5 Funny Things I Love About Delhi

1. All the men here hold hands. One of my favorite sights, that will be one of my lasting impressions, was two army guards lounging on each other holding hands. It's just the way it is.. it doesn't question your masculinity, your sexuality... It just.. is.
2. Some of the best Medditeranean food I've ever had in my life - I've had in New Delhi
3. The cows. I watched two cows fall asleep at either end of a parked taxi, and watched a bunch of men lift it up and move it sideways. I'll never look at another Big Mac the same way.
4. The kids ask which shampoo I use, because they assume that's why my hair is so blonde.
5. The amazing people I get to meet. For instance - I had dinner last night with the Pakistani ambassadors wife, who is a mountaineer and forest conservationist, and an Australian submariner. That's pretty cool in my books.

Soft Target My Ass.

First and foremost - I'm fine. For the most part. I still have Amelia Amoeba with me, and I'm a little tired.. But otherwise, I'm fine. Secondly, this post won't be as long as I would like it to be - mostly it's just going to have to be an explanation as to why I haven't been blogging, and why it will be a little different in the future.

Without going into too much detail - the job that my family does here is pretty unforgiving. We have bugs on our phone lines, our staff is paid to inform, we get followed, our e-mail is read, and our pictures are taken. For the most part, the interest is in my father. For the most part.

Now, because of my association and friendship with my father's counterpart in the American Embassey, the Indian Ministry of Defence has declared me a "soft target" (isn't that so misleading?) to gather information from and intelligence on. Like I know anything. (Which I don't. Just to clarify).

So, in the past week, I've been given a crash course on how to say, "I don't know", "I'm not sure" and "He's out of station.. and no, I don't know where"; in as many ways as politely possible. It would be interesting enough if I was just pleading ignorance.. But in this case.. I pretty much am ignorant.

For those whom I've been fortunate enough to talk to on the phone lately - you understand my frustration, and know that this is pretty much a breaking point right now. For the rest of you -I'll just fill you in.

Security hass been tight here, and not really getting any more relaxed, as I previously had thought it would. I don't go anywhere myself, and then usually not without my driver, or my brother. It's gotten to the point where I'm also having difficulty wearing western clothing here, it's pretty much just easier on my nerves, and my butt, to cover up and not be pinched so much. I'm not exactly a flaboyant, sexy dresser when it comes to daytime wear, and I'm highly respectful of keeping my chest and shoulders covered.. But I've now been relegated to Indian wear 5/7 days. Which is fine, it's easier by far I suppose.

I'm just finding this country that I love so much - is a little hard to tolerate lately. I'm in a very unique position, I realise as much - and as all of you know - I will find a way through, beyond, and above this. I just have to figure out how to do it in long pants and the occasional head scarf.

So - from here in, I can pretty much only tell what HAS happened, nothing that WILL happen, nothing about where we WILL be going or WANT to be doing or anything like that. I know that won't change too much for you, but if I start sounding vague, I need you to know why. It's journalistic integrity. ;-) The least I can hope for is the MOD squad at least get a good laugh out of my blog. So read on Defence Ministry.. Let me tell you what I really think..

One Bad Apple

Just a short note - infortunately, I've had to remove the ability to make anonymous comments on my blog. To those of you who leave pertinent, interesting, kind, funny, wonderful comments - I'm sorry. A single imbecile with little taste and poor grammer has been wasting my time leaving idiotic and ridiculous comments that I've been removing to spare you at the slivers of your life that you won't get back after reading them. Apologies.

Amoebas and Medias

First, a small update. Everything is well - I'm still trying to get over this Delhi Belly, which we now believe is some kind of amoeba. Is it wrong that I'm now talking to it like a friend? "Goodmorning Amoeba!!" Should I name it??

So I'm a little wobbly on my feet, and have trouble venturing too far from the house.. But otherwise, I'm alright. Busy, as always, helping Mum with all the upcoming events etc. I start security work tomorrow (Friday) with a little bit of apprehension. I'm a little worried if they're actually going to listen to a 5'2" 90 lbs white girl.. Mind you.. That means I'm taller and heavier than most of them. I'll let you know how it goes.

