Monday, May 30, 2005
A Forgotten Wonderful
The most lovely thing happened. I walked outside to light the clay lamps in Bryan’s driveway, to get ready for our little party. The gardener had watered the driveway, creating a false humidity, and soaking my bare feet. It was so warm, and combined with the humidity, the one bougainvillea branch hanging over from the neighbouring house smelled like perfume from an old blue glass atomizer. I bent down to light the clay lamp underneath, and water from the flowers brushed and ran down my bare shoulder. I happened again as I stood up. I had bougainvillea water running down my spine and across into those little wisps of hair that every woman has falling out of an updo.. It was perfection.
An Unwitty Nitty Gritty Update
There has been so much going on, I’m not sure where to start. It feels like everyday I think “I have to write this down” , and everyday that I barely make it to the end of the day. Much less sit down at another computer.
My heart, too, has been a little sore – my city was hurt last week. There were three bombings across Delhi, two at movie theatres and one at a railway, injuring 54 people and killing 1. We’re just now feeling our shoulders relax, although I still see my mothers eyes flicker when she knows we’ll be out late or alone. The purported reason for the bombings were the films that were being played at the movie theatres. The Sikh community was outraged at the Sikh hero in the film being chased by scantily clad women, and the fact that the title of the film was a Sikh term only to be used in the most pious of situations. Instead of boycotting the film, picketing, going to the film industry’s governing body – what do they do? They set two bombs, causing what they think to be a retaliatory third to be set on a railway.
The worst part? Immediately after the bombings, on the news, a spokesman for the Sikh community comes on, stating that “There is no way that this was anyone from the Sikh community. Our Guru’s teach us not to kill. This was not a Sikh.”. I really hate to be a naysayer… But has anybody heard about Partition? Where Sikh’s killed, and were killed, in the 5 million person massacre? Or the fact that they pride themselves on being a warrior caste?
They don’t know, but are still “investigating” who could have committed the bombings. But it was strange. It’s different when it is some other city, some other place. But it was my city, my place. Even if perhaps it was in a part of the city that I didn’t know, a name I didn’t know. But it wasn’t. It was a place I do know, a name I do know. Is this what happens as you travel? The world gets smaller, the problems closer?
Because it is getting smaller. There was news yesterday of an attack on a bus in Mandi, where my friend and I travelled not that long ago. A woman was the target of an acid attack by a man, severely injuring her and the 20 people surrounding her. I’ve been to the bus station they were talking about. We’ve taken the bus, or at least the route, that she was taking. I’ve been having nightmares about it.
On a lighter note, I got to experience the unbearable lightness of being a hostess on Thursday. Bryan was hosting a little get together of friends, colleagues, interesting people. So I got to play hostess and helped with the menu (pure Italian, lots of pasta and lasagne and ceasar salad and bruschetta) and the wine drinking. The best hostess gift that I think I’ve ever seen? Homemade cantaloupe sorbet for us and doggie biscuits for the puppies. How great is that? It was a wonderful time – everyone ate lots, complimented my cheesecake, left on time.. What more could you ask for? They were even good looking guests.
I was supposed to go away this past weekend, but my increasingly hostile stomach has been holding me back. So instead I spent the weekend at the pool, cooking good food, laughing, reading, shopping. It was just what the doctor ordered. My stomach hasn’t received that memo yet, but I’m sure it will.
I’ve got a reception tonight, and Political and Economic Affairs (which is me) is going on a retreat (which conjures up way too many images of Catholic school for me) tomorrow to discuss the upcoming and past year. Then onwards and upwards from there! Saturday is the farewell party for everyone moving on to other Embassies, other countries, and hopefully includes a lot more lounging in the sun. Other than that, the remaining 36 hours of my week is free.
I hope everyone is well – missing you all, of course. Have I really been here five months? Do I really have just three left? Part of me can’t wait to come back to Canada.. another part is seriously considering building a mud hut here. *smile* Take care everyone, and will talk to you soon.
My heart, too, has been a little sore – my city was hurt last week. There were three bombings across Delhi, two at movie theatres and one at a railway, injuring 54 people and killing 1. We’re just now feeling our shoulders relax, although I still see my mothers eyes flicker when she knows we’ll be out late or alone. The purported reason for the bombings were the films that were being played at the movie theatres. The Sikh community was outraged at the Sikh hero in the film being chased by scantily clad women, and the fact that the title of the film was a Sikh term only to be used in the most pious of situations. Instead of boycotting the film, picketing, going to the film industry’s governing body – what do they do? They set two bombs, causing what they think to be a retaliatory third to be set on a railway.
The worst part? Immediately after the bombings, on the news, a spokesman for the Sikh community comes on, stating that “There is no way that this was anyone from the Sikh community. Our Guru’s teach us not to kill. This was not a Sikh.”. I really hate to be a naysayer… But has anybody heard about Partition? Where Sikh’s killed, and were killed, in the 5 million person massacre? Or the fact that they pride themselves on being a warrior caste?
They don’t know, but are still “investigating” who could have committed the bombings. But it was strange. It’s different when it is some other city, some other place. But it was my city, my place. Even if perhaps it was in a part of the city that I didn’t know, a name I didn’t know. But it wasn’t. It was a place I do know, a name I do know. Is this what happens as you travel? The world gets smaller, the problems closer?
Because it is getting smaller. There was news yesterday of an attack on a bus in Mandi, where my friend and I travelled not that long ago. A woman was the target of an acid attack by a man, severely injuring her and the 20 people surrounding her. I’ve been to the bus station they were talking about. We’ve taken the bus, or at least the route, that she was taking. I’ve been having nightmares about it.
On a lighter note, I got to experience the unbearable lightness of being a hostess on Thursday. Bryan was hosting a little get together of friends, colleagues, interesting people. So I got to play hostess and helped with the menu (pure Italian, lots of pasta and lasagne and ceasar salad and bruschetta) and the wine drinking. The best hostess gift that I think I’ve ever seen? Homemade cantaloupe sorbet for us and doggie biscuits for the puppies. How great is that? It was a wonderful time – everyone ate lots, complimented my cheesecake, left on time.. What more could you ask for? They were even good looking guests.
I was supposed to go away this past weekend, but my increasingly hostile stomach has been holding me back. So instead I spent the weekend at the pool, cooking good food, laughing, reading, shopping. It was just what the doctor ordered. My stomach hasn’t received that memo yet, but I’m sure it will.
I’ve got a reception tonight, and Political and Economic Affairs (which is me) is going on a retreat (which conjures up way too many images of Catholic school for me) tomorrow to discuss the upcoming and past year. Then onwards and upwards from there! Saturday is the farewell party for everyone moving on to other Embassies, other countries, and hopefully includes a lot more lounging in the sun. Other than that, the remaining 36 hours of my week is free.
I hope everyone is well – missing you all, of course. Have I really been here five months? Do I really have just three left? Part of me can’t wait to come back to Canada.. another part is seriously considering building a mud hut here. *smile* Take care everyone, and will talk to you soon.
7 Favorite Things. Because 10 is a Cliche.
Roald Dahl – Without even trying, he’s a prolific children’s writer. James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Fantastic Mr. Fox – the list goes on and on. But, did you know that he’s also got an equally as huge repertoire of really naughty books and gruesome short stories? Neither did I… and now I can’t look at Willy Wonka and Veruca Salt in quite the same way.
Poetry – I’ve really never been a big fan, in any way, shape, or form. But I picked up a copy of Pablo Neruda’s “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair” and had one of those big heart wrenching sighs that makes your toes exhale. He wrote “El Postino” (not the one with Kevin Costner..) which I have yet to see. So really, I guess one of my favourite things isn’t poetry. It never has been. But Pablo Neruda.. he’s not really poetry either.. he’s something else entirely.
Fall – Something I’m completely missing being in India is the turning of the seasons. Seasons change here, just not in the order or in the contrasting nature that I’m used to. All the leaves are currently falling off the trees…into the swimming pool where everyone is trying to escape the 50 degree heat. All of a sudden I’m craving apple cider and cold mountains and big sweaters and brown leather boots and cold air and squash soup. It’s gone from warm to hot to unbearable to.. I don’t know what this is. The closest approximation to Hades that I know exists on our mortal plain. So I’m missing all the things that are as close to polar opposite as I get. Because I don’t much like winter either. *smile*
The Color Green – That dark, not quite forest green that’s associated with riding clubs and members only jackets. I’m completely enamoured with this green carry-on at an unearthly fashionable leather shop – it screams ‘take me around the world with you’. In a British accent no less. Burnished brown and copper are close seconds – but green.. oh green..
