but with a small amount of English knowledge on their part and almost zero Bengali on mine, they phoned a friend to help with the English translation.

I was asked to verbalise what I saw to a man on the phone, which I thought was strange because the guesthouse owner, caretaker and I had all witnessed the same things. I was too tired to argue or make my point understood, so briefly described the evening’s events.

I asked the man on the phone who he was, and he replied that he was a Major from the Army. What I had assumed I was retelling events purely for translation purposes, turned out to be actually made an informal report over the phone. Next he said he would send his men to the guesthouse so I could make the formal report.

Shit-a-brick. Thoughts were darting in my head about what I was going to say to cover my tracks for the past week. According to Bangladesh, I was unaccounted for during a period of 1 week while I smuggled myself into the hills.

At about 11pm that night, an army convoy arrived and men in uniform with big guns slung across their bodies filed in a line across the guesthouse balcony. The Major was set up in the VIP room and I was called in for an interview.

Surprisingly, everything ran smoothly. I managed to divert attention from where I had been in the past week, so only minor questions were asked. The Major was incredibly apologetic for what had happened earlier in the evening; he informed me that it is not standard procedure to check in at the police station and assured me I didn’t have to check out on my departure. He told me I welcome to stay in Alikadam for as long as I wished, but I was set on leaving. The last thing I needed was a nut-bag Police officer on my back whom I had just unknowingly dobbed in to the Army.

At 6.30am the next morning with almost no sleep I left for the bus station. I felt much more at ease knowing I was leaving. Crammed in the bus with my bags on my lap I peacefully watched the world through my window, whilst deliriously recapping the events from the night before. Two hours into the journey the bus was in an accident. It had clipped a car. I heard the noise, but didn’t see what had happened. Some passengers who had seen left the bus and ran back down the road, but returned in a few minutes. Another passenger told me very matter-of-factly “oh, the car roll down the hill, maybe people died, I don’t know”.

A new bus driver was on board and we were off; again I was in a helpless place.

Arriving at a halfway point where I needed to change buses added to the drama of the day. There was a hartel (strike) and no onward buses were running. After an hour of dragging my bags around town, I managed to pile into a minivan. Generally minivans of this sort seat about 11 people, however this van waited for more and more passengers, until there were approximately 20 humans squished in the van. During the drive, my neighbour deliberately kept falling asleep on me so he could indiscreetly touch me. For the next two hours, every time he would ‘fall asleep’ on me, I would jab him in the ribs. It was like a game to keep my exhausted-self occupied.

Is there something on my face? (Bangladesh)

Less than three minutes of being still on the streets of Dhaka.
Did I mention it's ok to stare?

It's all Aladdin's Fault (Iran)

Winding dusty yellow streets, bazaars full of traders, delicately tiled mosaic interiors and tea houses with the most ornate and precious of teaware is what comes to mind when thinking of the streets of Persia.

Soon after landing in Tehran, I realised that I was in one over-polluted, over-populated civilised mega-city, not at all in the bazaar-lined labyrinth of streets I had envisioned. There were definitely no brass lamps housing blue genies or magic carpets with golden tassels ready to fly me to a whole new world.

Before being able to find a postbox to send off my complaint letter to Disney, I fled for the countryside.

One long distance bus and three shared taxis later, I arrived in no-man’s-land; a small town wedged between the northern mountain ranges called Shanderman. By coincidence it was the weekly market day, and set up along the main drag spilling into the alleyways were vendors selling everything from underwear to tupperware to farm wear. People were selling, people were buying and people were eating. There was an energetic hum to this little unknown city.

The faces of the Shandramani struck me as different to those of the 9-5 city dwellers that I had seen in the capital. These faces were kissed by the mountain air. Wrinkles deeply creased their faces and thick moustaches tickled the underside the men’s noses. Men wore suits, not the kind you might wear to the office as there were clearly none around, but the kind you might wear when strolling down the main street with a flock of sheep. The women were draped in vibrantly coloured headscarfs made even more striking against the blackness of their clothes.

While I was wandering the market, a man wearing brown woollen trousers paired with a matching woollen vest and standing no taller than the 5”1 that I stand, came and introduced himself as Arjang. During this time of year he called the mid level of the mountain his Autumn home. He was a Taleshi nomad and was only in town to buy supplies at the market before heading back up for the evening. In an act of true Iranian hospitality, he invited me to come and stay with his family.

3pm, in a Persian-made Peykan rust bucket of a car, we made a bone crunching 2-hour journey along the hairpin roads of the mountainside. At one point the road was no longer drivable, so we stopped the car and travelled the rest of by foot.

Night was falling fast, and the temperature along with it. The farm dog was barking whilst running circles and two colourful ladies, Arjang’s wife and daughter, came to meet us. They wore an ensemble of mismatched prints. Polka dot headscarves wrapped tightly around their faces, reds and purples laced in their long sleeve blouses and floral motifs printed in their full flowing A-line skirts.