I was remiss in not mentioning my horseriding experience. All of you must have prayed extra hard.. Because I didn't have to go! I believe, actually, it was more an intervention of the Indian Intelligence Agency, which has a big say in what Col. Bhalla does with foreigners, than God - but heck, I'll take either of them on my side when it comes to horses.

Now - Camote, my dearest. It is one thing to have partial journalism. It is quite another to ignore the other side completely. Not that long ago there was an election here, wherein the BJP was touted to win by everyone. Every government in the world, every media source, had actually stopped paying attention to the election, the outcome had been decided as such a sure thing by the Indian press. The CongressParty won with such an overwhelming majority - that nobody knew what happened for a couple days. I wish I had caught this "journalist" on a bad day, but doing some independant reasearch has proven that a bad day is every day that this man puts pen to paper. The media in our country may not be the most even Steven on the block, but it damn well beats this one.

My day has begun without me, and I should run. I miss you all, please take care everyone. Love,

as always, to all of you.

This Ain't No CNN

Apologies, as always, for my delinquencies.

I have been recovering from a number of things - Delhi Belly, a busy weekend, and a lot of culture shock. There are days here that my mother and I call "Bad Delhi Days" and I've been having a lot of them in the past week. Actually, pretty much just "Bad India Days".

Fantastically, my weekend started on a high note - we had a wonderful cocktail party on Friday night, and I got to see a lot of people that I haven't seen for at least a year, and some new attaches etc. It was really pleasant, the food was wonderful, and the company even more so. Good friends, as always, stayed until the last, so until midnight we were hearing stories of rugby games and survival food and special forces and so on and so on. The stories that I hear here are stories that nobody would believe, if you didn't hear them from the people who told them. But somehow, here, stories of living on the plains of Africa, the jungles of god-knows where and eating something akin to a pigeon - all start to sound delightfully commonplace, and yet still retain a magic that I would be remiss in trying to explain. So Friday night ended Saturday morning, and we all went to bed happy and full and with laughter.

Saturday was a rare day, weather wise. The sky was perfectly clear, the air was smog free, and it was about 30 degrees. (Funny enough.. I found it a little chilly.) I spent the day with my friend Bryan, sitting on the porch reading in the sun, making cakes and drinking coffee. A very simple, perfect day, in simple, perfect weather. Bryan is getting a suit made at a place in Connaught Circus, so we went to have another fitting done - this little place really does astound me.

It's a sliver of a place, relatively unremarkable from the outside, except for the lovely maroon and gold sign. I'm not entirely sure how Bryan discovered it, or if it's just one of those places like Narnia, through the back of the wardrobe and you're into some place magical. It's got this huge glass door, which allows the beautiful, non-halogen yellow lighting to eminate out, not totally unlike a beacon.

Inside is creamy, smooth shiney marble and long, mahogany counters gaurding shelves of wool and silk and cotton bolts of lovelyness. Run by the perfectly patriarchal storybook father and son, who both studied tailoring on Saville Row, it is like stepping into another era, much less another country. There is always tea to be had, a seat for me to sit on, bolts of fabulous fabric to fondle. The one and only time I got to pick a fabric for a suit, I ended up picking the most expensive one in the shop. After which I was relegated to standing behind Bryan and only having an opinion, not a choice. (For inquiring minds - it was about 40,000 rupees per metre.)

The past times I've been there, I have tea with Ashok, the father, at his desk. I've watched Bryan's suit be assembled on him, litterally, with pins and tailors chalk and a flair that is unimaginable. I sit with Ashok and talk about language and the influence of western culture on India, we laugh about fashion trends and funny news stories. I feel, when in front of him, that just being near his talent and his laughter and his soul is close enough for osmosis - and I may very well absorb him, along with the smell of the wool and the tea and the dust from the chalk. It might be a British tailoring enclave in the heart of Delhi.. and one of my favorite places in my Delhi enclave of memories.

Sunday - Sunday was a bad India Day. Wherein I wonder exactly the point of textbooks, history, truth, honesty, kindness to your fellow man - it all came under glaring scrutiny, brought forth, astonishingly, by the..diatribe.. of one reporter. Who shall remain nameless, out of respect, not for him, but for those who may be invited to his home in the future - because you really shouldn't miss his wifes cooking to avoid him.