Black Sesame Ice cream – Bryan and I went out for Sushi (it gets a capital.. it was that good) and while it was amazing, I have to say the ice cream really was the coup de grace. The color of black speckled wet concrete, with the subtle initial taste of praline and a little bit of milk, into a full bodied cold nutty sesame experience.. I can only hope you can find it somewhere nearby. It would be the perfect accompaniment to lychee martinis and sushi aperitifs. There. I’ve just planned a party for you.
Suntans – There is something inimitably sexy about tan lines. I don’t know what it is – perhaps the connotation of enough time to be idle in the sun (re: rich), or just the healthy glow that it imparts upon anyone and everyone. I spent 75% of my weekend drinking beer and baking in the sun and playing in the pool. It was wonderful. I remembered how I used to be able to spend hours and hours in the pool as a kid, but couldn’t recall exactly what I did. Watching all the young kids at the pool, jumping in and jumping out and splashing and swimming – perhaps youth is what a suntan suggests, the amazing ability to do nothing with all the grave importance of something. And that – that is sexy.
Sunglasses – I’ve figured out what I will hoard. Sunglasses. Big, ungainly, dark, Bardot-esque, Jackie O-ish.. Sunglasses. Those who know me will attest to my love of sun spectacles that cover half my face – there really is something lovely about anonymity and UVA protection all in one. I tried on a million pairs this last week with Bryan alternately laughing or grimacing, and discovered what I really was capable of pulling off. And they’re huge I tell you. Just wait and see. But I will – hoard that is. I know I’ll be fifty bequeathing ten pairs at a time to unsuspecting God-children.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Exactly What is the Menu?
This is pretty cool - www.food-force.com . It's the United Nations World Food Program's computer game. You have to supply aid to this little ficticious island off of India, dealing with rebels, politics, weather, so on and so forth. It's intended as a learning tool for schools - But really, is a recruitment drive really that implausible? I'd work for them after playing this.. To the chopper!
Slow it Down!
Yes, it’s true. I had a birthday yesterday. I’m officially 21 years of age. Two decades plus one. *sob* I can’t believe it. I remember my 18th birthday with a tonne more clarity than I do any of the ensuing ones.. and now I’m 21? How is it that we never believe those little pearls of wisdom like “It only goes faster from here” until we’re gazing down at our own children (or alternately our catheters) saying the same thing? Why don’t we listen to our parents? How is it that I’m already one day closer to being 22? And why didn’t anyone answer my pleas for botox and collagen injections? *sob*
I did get a plethora of beautiful gifts.. Multicoloured sapphire and silver earrings, a beautiful peridot and garnet bracelet from Bryan (no, really – Not only am I now sporting earrings, I’ve slipped so gracefully, into bracelets. I just know I’m going to end up one of those old ladies with a safe full of jewellery that I pull behind me on vacations to Africa) some music, some clothing.. And a bicycle!! The last time that I had a bicycle of my own, not just somebody else’s that I was doing maintenance on…I was about 12. This one is a stunning Indian/British style huge wheeled bike that makes me feel like I should have a basket on the front filled with French bread and wine and flowers and I should be wearing capris and enormous sunglasses. It’s so fantastic, I just about died.
We had a big birthday dinner, a huge roast chicken with stuffing and cranberry sauce and all of the appropriate “fixin’s”. Bryan came over, and we all ate and ate until we were pretty sure we were just going to fall asleep. It was absolutely perfect.
I did get a plethora of beautiful gifts.. Multicoloured sapphire and silver earrings, a beautiful peridot and garnet bracelet from Bryan (no, really – Not only am I now sporting earrings, I’ve slipped so gracefully, into bracelets. I just know I’m going to end up one of those old ladies with a safe full of jewellery that I pull behind me on vacations to Africa) some music, some clothing.. And a bicycle!! The last time that I had a bicycle of my own, not just somebody else’s that I was doing maintenance on…I was about 12. This one is a stunning Indian/British style huge wheeled bike that makes me feel like I should have a basket on the front filled with French bread and wine and flowers and I should be wearing capris and enormous sunglasses. It’s so fantastic, I just about died.
We had a big birthday dinner, a huge roast chicken with stuffing and cranberry sauce and all of the appropriate “fixin’s”. Bryan came over, and we all ate and ate until we were pretty sure we were just going to fall asleep. It was absolutely perfect.
Anyone wishing to contribute to my karmic bank account, your donations are always welcome. So are the names of reputable plastic surgeons. One takes the wrinkles out of my life, the other out of my ass. Perfect.
Rajasthan is a Colour
How did we end up in the desert you ask? Well, to tell the truth, getting to Amritsar was becoming so difficult, that it wasn’t feeling like the advent of a vacation in the least. We found out that we could be guaranteed a seat on the train there, but not back.. And when we looked at all (and I mean ALL) the other modes of transportation up there, everything, every last seat, camel cart and bicycle, was booked. Which leads me to believe that visiting a temple that holds 30, 000 people at a time.. Might not be the best thing to do in 45 degree heat…surrounded by the aforementioned 30, 000 people.
So, we pretty much decided to head in the opposite direction to Rajasthan, and I’m so thrilled that we did. There’s this huge fort/castle down there that’s been converted into a beautiful hotel, which I really think is an excellent way of generating money to keep up the maintenance. Each room is different, so you don’t really know what to expect. We got the beautiful “Neelam Mahal” – decorated in blue and white. It was so fantastic, everything in blue Rajasthani print and white marble – it was like living inside a slice of Wedgewood-cum-Indian pottery. There is a long infinity swimming pool on the side that looks out over the tiny village and the start of the Rajasthan desert, we sat out there and felt quite like we were in another world. It’s a positively amazing place to just wonder around and explore – Bryan was right in saying that it would be a great place for kids to run around and play hide and seek.
We pretty much did that one night – they light up the fort with tiny white lights at night, so you can climb up onto terraces and lookouts. We sat up there and drank our red wine that we snuck in. The wind was so nice and warm and the wine was so good – I couldn’t believe that I was sitting in an ancient fort in the desert watching the moon come up.. The sky out there is a beautiful navy, with the stars and the moon and the glow of the villages it ends up looking like an embroidered sari pulled over the sky.
What we were told by everyone who had been there (and many, in fact, who had not) that Neermrana (the fort) was the only thing there to see. We decided to go down to the little (and by little, I mean miniscule) town of Neemrana, the forts namesake. That’s where I took the photos of the kids. I have some more, which I’ll post later. They were so sweet. The first little boy that I took a picture of just thrilled me. I took the photo (with the digital) and then motioned him over so he could see. He just about had a baby heart attack. He kept examining himself, then looking intently into the camera at himself, then up at me with the most amazing look on his face, like he really couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Needless to say, he attracted a lot of other children. I’d take a picture of them, and they would all run over to the camera. One of the older kids would stand really close, and call each kid up one at a time by name to peer at them selves on the screen. They were amazed – it was really sweet. I forget the things I take for granted, like digital cameras, can be really interesting to others.
The gentleman who’s shop we were in front of (and the father of a couple of the kids) asked if I might send him some of the pictures. He got one of the kids to run to get somebody who could write out his address for him – turns out the young man that they brought back was a business student in Delhi. He took us to his silver jewellery shop (they were making everything right in front of us, him and his brother) where I fell in love with a pair of earrings and a bracelet. The bracelet is kind of a bangle made of wood, edged in silver, and the earrings are made of the same wood and tipped in silver. They cost me next to nothing, and I’ve already gotten a plethora of compliments about them. It was really sweet – Bryan understands my sudden problem that I’ve developed, this buying of jewellery thing. (Even people who have known me for years have rarely seen me with earrings.. now when I have shoppers guilt I wear them to bed.. ;-) So he just sits quietly while my heart rate rises and I spend laudable amounts of money. The young silversmith asked if we were newly married, because Bryan was so patient with his young wife, and oh how that would quickly change. We just about died. It’s easier to feign marriage here than get the sideways glances when you say you’re just friends. So we had a good laugh pretending to be married…and waiting for Bryan’s newlywed patience to wear thin.