Torchlight directed us towards a building in the distance and we followed the white beam of light until we reached a smooth orange clay-clad structure. There was a small opening where a half size wooden door formed an entry to their home. Through the door, the kitchen was central - the heart of the house, the eating room was to the right and the sleeping to the left. We went straight into the eating room following the glow of an old oil lamp. The flickering golden light cast across the room caught details of the hand woven carpets lining the floors, the rough sawn timber planks forming the walls and the rusty potbelly stove that provided much needed heat for the mountain nights.

A floral picnic mat was unfolded and laid before us and within minutes, plates of cracked walnuts, white cheese, fresh tandoor bread, tomatoes and tea accompanied by elegant bowls filled with sugar cubes were spread out in a feast fit for a king.

I had found my Aladdin’s Palace. Although there was no genie appearing from a lamp, there was definitely magic in this small nomadic village.

That night I threw my letter to Disney into the fire.

Learning to bathe with the Palong (Myanmar)

A woven basket with a shoulder strap is packed with dirty laundry, washing powder, a sarong and a change of clothes, a bar of soap, a metal bucket and a bowl. We set off, descending downhill on a long, thin, well-trodden dusty path.

In the mountains of Shan state, Burma, a tribal Palong family has taken me in for the week. Mae Suay, my Palong grandmother, is my portal to local life. I follow her like her shadow, and now it is time for me to learn how to shower as she does.

After a 20-minute mini-trek, we arrive at a large deep well cut out between the rocks. I see Mae Suay changing from her pink striped Palong sarong into her purple one, so I begin to change too, having dilemmas of whether I’m supposed to leave my undies on or not. To make the situation worse, I have accidently purchased a male longyi (sarong) at the market and so must endure the embarrassment of my mistake and withstand the laughter that is definitely at me, not with me.

The longyi is secured with a tight knot at my chest, but the minute I take a few steps forward the knot gives way and a lucky catch is made in time before it drops past my waist. This is not nearly as easy as the graceful sarong-clad woman I’ve seen bathe by the rivers make it out to be.

Mae Suay has some rope attached to her metal bucket and lowers it a few metres into the well, pulling it up to fill the small metal bowls and soak our pile of dirty laundry.

With a sprinkle of washing powder, we squat on the rocks attacking our dirty laundry. We violently scrub with hard-bristled brushes, throwing freezing cold water over, and then beat it with sticks before strangling it dry.

Once I understand the process, I get up to help Mae Suay with the water gathering duties, as I am about half her age and double her size. I grab the bucket and throw it in the water.  Nothing happens. It just bobs up and down on the surface not collecting anything.  Mae Suay takes the bucket from my hands and shows me how to lower it into the water so the side dips, breaking contact with the surface and allowing the bucket to fill. I don’t think she has ever met anyone who can’t fill a bucket of water and is bemused at my stupidity. I manage to get the bucket full and pull on the rope to lift it. In a moment of utter surprise, I realise how heavy the full bucket of water is and how weak my arms actually are. I grab the rope with both hands, and in a bicep-curl-lift I nearly slide right off the wet rocks and envision a more than likely tumble into the deep pool.

I shamefully allow this little Palong lady to do all of the heavy lifting and we finish our laundry. She grabs the scrubbing brush that was used on the clothes, and starts scouring the hard skin of her heels removing all the embedded dirt. She hands the brush to me. Both alarmed and disgusted at what I have to do, I shrug it off and think to myself ‘when in Rome...’ and do a quick brush-over of my feet.

School must have just finished, because a crowd of kids has arrived for their afternoon bath. They tiptoe around me, strip-off and begin throwing water over themselves whilst watching me from the corner of their eyes, waiting to see what the foreigner does. I now have an audience.

Still squatting on the rocks, I lift the small metal bowl filled with water over my head. My hands are stinging from washing the clothes in the icy water and I can’t bring myself to do it, so lamely splash the water on the bottom half of my legs.

Mae Suay sees my cowardly behavior and decides to help me out. She stands over me with a full bucket and begins to pour. Stone cold water gushes down my back, filling all the crevices in my longyi. I let out a silent scream, but before I can recover another bucket is being released over me. The stream of water over my body is so cold that it becomes numbing, and before long it doesn’t bother me anymore. I even manage to throw a few buckets over myself, redeeming my Palong street cred. 

Towels don’t really exist in this village, so I pat myself dry with my clean t-shirt and get dressed. I haven’t done a great job as dry clothes stick to the unfavourable semi-dry parts of my body….but, I feel refreshingly clean which somehow equates to overwhelming happiness.  I’m no longer wearing a layer of dirt road over my self, and the chilly water seems to have kick-started my blood circulation as a warmth returns to my body.

The afternoon air smells different, the low sunlight casts a golden glow over the rolling hills and as I walk back with Mae Suay, I wonder what will be involved in cooking a Palong dinner tonight.

When the journey begins before you've even left; pre-flight Bangkok to Calcutta (India)

In my over precautious time management, I’ve arrived much too early for my flight. Spotting a row of seats on the far side of the boarding gate I sprawl across them using my backpack as a pillow. I close my eyes and catch up on some much needed sleep from my week of party filled Bangkok nights. 