There are very few statements in my life that have given me a visceral, bodily, heart stopping reaction. Perhaps, because of the country I grew up in, the democracy I respect and the constitution I believe in - I have not had chance to hear such statements. I think that my throat closed on my butter chicken and my very brain and soul constricted upon hearing this, from a journalist.

" It is very difficult to work in India. Everytime the ruling party changes, I must change my idealogies. I must discover, again, who it is I have to suck up to. "

To which, after I choked down my chicken, Bryan and I both attempted to explain how in OUR democracy, the role of the media is there to question, to be impartial, on the side of the people, to inform of any and all events - not just those that portray the ruling party in a favourable light. How, even when the media might be a tiresome, loathsome machine - it is one that works almost with autonomy. His blank stare will haunt me for ages to come.

Although, after hearing more of what he had to say, I understood. Not where he was coming from, but that he was, in fact, insane. To over generalise completely, and apologies in advance for doing so - there is a very small chip ingrained in practically every Indian's shoulder regarding the British, and what they have, or have not done, for India. Picking up almost any textbook, there is not a lot of favourable light to be shone on the Raj, from them building a railway here, to starting exporting, to the traffic circles they implemented - the list goes on. We were told how they invented a caste of pickpockets, and how immoral that was (because, god knows, there was already so many invented by the Indians - if they were going to keep the people down, they didn't want any help from the British). We heard how there was a British created famine that killed 2 million Indians, and went entirely unrecorded by history ("And now, ladies and gentlemen - the Easter Bunny.") We heard how family planning is fully implemented in India (yes - we plan to keep having kids) and that the literacy rate is on the rise (only because it can't fall - and it's only on the rise because of immigration!).

It was disheartening to see somebody, who should have been out there, getting the facts, the truths - conceding that the only news he got was from other reporters, that he never really spoke with anyone in the general populous. And who led me to believe, that he is not the only journalist who operates this way - he isn't a lone ranger, a crazy ace, the exception to the rule. And this is, I might add, a distinguished, well recorded, well paid, intelligent (though nutty) young man, who can quote Wordsworth and wants to break the caste system.. as soon as he stops bragging about how he married up into the highest caste. My heart was broken.

But, today starts anew. It's a little chilly, and the rain has blown in full force. I've got a tonne of books to read, and can't think of a better day to do it. I miss you all - a little more these past few days. Take care everyone, and while you're at it, turn on CNN /CBC and say a little prayer.

It started with a feather.

I went to INA market with Roselyn today, and it was like, foie gras day or something, because about a thousand geese were on their way to french food heaven. And there were all these feather bits floating around in the air, and it tickled my nose, and I sharply inhaled, and a big feather flew to the back of my throat and pasted itself there. And remained pasted there as I did the "please, please let that goose have had it's shots" dance.

I can't sleep. My stomach is all aflutter with thoughts of feather mites. Help.

Sometimes I have definate negative feelings towards this country, like today when it rained and I really came to believe that it was held together by spit, shit and a couple good prayers, and today the validation date came and went on the prayers and everybody had to start spitting to beat the band just to hold their houses together. And really, can you really not wait another couple of minutes to piss in your own home, instead of on the side of the street where that scraggly ass bush is doing nothing to hide you? And really, we can see you picking your nose. Contrary to popular belief, I have discovered that it is NOT the national pastime - picking your ass in public is. And no, if you don't have the red one in small, madame does not need the purple one in large. And when I stand at the front of the line to wait, why am I invariably last if I blink? Just because there is an inch between me and the counter does not mean I'm waiting for you to go first. And just because I'm white, and haven't yet discovered the phrase for "Hey buddy, up here" does not give you licence to look at my boobs. Your women have breasts - hell, half of them even have back fat that LOOKS like an extra pair of breasts. Why are mine so interesting? If I see you kick one more dog/sweeper woman/piece of garbage, I'm going to snap. Use a damn garbage can, and have some respect. When is Tuesday not going to mean next week sometime, maybe on a Tuesday, but probably not the one you were thinking of?

I'm laughing while I write this - I suppose they all contribute to making India a place that yes, I shake my head at, but yes - I really do love. All the funny things, all the cow crap and queue jumpers and nose pickers and boob oglers. I really have come to love it all.