Our new friend asked if we had seen the step well of Neemrana, (which we were planning on going to) and offered to take us. It’s the difference between big towns and these fantastic villages – everybody just wants to show you things, have you meet their family, show you their life and their town. They have little interest in your money or your possessions, just your stories and your friendship. It really is different.. so wonderfully different. So we started walking towards the step wells.
It wasn’t long before our young friend encountered a friend riding a camel with a camel cart behind. He wanted to catch up with his friend, and asked if we wouldn’t mind riding in the cart (a term used loosely for a wooden platform with wheels) to the step wells. What luck. A guide, and a camel cart ride, all in one! Needless to say, all the other villagers going by on camels were more than a little surprised to look back and see us sweltering in the sun.
There isn’t a pat way to describe step wells. Basically they were used for surprise military attacks. When you look across a flat field, you can’t see anything but some bricks that appear to be laid out like a basement. When you get closer.. it’s amazing. There is a stairwell that basically descends down about 500ft into the earth, down to a well at the bottom. The stairwell is about 20 ft wide, wide enough, I suppose, for military men to rush up and attack. It’s about the size of 3 Olympic swimming pools at the top, if you were looking down on it. When you’re near the bottom, looking up – it really is stunning. The setting sun coming in illuminates the sandstone, and it glows this warm, beautiful color. The shadows and the birds flying within lend to this completely cathedral like atmosphere, where you can imagine the women (it was built almost exclusively by women) walking down to draw up water, and ascending the hundreds up steps back into the heat of the desert. It really is quite cool at the bottom, a welcome relief from the completely arid desert above.
Traditional Rajasthani dress is full of shockingly bright colors. Being used to the dull, dingy, somewhat dirty style of Delhi, it was so pleasant to see the beautiful colors everywhere. You can pick out Rajasthani women in Delhi easily, just by their amazing saris. Some of the women on road crews (as an aside, there is an interesting division of labour – from what we saw and what I read, primarily women do all the farming, road work, building, and the men do a lot of the artistic work – jewellery, cloth making, sari sewing.) actually had fluorescent saris. They wear a great deal of silver and gold jewellery on the wrists, arms, ears, noses… Everywhere. (They better if their husbands are the jewellers.. ;-) To walk through the villages painted the beautiful greens and purples and blues that is so common in India, and see the phenomenal flashes of yellow and green and silver and gold.. It was like walking through a set of oil paints, so vivid and saturated were all the colors.
It really was a wonderful weekend. I would recommend it to anyone and everyone – not only the fort, but to walk down into the village and explore, meet all the amazingly kind people and walk (or ride, if you’re lucky!) to the step wells. I still can’t believe my luck at living in a place like this, where a two hour car ride takes you to another world. I don’t think I ever will.
So, we pretty much decided to head in the opposite direction to Rajasthan, and I’m so thrilled that we did. There’s this huge fort/castle down there that’s been converted into a beautiful hotel, which I really think is an excellent way of generating money to keep up the maintenance. Each room is different, so you don’t really know what to expect. We got the beautiful “Neelam Mahal” – decorated in blue and white. It was so fantastic, everything in blue Rajasthani print and white marble – it was like living inside a slice of Wedgewood-cum-Indian pottery. There is a long infinity swimming pool on the side that looks out over the tiny village and the start of the Rajasthan desert, we sat out there and felt quite like we were in another world. It’s a positively amazing place to just wonder around and explore – Bryan was right in saying that it would be a great place for kids to run around and play hide and seek.
We pretty much did that one night – they light up the fort with tiny white lights at night, so you can climb up onto terraces and lookouts. We sat up there and drank our red wine that we snuck in. The wind was so nice and warm and the wine was so good – I couldn’t believe that I was sitting in an ancient fort in the desert watching the moon come up.. The sky out there is a beautiful navy, with the stars and the moon and the glow of the villages it ends up looking like an embroidered sari pulled over the sky.
What we were told by everyone who had been there (and many, in fact, who had not) that Neermrana (the fort) was the only thing there to see. We decided to go down to the little (and by little, I mean miniscule) town of Neemrana, the forts namesake. That’s where I took the photos of the kids. I have some more, which I’ll post later. They were so sweet. The first little boy that I took a picture of just thrilled me. I took the photo (with the digital) and then motioned him over so he could see. He just about had a baby heart attack. He kept examining himself, then looking intently into the camera at himself, then up at me with the most amazing look on his face, like he really couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Needless to say, he attracted a lot of other children. I’d take a picture of them, and they would all run over to the camera. One of the older kids would stand really close, and call each kid up one at a time by name to peer at them selves on the screen. They were amazed – it was really sweet. I forget the things I take for granted, like digital cameras, can be really interesting to others.
The gentleman who’s shop we were in front of (and the father of a couple of the kids) asked if I might send him some of the pictures. He got one of the kids to run to get somebody who could write out his address for him – turns out the young man that they brought back was a business student in Delhi. He took us to his silver jewellery shop (they were making everything right in front of us, him and his brother) where I fell in love with a pair of earrings and a bracelet. The bracelet is kind of a bangle made of wood, edged in silver, and the earrings are made of the same wood and tipped in silver. They cost me next to nothing, and I’ve already gotten a plethora of compliments about them. It was really sweet – Bryan understands my sudden problem that I’ve developed, this buying of jewellery thing. (Even people who have known me for years have rarely seen me with earrings.. now when I have shoppers guilt I wear them to bed.. ;-) So he just sits quietly while my heart rate rises and I spend laudable amounts of money. The young silversmith asked if we were newly married, because Bryan was so patient with his young wife, and oh how that would quickly change. We just about died. It’s easier to feign marriage here than get the sideways glances when you say you’re just friends. So we had a good laugh pretending to be married…and waiting for Bryan’s newlywed patience to wear thin.
Our new friend asked if we had seen the step well of Neemrana, (which we were planning on going to) and offered to take us. It’s the difference between big towns and these fantastic villages – everybody just wants to show you things, have you meet their family, show you their life and their town. They have little interest in your money or your possessions, just your stories and your friendship. It really is different.. so wonderfully different. So we started walking towards the step wells.
It wasn’t long before our young friend encountered a friend riding a camel with a camel cart behind. He wanted to catch up with his friend, and asked if we wouldn’t mind riding in the cart (a term used loosely for a wooden platform with wheels) to the step wells. What luck. A guide, and a camel cart ride, all in one! Needless to say, all the other villagers going by on camels were more than a little surprised to look back and see us sweltering in the sun.
There isn’t a pat way to describe step wells. Basically they were used for surprise military attacks. When you look across a flat field, you can’t see anything but some bricks that appear to be laid out like a basement. When you get closer.. it’s amazing. There is a stairwell that basically descends down about 500ft into the earth, down to a well at the bottom. The stairwell is about 20 ft wide, wide enough, I suppose, for military men to rush up and attack. It’s about the size of 3 Olympic swimming pools at the top, if you were looking down on it. When you’re near the bottom, looking up – it really is stunning. The setting sun coming in illuminates the sandstone, and it glows this warm, beautiful color. The shadows and the birds flying within lend to this completely cathedral like atmosphere, where you can imagine the women (it was built almost exclusively by women) walking down to draw up water, and ascending the hundreds up steps back into the heat of the desert. It really is quite cool at the bottom, a welcome relief from the completely arid desert above.
Traditional Rajasthani dress is full of shockingly bright colors. Being used to the dull, dingy, somewhat dirty style of Delhi, it was so pleasant to see the beautiful colors everywhere. You can pick out Rajasthani women in Delhi easily, just by their amazing saris. Some of the women on road crews (as an aside, there is an interesting division of labour – from what we saw and what I read, primarily women do all the farming, road work, building, and the men do a lot of the artistic work – jewellery, cloth making, sari sewing.) actually had fluorescent saris. They wear a great deal of silver and gold jewellery on the wrists, arms, ears, noses… Everywhere. (They better if their husbands are the jewellers.. ;-) To walk through the villages painted the beautiful greens and purples and blues that is so common in India, and see the phenomenal flashes of yellow and green and silver and gold.. It was like walking through a set of oil paints, so vivid and saturated were all the colors.
It really was a wonderful weekend. I would recommend it to anyone and everyone – not only the fort, but to walk down into the village and explore, meet all the amazingly kind people and walk (or ride, if you’re lucky!) to the step wells. I still can’t believe my luck at living in a place like this, where a two hour car ride takes you to another world. I don’t think I ever will.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
So.. I went to Rajasthan..
