I came to India a year ago to find a village in which I could live and write but it was many months before I settled down happily in this Himalayan community. I wasted a lot of time looking for the “typical” village. Yet no such thing exists. Conditions vary too widely. But the villages I stayed in had much in common—poverty, dirt, ignorance. Often the villagers themselves were puzzled, suspicious. Why had I come? I had put aside my work as a political journalist because my ideas ha changed. I had come to believe that what was happening in the Third World was more important than anything else. But to understand how three-quarters of the world’s people live, and how their future might affect ours, I felt that I first had to try and share their way of life. In the end I chose a mountain village because it was a little cooler than those in the plains. I took the bus from town along a bumpy road. Then came a rough walk down a steep path to the river. After this I began the climb into the hills. Whenever I stopped to catch my breath, there was a magnificent view. After several hours’ walk the village came into view.