The deep, vivid reds of shawls and saris and scarlet bead necklaces contrast strongly with their dusty brown skin. We walk across the valley and up to the next ridge, looking back to see red dots moving among the earth brown and the wheat gold. The air is clear and light and beautiful. This evening in a wooded hamlet, we sit around a grimy table inside the family home and tea house where we will sleep tonight. A hen and her brood of young chicks settle in the corner.
Moonlight seeps through a crack in the wooden shutter.
Two young Israeli trekkers, Merav and Shahar, tell us a story about a man they met last month in India. Nandoo owns a restaurant in the beach town of Mahabalipurum, near the city of Madras. It seems that when Nandoo was a destitute little boy helping his family by selling souvenir shells and postcards to tourists on the beach, he met a French tourist who took great interest in him and invited him up to his fancy hotel. Nandoo answered that he wanted to learn. Then, the man took Nandoo home and gave his family money for Nandoo's education.