Ok. So maybe we didn't do exactly what we were planning this weekend. We got all turned around in our plans, and decided to just cut and run to the desert and spend the night in this really old castle and explore a little town that everybody said wasn't worth exploring.. It was. Everyone was so kind, and so beautiful.. I'll write more later, but for now - here are some pictures.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Happy Yom Ha-'atzma'ut
Yesterday was the Israeli Independance Day reception. You've gotta feel gyped when in the record books it only says that you've been a country since May 14th 1948. (Because it's based on a different calendar, it doesn't fall on the same day every year.. just in case you were wondering. Not that it matters when they've pretty much existed since before sandals. Birthdays probably lose a bit of spark after a bajillion years. ) For a brief history lesson on David Ben Gurion and the creation of Isreal, click here. You'll be surprised at what you don't know. Like the fact that the day after they became a country they were attacked by six Arab nations. Happy Birthday Israel.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Insert Witty German Title Here. Schnel.
One of the really great things about living at an embassy, being surrounded by embassies, is that everyone is constantly holding various cultural events (movies, art shows, lectures) that are more or less free and frequent.
So last night Bryan and I decided to attend this German film night, to support the new student director and hey, see some good independent film. It was a pretty neat set up, in the courtyard of the German embassy, and an excellent turn out. The film is called “Vakuum”.. and I honestly don’t know if I could tell you what it was about. (Even though it did have English subtitles) Described as a “sci-fi –action-thriller-romance”, it pretty much hit every one of those nails on the head. You’ll have to watch the trailer at the website to even get the gist of it.
Have you ever watched one of those movies where it’s totally good up until like, the last five minutes? That’s kind of what happened. I mean – not that the last five minutes were bad.. I just think maybe some strange (synonymous with bad) choices were made. For example, the whole introduction of a soul vs. mind vs. mind control type thing where somebody keeps souls in boxes. That’s not just something that you leave for the last couple minutes. Or comical (meant to be non comical) things like making your main female look like the guy from “Powder” in the last few minutes. All Bryan could think was that she was going to need some SPF 300. (Actually, I believe his exact words were “Hunny, you are gonna need some SPF 300!”) neither of us could stop laughing every time the camera panned to her. They really should have made her a little more off-white, perhaps an ecru. She was just too.. white. (Listen to me, like I’m a sci-fi-action-thriller-romance Ebert and Roeper. Sheesh. )
It was pretty neat to be out there in the heat (we sat in chairs that had mosquito coils underneath.. we were smart..) in the courtyard of the embassy, watching this young guys oeuvre.. I imagine he must feel a great deal of pride when “Direktor” comes up on the screen with his name under it. We actually got to watch that twice, the projector started having a conniption in the heat.
There’s a Canadian film festival on right now as well, and we’re going to see one of those on Friday night. It’s called “A Silent Love”.. sounds pretty good, it’s a new film, but black and white, so you’ve got to respect that just on principle. *smile* I’m excited.
Then (this was kind of a spur of the moment idea from Bryan) Bryan and I are going to Amritsar this weekend to see the Sikh Golden Temple, then to the Wagah/ Attari boarder to see the closing of the border at night. Apparently it’s really impressive, quite the macho show, I’ll let you know all about it. We were going to go into Lahore, Pakistan for the night, but one of us has travel restrictions, and it isn’t the friendly Canadian gal. Hmmm. Not a worry, I’ll sport a burka in due time. Wish me luck, will be back late Sunday. With any luck, with a bit more of a tan than this fluorescent office light is offering me.
(Oh, forgot to mention - German security was the strickest I've been through yet. They only let you in one at a time, with a pat down, bag check, metal detector, wand if needed, id, and your name on the guest list!! I made mention of it to Bryan, he told me to save first prize until we go to the Israeli's this evening. Yeah... that makes sense. )
So last night Bryan and I decided to attend this German film night, to support the new student director and hey, see some good independent film. It was a pretty neat set up, in the courtyard of the German embassy, and an excellent turn out. The film is called “Vakuum”.. and I honestly don’t know if I could tell you what it was about. (Even though it did have English subtitles) Described as a “sci-fi –action-thriller-romance”, it pretty much hit every one of those nails on the head. You’ll have to watch the trailer at the website to even get the gist of it.
Have you ever watched one of those movies where it’s totally good up until like, the last five minutes? That’s kind of what happened. I mean – not that the last five minutes were bad.. I just think maybe some strange (synonymous with bad) choices were made. For example, the whole introduction of a soul vs. mind vs. mind control type thing where somebody keeps souls in boxes. That’s not just something that you leave for the last couple minutes. Or comical (meant to be non comical) things like making your main female look like the guy from “Powder” in the last few minutes. All Bryan could think was that she was going to need some SPF 300. (Actually, I believe his exact words were “Hunny, you are gonna need some SPF 300!”) neither of us could stop laughing every time the camera panned to her. They really should have made her a little more off-white, perhaps an ecru. She was just too.. white. (Listen to me, like I’m a sci-fi-action-thriller-romance Ebert and Roeper. Sheesh. )
It was pretty neat to be out there in the heat (we sat in chairs that had mosquito coils underneath.. we were smart..) in the courtyard of the embassy, watching this young guys oeuvre.. I imagine he must feel a great deal of pride when “Direktor” comes up on the screen with his name under it. We actually got to watch that twice, the projector started having a conniption in the heat.
There’s a Canadian film festival on right now as well, and we’re going to see one of those on Friday night. It’s called “A Silent Love”.. sounds pretty good, it’s a new film, but black and white, so you’ve got to respect that just on principle. *smile* I’m excited.
Then (this was kind of a spur of the moment idea from Bryan) Bryan and I are going to Amritsar this weekend to see the Sikh Golden Temple, then to the Wagah/ Attari boarder to see the closing of the border at night. Apparently it’s really impressive, quite the macho show, I’ll let you know all about it. We were going to go into Lahore, Pakistan for the night, but one of us has travel restrictions, and it isn’t the friendly Canadian gal. Hmmm. Not a worry, I’ll sport a burka in due time. Wish me luck, will be back late Sunday. With any luck, with a bit more of a tan than this fluorescent office light is offering me.
(Oh, forgot to mention - German security was the strickest I've been through yet. They only let you in one at a time, with a pat down, bag check, metal detector, wand if needed, id, and your name on the guest list!! I made mention of it to Bryan, he told me to save first prize until we go to the Israeli's this evening. Yeah... that makes sense. )
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
S'kau now?
So, from Mandi we hopped on an early bus to Manali. Now, from what we’ve read about Manali, there isn’t that much to look forward to except the fact that they are a big enough transport hub that they run buses to Delhi. It was basically decided we would go to Manali purely for this fact. Lonely Planet otherwise said that it was a busy, hippy-ish tourist town with not much potential except to be a bit of a drug and wannabe spiritual haven. I imagine (with squinted eyes, while I was there.. ) that it really was beautiful back in the 60’s, and probably would have lived up to its Shangri-La moniker. But jumping off the bus, I definitely felt my heart drop a little.
As far as I could see were relatively modern buildings, tonnes of billboards and dirty hippies and unfortunate looking dogs. Beyond that.. were the mountains. I’ve never been so up close and personal with a mountain side, you basically had to cross a small river and you were right at the base. It was astonishing – snow covered peaks literally within a short walk.
Unable to imagine staying in Manali, we cracked up Lonely Planet. They recommended a little town outside Manali, Vishisht. About a ten minute rickshaw ride to the wrong guesthouse.. and we truly were in heaven. We were dropped off at “Dharma Guest House”, and had to climb up a relatively treacherous but completely endearing set of stone stairs to get there. It was basically the highest guesthouse into the mountains, looking down on all the houses and restaurants, and faced right into the most beautiful mountain I have ever seen. Hamish and I didn’t think that there was any way that we could afford such beautiful rooms and such a fantastic view.. But at 350 rupees (about 9 dollars ish) it was a steal. Earlier in the season it probably would have been a lot cheaper, but the owner informed us it was going up to 800 rupees next week, then beyond as it got busier. I would have paid a lot more – to step out my door and look at the mountains, to sit on the porch swing and look at the stars and the village.. It was priceless.