Except for maybe the goose feathers.

No, really. Out of my EARS.

Like me, the internet in India works only sporadically, and takes a lot of prodding when out of service for a while. It's up and working again, so I'll update you on my activities!

Monsoon season is coming, so the clouds have been hanging low and it's been raining at night and most mornings. It's getting warmer though, which conspires with the rain to make my hair perfectly flat and make me resemble a drowning rat. But it makes the aveoli in my lungs stretch open, filling them with warm, moist air. It's a nice feeling.. Until you blow your nose and realise the smog has turned it black. Then I really wonder about those aveoli. A country of contradications indeed. So I've been slogging through the humidity, bemoaning the fact the rain has turned my already shifty streets into rivers of cow shit and god knows what else - and trying to stay vertical. I've almost fallen in Sarojini a couple of times - I'm sure they just wait for me and my shitty sense of balance - "Look look, the snotty blonde whitey with the funny Hindi-French is back. Quick, break out the tea, she's headed for a puddle. This should be good, she's wearing flip flops again."

So, in between doing the "Don't fall, god, please don't fall" dance in the middle of the market, I've actually been accomplishing a few things. Well. Ok. So maybe in a former life I really wouldn't have considered these things "accomplishments", but here, with the advice of my mother, I'm taking what I can get. I've been invited to attend the Black and White Ball at the American Embassy, so I began the process of having my.. ahem.. ballgown made. Please don't laugh, it's not at heinous and toile-oreiented as one might think. It's actually a very simple, floor length black strapless gown. But I tell ya, I passed up lots of the good stuff - fuschia lining, a bustle, straps made of big fake roses. And, I might add... they were very surprised. Until I told them that no, I wasn't American, just pretending to be one for a night. To which they told me it would never work without at least a bustle. I'm going to take my chances. It was a neat experience, getting all those tailoring measurements taken etc etc. I had to take off my pants in front of the lady... and it went something like this.

*whoosh* (Off with the pants)

Her - "Oh madame. Those are the smallest underwear I have ever seen."

Me - "Oh. I'm sorry!"

Her taking my measurements was even funnier. Her poor assistant was quite flustered with my whole height-waist-bust ratio, and kept looking at my bra like perhaps I was holding extra shame in there or something. To which I squeezed them and gave her a wink.

My next fitting is on the 25th, I'll let you know if they talk me into any fuschia bustles. It is going to be a close call.

Now, I'm not entirely sure what's going on (surprise surprise) but Delhi is being invaded by Russians. Mean ones. And not ones named Tatania, who survive on cigarettes and the occasional potato. Ones that carry potatoes for snacks and are size 10's stuffed into size 2's and look like maybe their name was actually Vlad to begin with. They're buying in bulk (literally) at Sarojini, and are trying to steal my jewlery at Silverline! I was at the jewlery shop this morning to get earrings, and found these beautiful white saffire chains that I want to go with my ballgown. I actually had them IN MY EARS and this Russian lady took them out and put them on her tray to buy! I may not be a violent person, but I was about to go red on her. Instead, like a lady, I snuck them back and ran out while she wasn't looking. I'm going to talk to Victor (Mr. Almost Poshlust and I's all time favorite Russian DA) to see what can be done. Out of my ears? I mean really. The very least he can do is teach me "Back off ear toucher!" in Russian.

General Lucas was here on Monday for dinner, a very casual "At least you'll get home cooked food while you're on the road" kinda meal. It was nice. He's a very - down to earth guy. I can't see him in uniform, just that nice Cape Breton cable knit fishermans sweater he had on. Hm. Roselyn nearly killed herself and slipped and dumped a bowl of raita (yogurt, onions, garlic) on top of Maggie, our fat beagle, who thought that perhaps her prayers had been answered and yes there WAS food falling from the sky. We didn't even have to wash the floor. Maggie took care of it all and farted yogurt the rest of the night from under the table, where nobody could retrieve her from. I'm sure she was waiting for the rest of the meal to rain down.