I awaken about an hour and a half later to the sounds of bustling bodies walking past me.  Each holding more than they can carry: plastic market bags filled to the brim, big bottles of scotches and whiskeys clanking away in their duty free bags, electronic gadgets and their many cardboard boxes carefully stacked in piles which will inevitably fall.

I sit up and make room for the incoming passengers and the seats surrounding me are quickly filled. A plump older woman in her glistening sari sits across from me. She sees me huddling over my backpack on my lap trying to catch the last of my pre-board nap. My eyes somehow catch her gaze and she says to me in her thick Indian accent ‘Only one bag?’ I lift my head, blink the sleep away from my eyes and nod ‘Yes’

Moments later the boarding announcement is made, the plump woman looks at me, tilts her head to the side, waves her hand towards me and utters a self-assured ‘Come’.

A single word that contains so much power when said correctly. I’m either too tired to argue or I’ve been put under her spell, because I do exactly as she says.

She puts one of her large overflowing plastic market bags in my hands, aligns me adjacent to the poor excuse of a queue that is forming and pushes me in front of the other passengers. There is no order, no courtesy towards others, and definitely no understanding of personal space. I feel as if I’m no longer in the familiar realms of my polite Bangkok - and I haven’t even left the airport lounge.

My warning lights go on as I see what is happening to the passengers ahead. Screaming matches break out between staff and passengers over what baggage is allowed onboard, scales are brought out for preflight weigh-ins, cabin bags are unpacked and repacked accompanied by threats of police to be called.

As I approach the boarding gates of hell, in hope of brownie points I hold out my passport, eagle spread open at the correct page with the boarding pass placed neatly beside. I flutter my documents towards the airline staff in the chance it will distract from my oversize carry-on’s. The staff who, now broken from all the ‘gate-fighting’, exhaustedly check and usher me towards the shuttle bus.

I power-walk without turning back and with great relief I board the bus. The plump glistening sari woman finds me to retrieve her market bag and I become lost in thought, re-stepping the morning’s events and wearing my did-that-really-happen face.

The bus arrives at the plane and in the mad scramble to board I realise that it is not at all over, but rather has just begun.

I sink into my assigned seat and as the plane rolls out to the runway only aggressive screams from airhostesses can be heard ‘Switch your phone off!!! Tray tables up!! SIT DOWN!!! PUT YOUR SEATBELT ON!!!’

Amongst all the commotion I gaze out the window wishing I were on the other side and not on my way to Calcutta. Chin resting in hand the only words I can bring myself to utter as if straight from an episode of ‘Arrested development’…‘I’ve made a huge mistake’.

Dance like no one is watching (India)

They spend their days sitting in one darkened corner of the room. Yes, they are blind, but how they know to sit in complete darkness baffles me.

Their home is a room no bigger than my shoebox-sized apartment, yet with the children huddled so tightly in the corner and so much empty space, you would never know that 11 people occupy it.

They sit in darkness, and I wonder what goes through their minds. Some silently swing their heads in figure of 8’s as if magic melodies are swirling through, and others sit as still as stone statues, lost in deep meditative thought.

There is something very sad about them, no mannerisms, actions or sound represents a child. This is not right; no child should be so suppressed of living just because they are blind.

After days of watching this sort of behavior, I know I have to do something, but the only idea I come up with is to use music as a tool to humanise the children. No electricity, no means to play music and I’m definitely not of the music teacher sort - all that is left is my laptop with 20% battery remaining. It’s not going to be long, but it will have to do.

I don’t have a big music selection stored on my laptop but there is one track that comes to mind, it’s an electro swing track, and hopefully it will lift these children out of their corner.

I set up my laptop facing the children. The light from the screen casts a blue glow across their bodies. Some can sense the strong light, which seems to stimulate their sleeping senses and triggering their curiosity.

The music starts and stomping chords from a piano are heard, I notice one of the boys has an instant growing smile appearing on his face and within a few seconds, along to the beat of the music, he starts swing his arms around his body in a power-walker’s motion. The others need a bit of encouragement. I grab little Mila by the hands and help her up, she starts circling me with flat-footed heavy tuck-jumps, which make thudding noises against the house’s concrete floor. The vibrations from this foster the other children’s confidence to join her. One of the bigger boys in his mid teens breaks out in a hopping fashion, every now and then stamping his airborn leg and completing the move with a country-style knee slap. Jusita the eldest girl of the house is up gracefully spinning and swinging her arms like octopus tentacles gently swimming through current. Even the lady of the house who looks after the children has caught the infectious music bug. Wearing her floor length housedress, she balances both of her babies, one on each hip and swings from side to side like the arm of a metronome, all in perfect timing.

Laughter and cries of happiness reach every soundwave in the room, and with all the movement and energy the space no longer feels empty. The boundaries of the room seem much much smaller, full of life, full of happiness and full of children being children.