Vishist was fantastic. It had this air of a place that had discovered from some guidebook that it was cool, and really didn’t give half a flying tiger about it. Vishisht actually has hot springs in the upper mountains, and they pipe them down into the village baths – which you walked through upon reaching the bottom of the steps. Essentially we left our hotel, wound our way through houses and backyards and come out in the middle of the hot springs; people washing clothes, dogs, their children, themselves. It was great, we eventually came to know the rotation of who would be there when. All the men would take a wash in the morning, then those who didn’t have anyone to wash their clothes would do it after, then in the afternoon mums would drag their kids down and do laundry while they scrubbed their kids clean.
The baths were flanked by two temples, made of exquisitely carved dark wood. It was so incredibly beautiful to walk through these gates of temples and into the mist of the public baths, then climb the steps up to a warm bed and a view that was, and probably still is, beyond description.
Vishisht proper was tiny and sweet. A dozen restaurants and a few shops selling the necessary toques and mittens that everyone forgot to bring. There was basically no meat in any of the restaurants, the closest thing was trout fished from the river you could see right from the patio. Behind the shops, the community began. These huge wooden rambling houses, with cows and goats tied to the front porch, vegetable gardens in the back – it was unlike any other small town - the architecture a mix of wild west, colonial gothic and Indian mughal style. With the mountain air, the clean glacier water and the hot springs.. Everyone just looked healthier. The cultural mix of Tibetans, Nepalese, Indian, various hill tribes; it genetically conspired to make some of the most beautiful people I have ever seen. Wide tanned faces, huge smiling eyes, it was a phenomenal sight.
Our first evening there was spent wandering around, Hamish walked along the river while I did a little knitting, had some tea and did a little shopping. After some quality lazing about and exploring, we went on a search for coffee, something other than Nescafe, which is the bland potato in wolfs clothing in India. So, ambling down main street, there was a little hand painted sign in an alley “Tired of Nescafe?” It seemed like a wilier version of fate than what I was used to – but we followed suite.
The alley was water logged, filled with rocks and debris and some sort of construction was going on overhead. We took a wrong turn and ended up in somebody’s home, turns out that’s actually what we were looking for, just downstairs. We backtracked, and came to a menu hand painted onto a concrete wall, surrounded by little chairs and chess boards. Standing, dumbfounded, a little blond lady came out the door and asked us if we’d like coffee. Which, ultimately, we did.
She introduced herself as Morena, and then introduced her boyfriend (which makes their relationship sound menial – the appeared to be so much more than just what the simple moniker of boyfriend and girlfriend denote) Nathin. She is a Croatia girl, an Indian Studies major, he’s a sweet young Indian guy with his masters in economics, and together they run a little Turkish coffee shop out of the back of their concrete bedroom/home. And in the spare time, they motorcycle around India. I don’t think that sounds believable – but ultimately, it was.
They were fantastic, and Morena’s coffee was such that we returned the next day. But that evening we spent until late into the night talking and smoking and drinking cinnamon Turkish coffee and knitting (Morena was making a scarf as well) and being quiet. It was fantastic. Nathin summed up our laughter at the somewhat dubious alley entrance thus – “The people who brave that alley, who want to know what is here – those are the people that we want to know, that we want to meet.” I can’t think of a better way to streamline and meet people. They taught us one important thing. The Croats have invented a single word to mean “Would you like a cup of coffee?” - Sh’ kau? (shh-cow) The answer, if you’re so inclined, is “Ocho” (sounds like the Spanish word for eight). We didn’t, however, learn how to say no. So when I do make it to Croatia, I’ll do so drinking a heck of a lot of coffee.
The evening was really chilly, (by my standards) and I had about 5 layers, a toque and a scarf on to sit out on the patio. I wouldn’t have changed a thing. It’s a completely different sensation, so clean and beautiful and real to be chilled by mountain air, instead of an air conditioner. I enjoyed every second of it.
The next morning proving just as beautiful as the previous, we had an unforgettable breakfast of dahl and garlic chapattis. They used really thin slices of garlic mixed into the chapatti bread, and it was phenomenal. We sat right outside the public baths at the one outside table there was, and could only exclaim at how lucky we were to be eating such good food at the base of such beautiful snow capped mountains. I don’t know if I’ve ever had such a meal in my life, in view of such beauty – but I doubt I’ll have another until I eat breakfast again in Vishisht.
After breakfast we walked up through the village to a waterfall that was so beautiful and cold that I don’t think pictures will do it justice. We crested a ridge and came on the full view and were absolutely taken aback. It only increased the surrealness of the frame that there were all these long haired blue eyed mountain goats and huge cows being grazed by a group of hill tribe women. It was almost unbelievable, so intrinsically beautiful that at the time, you take it for granted instead of simply staring. I climbed down and sat on one of the dry rocks in the waterfall and continued to knit my scarf. Whenever I wrap it around my neck, I know that some part of it was knit amidst a herd of goats and a Himalayan waterfall.
I’m not sure why I fell in love with Vishisht so hard. It could have been the 360 degrees of mountains, maybe the people, maybe the food and the air and the happiness it invoked in me.. I think it’s a beautiful place, filled with kind and beautiful people. It was the perfect end to my trip. Sometimes I wonder if had I turned around when leaving, if it really would still be there.
So that was my trip. I’ll spare you the details of my horrible 14 hour ride home in a broken bus seat with an unhappy arranged marriage beside me. The only wonderful thing about that part was the end. (And standing around at three in the morning with an Israeli, an Italian, and an Australian drinking sugary chai and watching ancient bollywood kung-fu movies on a bathroom break.)
There’s a funny thing about travelling. When a person paints a picture, they’re not an artist. When a person plays a note, they aren’t necessarily a musician. But when you go from one place to another, when you see the things you see, and you tell the stories you live.. you are, inevitably, a traveller. And without a doubt, you learn the beauty and weight of the words "Welcome Home".
As far as I could see were relatively modern buildings, tonnes of billboards and dirty hippies and unfortunate looking dogs. Beyond that.. were the mountains. I’ve never been so up close and personal with a mountain side, you basically had to cross a small river and you were right at the base. It was astonishing – snow covered peaks literally within a short walk.
Unable to imagine staying in Manali, we cracked up Lonely Planet. They recommended a little town outside Manali, Vishisht. About a ten minute rickshaw ride to the wrong guesthouse.. and we truly were in heaven. We were dropped off at “Dharma Guest House”, and had to climb up a relatively treacherous but completely endearing set of stone stairs to get there. It was basically the highest guesthouse into the mountains, looking down on all the houses and restaurants, and faced right into the most beautiful mountain I have ever seen. Hamish and I didn’t think that there was any way that we could afford such beautiful rooms and such a fantastic view.. But at 350 rupees (about 9 dollars ish) it was a steal. Earlier in the season it probably would have been a lot cheaper, but the owner informed us it was going up to 800 rupees next week, then beyond as it got busier. I would have paid a lot more – to step out my door and look at the mountains, to sit on the porch swing and look at the stars and the village.. It was priceless.
Vishist was fantastic. It had this air of a place that had discovered from some guidebook that it was cool, and really didn’t give half a flying tiger about it. Vishisht actually has hot springs in the upper mountains, and they pipe them down into the village baths – which you walked through upon reaching the bottom of the steps. Essentially we left our hotel, wound our way through houses and backyards and come out in the middle of the hot springs; people washing clothes, dogs, their children, themselves. It was great, we eventually came to know the rotation of who would be there when. All the men would take a wash in the morning, then those who didn’t have anyone to wash their clothes would do it after, then in the afternoon mums would drag their kids down and do laundry while they scrubbed their kids clean.
The baths were flanked by two temples, made of exquisitely carved dark wood. It was so incredibly beautiful to walk through these gates of temples and into the mist of the public baths, then climb the steps up to a warm bed and a view that was, and probably still is, beyond description.
Vishisht proper was tiny and sweet. A dozen restaurants and a few shops selling the necessary toques and mittens that everyone forgot to bring. There was basically no meat in any of the restaurants, the closest thing was trout fished from the river you could see right from the patio. Behind the shops, the community began. These huge wooden rambling houses, with cows and goats tied to the front porch, vegetable gardens in the back – it was unlike any other small town - the architecture a mix of wild west, colonial gothic and Indian mughal style. With the mountain air, the clean glacier water and the hot springs.. Everyone just looked healthier. The cultural mix of Tibetans, Nepalese, Indian, various hill tribes; it genetically conspired to make some of the most beautiful people I have ever seen. Wide tanned faces, huge smiling eyes, it was a phenomenal sight.