Other than that - not too much going on. I'm falling deeper in love with my cook Roselyn, as the other morning she actually asked if I wanted her to blowdry my hair, as I looked so tired. *sniff* She makes me food, she sings me lullabys, she teaches me Hindi and now she wants to take on the only onerous task I perform in my day? I didn't let her, but I will after I propose, that's for damn sure.

This weekend is a busy one. We're having a reception here on Friday night, our house and family required to be in full regalia. I'm running another race on Saturday, then Sunday morning I'm going horseback riding (I'm still trying to convince myself they are just big dogs with big teeth. But all I can think of is Christopher Reeves.) with Col. Bhalla and Bryan, then I'm having lunch with him and a journalist from Outlook magazine. (Basically India's McLeans.) Should be interesting. Please, while you're all at church on Sunday, put in a little something for me. I'm so scared of horses. I can't even imagine what's going to happen to me. But when somebody calls and says "Hey, what are you doing Sunday morning? Care to go horseback riding with me and and the Indian army Col?" What do you say? "I'm sorry, I'm already playing elephant polo with the French. Next time!" Anyone with advice.. ?

That pretty much takes care of my last couple of days - Saphire stealing Russians, raita falling from the sky, ballgown fittings and the western "don't fall don't fall" dance. I miss you all, so very much. I hope everyone is well - thanks for reading. I love that you do.

Drinkers with a Running Problem..

An athlete I am not. But yesterday, I discovered that how you run, and how you drink, are two completely different, yet inseperably intertwined facets of the Hash House Harriers.

I was invited by my friend Bryan to participate in the footrace, himself having completed a couple runs in the past. Realising this was perhaps a friendly hint at the fact that all the home cooked fat laden food I was eating was indeed creating unsightly bulges in my usually sightly body - I uncharachteristically agreed.

Now, most of those who know me, are aware that my athletic talents are limited to badminton, yoga, a little bit of running, and the all important 50-ft fridge dash. I used to run competitively, obsessively - until I realised I really wasn't having that good of a time and I had legs like Renee Zelleweger circa Chicago. My get away sticks were looking a lot like toothpicks - hence a good reason to stop. This was about.. a year and a half ago.

There is an easy way to tell a serious, regular runner from the "weekend warriors". The flippant runners.. just look better. Our running gear gets dusted off every couple of weeks to combat heredity and trans-fats, or when the athletic look is in. Real, serious runners wear the grubby ass t-shirts and running shorts, and sneakers that look like they've fjorded a million Delhi streams. Now, the real REAL serious adventure/eco challenge people - you have to watch out for them. They generally look like the weekend warriors - with the exception that they appear not to need air, smell weakness like dogs, and would cut you for a protein bar.

Now -all this would have been intimidating - if not for their motto - "Drinkers with a Running Problem" and the fact that the run started with Jello Shooters and you're actually penalized for being too competitive. Hell, if I'm gonna have an asthma attack, it might as well be Grape Jello and Vodka flavoured. There was a Mardi Gras theme to this run, so we all recieved the prerequisite beads and copious amounts of alcohol, even an Indian wedding band played some music for us. Just when I was forgetting why I had a spandex wedgie and was in a god awful ponytail, we were loaded, Indian style, onto a huge truck and driven (not without great incident, bribery to the officials and a headache from the exhaust) - to the race start point.

The logistics are thus - Hares, earlier in the day, set out a trail to be followed (not a small feat when there are so many street sweepers in Delhi) . Then, the hounds follow the trail, and the hares, to the completion point. Easy? Hardly. Most of the signs point in one way or the other, leading most topographically inclined people to follow the marked trail correctly. BUT, the rub lies within the circle. Every once and a while, there is an indicator made of a circle, and everyone has to fan out into different directions and look for the next two points - upon finding them you have to yell "ON ON" indicating that you are back on the trail - and everyone runs after you. Now, at the begining, everyone fans out looking for the next marker. But strategic player that I am, I wait at the circle until I hear "ON ON" - or, alternately, just follow the people with the "300 Hash Races" t-shirts on. I figure they might know a thing or two. Because it doesn't matter if you're fast - there is no glory in finishing first, just in going the right way. Which, to me, sounds like a pretty good motto.