Our first evening there was spent wandering around, Hamish walked along the river while I did a little knitting, had some tea and did a little shopping. After some quality lazing about and exploring, we went on a search for coffee, something other than Nescafe, which is the bland potato in wolfs clothing in India. So, ambling down main street, there was a little hand painted sign in an alley “Tired of Nescafe?” It seemed like a wilier version of fate than what I was used to – but we followed suite.
The alley was water logged, filled with rocks and debris and some sort of construction was going on overhead. We took a wrong turn and ended up in somebody’s home, turns out that’s actually what we were looking for, just downstairs. We backtracked, and came to a menu hand painted onto a concrete wall, surrounded by little chairs and chess boards. Standing, dumbfounded, a little blond lady came out the door and asked us if we’d like coffee. Which, ultimately, we did.
She introduced herself as Morena, and then introduced her boyfriend (which makes their relationship sound menial – the appeared to be so much more than just what the simple moniker of boyfriend and girlfriend denote) Nathin. She is a Croatia girl, an Indian Studies major, he’s a sweet young Indian guy with his masters in economics, and together they run a little Turkish coffee shop out of the back of their concrete bedroom/home. And in the spare time, they motorcycle around India. I don’t think that sounds believable – but ultimately, it was.
They were fantastic, and Morena’s coffee was such that we returned the next day. But that evening we spent until late into the night talking and smoking and drinking cinnamon Turkish coffee and knitting (Morena was making a scarf as well) and being quiet. It was fantastic. Nathin summed up our laughter at the somewhat dubious alley entrance thus – “The people who brave that alley, who want to know what is here – those are the people that we want to know, that we want to meet.” I can’t think of a better way to streamline and meet people. They taught us one important thing. The Croats have invented a single word to mean “Would you like a cup of coffee?” - Sh’ kau? (shh-cow) The answer, if you’re so inclined, is “Ocho” (sounds like the Spanish word for eight). We didn’t, however, learn how to say no. So when I do make it to Croatia, I’ll do so drinking a heck of a lot of coffee.
The evening was really chilly, (by my standards) and I had about 5 layers, a toque and a scarf on to sit out on the patio. I wouldn’t have changed a thing. It’s a completely different sensation, so clean and beautiful and real to be chilled by mountain air, instead of an air conditioner. I enjoyed every second of it.
The next morning proving just as beautiful as the previous, we had an unforgettable breakfast of dahl and garlic chapattis. They used really thin slices of garlic mixed into the chapatti bread, and it was phenomenal. We sat right outside the public baths at the one outside table there was, and could only exclaim at how lucky we were to be eating such good food at the base of such beautiful snow capped mountains. I don’t know if I’ve ever had such a meal in my life, in view of such beauty – but I doubt I’ll have another until I eat breakfast again in Vishisht.
After breakfast we walked up through the village to a waterfall that was so beautiful and cold that I don’t think pictures will do it justice. We crested a ridge and came on the full view and were absolutely taken aback. It only increased the surrealness of the frame that there were all these long haired blue eyed mountain goats and huge cows being grazed by a group of hill tribe women. It was almost unbelievable, so intrinsically beautiful that at the time, you take it for granted instead of simply staring. I climbed down and sat on one of the dry rocks in the waterfall and continued to knit my scarf. Whenever I wrap it around my neck, I know that some part of it was knit amidst a herd of goats and a Himalayan waterfall.
I’m not sure why I fell in love with Vishisht so hard. It could have been the 360 degrees of mountains, maybe the people, maybe the food and the air and the happiness it invoked in me.. I think it’s a beautiful place, filled with kind and beautiful people. It was the perfect end to my trip. Sometimes I wonder if had I turned around when leaving, if it really would still be there.
So that was my trip. I’ll spare you the details of my horrible 14 hour ride home in a broken bus seat with an unhappy arranged marriage beside me. The only wonderful thing about that part was the end. (And standing around at three in the morning with an Israeli, an Italian, and an Australian drinking sugary chai and watching ancient bollywood kung-fu movies on a bathroom break.)
There’s a funny thing about travelling. When a person paints a picture, they’re not an artist. When a person plays a note, they aren’t necessarily a musician. But when you go from one place to another, when you see the things you see, and you tell the stories you live.. you are, inevitably, a traveller. And without a doubt, you learn the beauty and weight of the words "Welcome Home".
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Did I mention the Showers?
So I’m going to leave off from Mandi for a little bit, and slip in my Rishikesh trip here. If I don’t, it’s just going to turn into one of those blurry warm colored memories that you can’t quite put your finger on. I think I may be getting old. *laugh*
So the plan was (initially) that we would leave early on the Shatabdi express up to Dehradun, where we would then be picked up by the rafting company and driven to our camp. Sounds pretty simple hey? Only in India could this go wrong.
So Bryan and I leave with plenty of time, packs loaded, smiles wide – and find, with relative ease, the platform upon which the Shatabdi express arrives. Which can be difficult, considering navigation to the platform does not exclude simultaneously navigating around cows, crap and beggars. We counted ourselves lucky, and when the train arrived, promptly secured out luggage and sat down in our preassigned seats.. Directly behind a gaggle of school children intent on boring holes into us by staring.
It wasn’t a big deal that the train was taking a long time to load, that it didn’t appear that the train would leave on time.. or the surprising fact that it seemed to have arrived early. It wasn’t a big deal that we were going to be surrounded by strange children who all appeared to be named Ryan. It wasn’t a big deal that we only had one set of earplugs.
It was a big deal, however, when a couple rushed onto the train and looked blankly at us, as though we were sitting in their seats. Bryan whipped out our tickets, which declared, without a doubt, that seat 19 and 20 did belong to us. On the other Shatabdi express, that arrives just after the FIRST Shatabdi express, and leaves before it – on the same platform.
Now, if this was a one off thing– say, today, they just happened to have both trains (one going to Dehradun, one going to Amritsar) arrive at the same platform, with the same name, at approximately the same time, I would lean towards some understand. But, as our ticket agent expressed with an ingratiating smile – “It happens to about 30 people a day”. “Everyday.” Oh India. You have the bomb.
Bryan took charge, and rented us a car and driver to get us to the camp. What we didn’t know, was that this driver came from a parallel universe, perhaps called Aidni, because he sure wasn’t like any other driver I’d seen.
Our first clue basically shocked us into silence. The driver, sporting a seatbelt, refused to speed. In fact, when we asked if he could possible go a little faster than molasses uphill in January, he derisively pointed to the speed limit sign. It was phenomenal. He even put his emergency lights on if he had to stop for directions. About an hour into our trip, I was desperate for a washroom (which basically can be described as a thick tree, large bush or rock), but he kept driving for about 15 minutes after I requested a stop. So, we enforced a stop near a bush, hoped out, relieved ourselves Indian style, and got back in. Where after the driver continued on for about 5 minutes, arriving at some sort of luxury commode building in the middle of nowhere, and informed us that we should wait in the car, and he would return in 5 minutes. Which he did, clean and assumedly, evacuated. He wouldn’t pee on the side of the road, and there we were, two white skinnies, being publicly chastised. Yikes.
It got funnier. We brought peanut butter sandwiches and apple pie and the like, not wanting to stop for lunch – but at our drivers pressing (and the fact that he was driving) we did stop for about 20 minutes. We stopped, as most drivers stop, at the strangest, most touristic (which is a word) place I’ve ever seen. And the whole bloody place had tin signs covering just about any infarction you were thinking about. “Don’t feed the fish”, “Don’t bother the birds” “Don’t Loiter Here” “If you brought it from home, eat it at home” – and so on and on and on.. We figure they must have had a cousin in the sign making business. By the looks of it, he was a very rich man.
The drive was in total about 7 hours. Its amazing what you learn about somebody, from somebody etc – In 7 hours. For instance – Bryan is a really good road tripper… and I like to sleep. *laugh* The drive was entirely worth it though (even the harrowing parts going into the mountains. Little did I know it was a precursor to further trips) because our camp was so lovely, the people so nice.. Even though we were arriving late they kept lunch on for us, showed us around camp. It was great.
We stayed in these completely Hemingway-esque tents, doors to the river and the adjoining mountain. The only lights were candles stuck in a sand pot for you, and the sand was covered with straw mats for a floor. It was unbelievably cute, kind of like roughing it in a Pottery Barn catalogue.
The sand kicked up into a giant sandstorm not long after we got there, forcing us to unpack and do all the necessary yet unpleasant tasks that should be completed prior to the fun stuff. Luckily, the enforced adultness didn’t last for too long, and Bryan got to try his hand at kayak rolls from out lovely guide Kent. (Who happened to be from British Colombia. Oh yes.) From there, when the river got too cold, we had a fantastic “jungle shower”.
I’m not really one for forced cleanliness, if I can be, I will be, if not, I don’t smell TOO badly. But these jungle showers were a thing of total and utter fantasticalness. (which too, you’ll be surprised, is also a word.) Huge green drums filled with water, hung from a tree, with a makeshift showerhead and tepid, perfect lake water. They’ve spread out rocks to make a floor, and surrounded the whole thing with a bamboo screen. You really do feel like you’re in a shampoo commercial to tell the truth. *smile* I think I had one or two showers a day, there is just something so luxurious about standing nude in the forest, washing the holy Ganga river off with sun warmed water.
You’d think at this point we’d taken a vacation solely to take showers and sleep in tents.. but we were also rafting!! We’d missed the first trip by missing our train, but it really didn’t seem like we missed much, from what we heard. We discovered that a friends of Bryan’s were their with their family and au pere (who was this awesome little woman named Natasha who could basically do anything, and with phenomenal strength and laughter) so we had built in company on the rafts as well.
Perhaps its ingrained as a Canadian, part of my genetic code; maybe it’s just because we did a lot of canoeing when I was little. But I know how to paddle, I know how to keep time, and for god sakes, I know how to pull my weight. We had a couple of lily-dipping no gooders in our raft, and I was secretly wishing for them to a) lose their paddles or b) we lose them. Neither of which happened. Gr. But according to Kent, we were some of the best paddlers he’d had all season, which was excellent. We passed a few rafts struggling and thwaping each other with their paddles, and I tell you, we all sat a little taller that’s for sure.
The first set of rapids we ran, we all went in the big raft. They warm you up with a few little ones (One of which, way up in the Himalayas, is named after a Canadian) then you hit this one called “The Wall”. If ever there was a more imposing name, I don’t know if I’ve heard it. (Because the only other bad one we went through was called the “golf course”, on the second day. Pansy name.) Everyone but three people (there was 5 of us and 2 guides) got thrown into the river, but it was totally worth it, and completely fun. You get that fantastic effect where everyone forgets about trying to be suave and just babbles on and on about how cool that was, what happened, who got tossed first.. It was fantastic.
That night, we had just about the best meal I may have had in my life. (Isn’t it funny how things you would never normally enjoy, or even like, in normal life taste instantly better outside after a long day?) We were all sitting around the campfire, the whole camp (maybe about 20 of us) and we got barbequed chicken and potatoes with homemade garlic butter.. I couldn’t get enough. There is something about eating like that under a full moon, flanked by mountains, Hindi music drifting down from the yoga temple.. That makes just about anything taste good.
The nights were cool and perfect and the mornings quickly hot. The second day rafting was planned early, and Bryan and I decided to take the two man ducky, a little mini raft. Its shaped like a kayak, but inflated like a raft, and apparently a lot of fun whether you can manage to stay in or out of it.
If I could go back, I would do every trip and a bunch more in the ducky. It was so much fun. You’re that much closer down to the waves, (and ultimately the rocks) and you get to feel a whole lot more. It was fantastic! Bryan was an excellent captain, he steered that thing phenomenally. The only time we got tossed out was in these rapids called the “Golf Course”. You go over one part successfully, and land right into a trap, where one wave swings you sideways, and another flips you over.
It was, I can say without shame, a little scary. I hit the water almost completely vertical, and it sucked me down right to the bottom with such force I have never felt in my life. I’m happy that it was me, and not somebody less comfortable under water. It was so forceful, that it actually ripped one of my shoes off. While the water was holding me there, and I was waiting for my lifejacket to pull me back up, I could feel something hit my face.. It was my shoe! The water spit me out, I smashed my hand on a rock, and we were off again. I’ve never had so much fun – and I finally have a good athletic beer story.
The nights were sometimes just as wonderful as the days. The common areas were under big white parachutes, it looked so exotic with all the bamboo chairs. Bryan was smart enough to bring two bottles of wine, which we really enjoyed after all the Gatorade and iodined water. I haven’t sat around a campfire in a long time – I forgot what it’s like. People are more generous around a campfire – they share popcorn and smiles and stories with would-be strangers. Then the kids drift off to bed, the conversations get quieter as the fire gets lower, everything seems to take it’s cue from the fire.
So the plan was (initially) that we would leave early on the Shatabdi express up to Dehradun, where we would then be picked up by the rafting company and driven to our camp. Sounds pretty simple hey? Only in India could this go wrong.
So Bryan and I leave with plenty of time, packs loaded, smiles wide – and find, with relative ease, the platform upon which the Shatabdi express arrives. Which can be difficult, considering navigation to the platform does not exclude simultaneously navigating around cows, crap and beggars. We counted ourselves lucky, and when the train arrived, promptly secured out luggage and sat down in our preassigned seats.. Directly behind a gaggle of school children intent on boring holes into us by staring.
It wasn’t a big deal that the train was taking a long time to load, that it didn’t appear that the train would leave on time.. or the surprising fact that it seemed to have arrived early. It wasn’t a big deal that we were going to be surrounded by strange children who all appeared to be named Ryan. It wasn’t a big deal that we only had one set of earplugs.
It was a big deal, however, when a couple rushed onto the train and looked blankly at us, as though we were sitting in their seats. Bryan whipped out our tickets, which declared, without a doubt, that seat 19 and 20 did belong to us. On the other Shatabdi express, that arrives just after the FIRST Shatabdi express, and leaves before it – on the same platform.
Now, if this was a one off thing– say, today, they just happened to have both trains (one going to Dehradun, one going to Amritsar) arrive at the same platform, with the same name, at approximately the same time, I would lean towards some understand. But, as our ticket agent expressed with an ingratiating smile – “It happens to about 30 people a day”. “Everyday.” Oh India. You have the bomb.
Bryan took charge, and rented us a car and driver to get us to the camp. What we didn’t know, was that this driver came from a parallel universe, perhaps called Aidni, because he sure wasn’t like any other driver I’d seen.
Our first clue basically shocked us into silence. The driver, sporting a seatbelt, refused to speed. In fact, when we asked if he could possible go a little faster than molasses uphill in January, he derisively pointed to the speed limit sign. It was phenomenal. He even put his emergency lights on if he had to stop for directions. About an hour into our trip, I was desperate for a washroom (which basically can be described as a thick tree, large bush or rock), but he kept driving for about 15 minutes after I requested a stop. So, we enforced a stop near a bush, hoped out, relieved ourselves Indian style, and got back in. Where after the driver continued on for about 5 minutes, arriving at some sort of luxury commode building in the middle of nowhere, and informed us that we should wait in the car, and he would return in 5 minutes. Which he did, clean and assumedly, evacuated. He wouldn’t pee on the side of the road, and there we were, two white skinnies, being publicly chastised. Yikes.
It got funnier. We brought peanut butter sandwiches and apple pie and the like, not wanting to stop for lunch – but at our drivers pressing (and the fact that he was driving) we did stop for about 20 minutes. We stopped, as most drivers stop, at the strangest, most touristic (which is a word) place I’ve ever seen. And the whole bloody place had tin signs covering just about any infarction you were thinking about. “Don’t feed the fish”, “Don’t bother the birds” “Don’t Loiter Here” “If you brought it from home, eat it at home” – and so on and on and on.. We figure they must have had a cousin in the sign making business. By the looks of it, he was a very rich man.
The drive was in total about 7 hours. Its amazing what you learn about somebody, from somebody etc – In 7 hours. For instance – Bryan is a really good road tripper… and I like to sleep. *laugh* The drive was entirely worth it though (even the harrowing parts going into the mountains. Little did I know it was a precursor to further trips) because our camp was so lovely, the people so nice.. Even though we were arriving late they kept lunch on for us, showed us around camp. It was great.
We stayed in these completely Hemingway-esque tents, doors to the river and the adjoining mountain. The only lights were candles stuck in a sand pot for you, and the sand was covered with straw mats for a floor. It was unbelievably cute, kind of like roughing it in a Pottery Barn catalogue.
The sand kicked up into a giant sandstorm not long after we got there, forcing us to unpack and do all the necessary yet unpleasant tasks that should be completed prior to the fun stuff. Luckily, the enforced adultness didn’t last for too long, and Bryan got to try his hand at kayak rolls from out lovely guide Kent. (Who happened to be from British Colombia. Oh yes.) From there, when the river got too cold, we had a fantastic “jungle shower”.