I'm not entirely sure what I expected a course to look like in Delhi - but I should have figured it wouldn't be anything like I imagined. Because it wasn't. Through markets, slums, down highways, through a deer park, past temples, rivers, up dunes and rocks and down hills - it might have been one of the best work outs I've ever had. And probably the only one that I've ever smiled through.

After the race, and the last of the walkers trickled in, we all went back to the original meeting point, where there was a party now being held - food, drinks everything included for about 200 rupees. But first - the call the Hares up, and they have to defend the course they laid etc etc, and have to drink a big mug of beer - and if you don't finish it, you have to pour it on your head. If you're a first timer, they call you up to be introduced and ridiculed and you have to drink, if you've been there 3 times you get a nic-name etc etc. After thats over, people bring charges against other runners - for being too competitive, for walking too much etc etc. Bryan and I got charged with being too chatty, and had to drink. I had to drink one because I was new, and drank one before I knew that we were going to be drinking, and had one too many grape jello shooters.. And realised that yes, I may very well be a drinker with a running problem.

What was so amazing - was how wonderful everyone was. Everyone wanted to know when they'd see you again, to welcome you, to make you a Harrier, to encourage you and laugh with you. The mix of people was perfect - business people, expat military, only 3 from embassies, friends of friends, people who run Hashes all over the world - it was simply the ideal mix of minds and hearts. I've never had a chat about Canadian Multiculturalism with an Indian polo player before, nor have I ever sung drinking songs with a Latvian film studies student visiting India from Colarado. But I know I will again - next week.

ON ON!

Bake it like a Bengali.

So maybe, just maybe, there is another reason that Emit hates me.

Anybody who knows me, knows of my plethora of food allergies and picky-ness. So it's really hard to eat a lot at other peoples homes, especially when you don't know the ingredients - or can't translate the ingredients. The first time I ate at my friend Bryan's house, Emit made a huge green salad with chicken - pretty safe. But everytime thereafter - he's made breaded something or other - definately not what I can eat.

Then (see if you can catch the jist of where this might end up) Bryan asked if I knew how to make a cheesecake, and if I did, could I possibly come over and show Emit how. Well, of course! Give Emit and I some bonding time, play with the dogs and keep my baking skills up to par. Hell, maybe I'd even learn some Bengali, right?

I show up yesterday to a very cold and angry Emit. Who promptly makes it very clear to me by hissing at me the entire time I'm baking that he's been a cook for 20 years, that my cake is full of fat, and "Sir" (Bryan) only likes his cakes, and won't like mine. So I just nattered at him in Hindi. ("The mean cook is in the kitchen. The cake is on the table. My hair is yellow. My name is Andrea. That is too expensive...") When I was finished, and explained that it would have to go in the oven for 1 hour and 10 minutes, I decided to take the dogs for a very, very long walk, until I was sure Bryan was home, or the cake came out, whichever came first. So, 1 hour and 10 minutes later, Bryan is home - and the cake is still in the over for another 15 minutes. The Bengali bastard sabotaged me!

He wouldn't let me take the cake out, and so I ate all his stupid food and told him it was good and he still hates me and now I have a tummy ache. And a bad cake in a friends fridge. And was angry until Bryan basically pointed out that I ate once, never ate again, then came over to give Emit cooking lessons. Ok. So maybe we could have gone about that in a better way.

*sigh* The mean cook is in the kitchen. The cake is on the table. My hair is yellow.....

Culturally Insensitive? Me?

I basically try out my Hindi wherever I am - it's really the only way that I can learn, and most people really appreciate it. Most. The odd time somebody will pretend not to understand you, or laugh at you, or mock you (believe it or not) they even asked my mother once if she was speaking French. But, generally, the reception is warm.

My friends cook, Emit, was falling into the latter catagory. Everytime I would say hello, or how are you, are you busy etc - he would just look at me blankly and walk away. Which, of course, only made me more determined; not only to have him like me, but have him understand my Hindi. So I've been slowly chipping away at him, and every once and a while garner a small smile as a reward.

Until day before yesterday, when my friend caught me nattering at Emit in Hindi - and pointed out that he was Bengali, and pretty much didn't speak a word of Hindi. And if I wanted to talk to him, I'd need the housekeeper to translate.

Ah. I see.