I’m not really one for forced cleanliness, if I can be, I will be, if not, I don’t smell TOO badly. But these jungle showers were a thing of total and utter fantasticalness. (which too, you’ll be surprised, is also a word.) Huge green drums filled with water, hung from a tree, with a makeshift showerhead and tepid, perfect lake water. They’ve spread out rocks to make a floor, and surrounded the whole thing with a bamboo screen. You really do feel like you’re in a shampoo commercial to tell the truth. *smile* I think I had one or two showers a day, there is just something so luxurious about standing nude in the forest, washing the holy Ganga river off with sun warmed water.
You’d think at this point we’d taken a vacation solely to take showers and sleep in tents.. but we were also rafting!! We’d missed the first trip by missing our train, but it really didn’t seem like we missed much, from what we heard. We discovered that a friends of Bryan’s were their with their family and au pere (who was this awesome little woman named Natasha who could basically do anything, and with phenomenal strength and laughter) so we had built in company on the rafts as well.
Perhaps its ingrained as a Canadian, part of my genetic code; maybe it’s just because we did a lot of canoeing when I was little. But I know how to paddle, I know how to keep time, and for god sakes, I know how to pull my weight. We had a couple of lily-dipping no gooders in our raft, and I was secretly wishing for them to a) lose their paddles or b) we lose them. Neither of which happened. Gr. But according to Kent, we were some of the best paddlers he’d had all season, which was excellent. We passed a few rafts struggling and thwaping each other with their paddles, and I tell you, we all sat a little taller that’s for sure.
The first set of rapids we ran, we all went in the big raft. They warm you up with a few little ones (One of which, way up in the Himalayas, is named after a Canadian) then you hit this one called “The Wall”. If ever there was a more imposing name, I don’t know if I’ve heard it. (Because the only other bad one we went through was called the “golf course”, on the second day. Pansy name.) Everyone but three people (there was 5 of us and 2 guides) got thrown into the river, but it was totally worth it, and completely fun. You get that fantastic effect where everyone forgets about trying to be suave and just babbles on and on about how cool that was, what happened, who got tossed first.. It was fantastic.
That night, we had just about the best meal I may have had in my life. (Isn’t it funny how things you would never normally enjoy, or even like, in normal life taste instantly better outside after a long day?) We were all sitting around the campfire, the whole camp (maybe about 20 of us) and we got barbequed chicken and potatoes with homemade garlic butter.. I couldn’t get enough. There is something about eating like that under a full moon, flanked by mountains, Hindi music drifting down from the yoga temple.. That makes just about anything taste good.
The nights were cool and perfect and the mornings quickly hot. The second day rafting was planned early, and Bryan and I decided to take the two man ducky, a little mini raft. Its shaped like a kayak, but inflated like a raft, and apparently a lot of fun whether you can manage to stay in or out of it.
If I could go back, I would do every trip and a bunch more in the ducky. It was so much fun. You’re that much closer down to the waves, (and ultimately the rocks) and you get to feel a whole lot more. It was fantastic! Bryan was an excellent captain, he steered that thing phenomenally. The only time we got tossed out was in these rapids called the “Golf Course”. You go over one part successfully, and land right into a trap, where one wave swings you sideways, and another flips you over.
It was, I can say without shame, a little scary. I hit the water almost completely vertical, and it sucked me down right to the bottom with such force I have never felt in my life. I’m happy that it was me, and not somebody less comfortable under water. It was so forceful, that it actually ripped one of my shoes off. While the water was holding me there, and I was waiting for my lifejacket to pull me back up, I could feel something hit my face.. It was my shoe! The water spit me out, I smashed my hand on a rock, and we were off again. I’ve never had so much fun – and I finally have a good athletic beer story.
The nights were sometimes just as wonderful as the days. The common areas were under big white parachutes, it looked so exotic with all the bamboo chairs. Bryan was smart enough to bring two bottles of wine, which we really enjoyed after all the Gatorade and iodined water. I haven’t sat around a campfire in a long time – I forgot what it’s like. People are more generous around a campfire – they share popcorn and smiles and stories with would-be strangers. Then the kids drift off to bed, the conversations get quieter as the fire gets lower, everything seems to take it’s cue from the fire.
Unfortunately, we were only there for two and a half days. The good thing is, apparently we caught some of the best rapids at their best points, with the best paddlers in our group. I don’t think you could really ask for more than that. I’d recommend it to anyone – it’s romantic and adventurous and beautiful. And hey.. there’s even showers.
Swimming With Bats
For the past two days I’ve been working the most abysmal shift, due primarily to my own stupidity. My regular work day goes from 8:30 until 5:30, and I agreed, to help a friend, to work the 6 – 10pm security shift at night. I think I’m just a sucker for people with soft pleading voices. *sigh*
So last night, after my shift was over, I decided to go swimming. We have this beautiful pool between my house and work, and it was just too tempting to bypass last night. There’s something about a pool at night – the way it glows turquoise and seems so perfectly glassine, no snot nosed kids with super soakers and water wings in sight. What there were, and what was so fantastic… were the bats. The pool would be perfectly serene, then they would take this spiralling graceful dive, skimming the surface, making the most satisfying sound as they scooped up water. I didn’t disturb them at all, they just dove around my slow and deliberate breast stroke as they pleased, coming within inches of me and swooping away.
An embassy close to ours was having some sort of celebration, shooting enormous fireworks high into the sky, a fantastic reward to having to do the backstroke. The miniature sonic booms they created were muffled underwater, it sounded as though a war was going on underneath my flutter kicking legs, and a celebration above.
There is something decidedly baptismal about taking a long, quiet swim late at night. I could feel everything melting away, my horrible no good very bad day, my tiredness, my sadness. I felt as though when I got out that while I was cleaner, stronger, calmer.. I wouldn’t want to go back into the water, it seemed a little dirtier, a little less pristine. The pool was rippled, the bats crashing without grace into little waves that weren’t there before.
So last night, after my shift was over, I decided to go swimming. We have this beautiful pool between my house and work, and it was just too tempting to bypass last night. There’s something about a pool at night – the way it glows turquoise and seems so perfectly glassine, no snot nosed kids with super soakers and water wings in sight. What there were, and what was so fantastic… were the bats. The pool would be perfectly serene, then they would take this spiralling graceful dive, skimming the surface, making the most satisfying sound as they scooped up water. I didn’t disturb them at all, they just dove around my slow and deliberate breast stroke as they pleased, coming within inches of me and swooping away.
An embassy close to ours was having some sort of celebration, shooting enormous fireworks high into the sky, a fantastic reward to having to do the backstroke. The miniature sonic booms they created were muffled underwater, it sounded as though a war was going on underneath my flutter kicking legs, and a celebration above.
There is something decidedly baptismal about taking a long, quiet swim late at night. I could feel everything melting away, my horrible no good very bad day, my tiredness, my sadness. I felt as though when I got out that while I was cleaner, stronger, calmer.. I wouldn’t want to go back into the water, it seemed a little dirtier, a little less pristine. The pool was rippled, the bats crashing without grace into little waves that weren’t there before.
Barracudas, Buddha and hail.. oh my.
Well, it’s not off to Manali quite yet, to tell the truth. While we slept in Mandi for two nights, we only really spent a day there – the second day we travelled up to a lovely little place called Rewalsar lake.
Rewalsar Lake, if I’m remembering this right, has significance to both Buddhists and Sikhs, so the community that has grown up around it is extremely diverse. You’d have to do your own research (this job has robbed me of all interest in ever doing research again and I’ve decided to remain blissfully ignorant of anything that isn’t imparted to me via Fox Friends News. ) but from what I saw when I was there, it really is a lovely little place.
The lake, regarded as medicinal.. (gosh…) is populated by some of the largest, meanest, ugliest fish I have ever seen. While we read the guidebook going up to Rewalsar, there was this curious passage that suggested visitors “watch the fish, monkeys and birds argue over offerings.” Now, other than Joan Rivers, who is beginning to look an awful lot like a barracuda, I have never seen a fish argue over much of anything. Nor, having been advised to look in a lake for fish, have I ever seen any. My luck, or something like it, was about to change.
The entrance to Rewalsar lake is flanked by a Buddhist monastery on one side, and a plethora of small little dhabas and tea huts on the other. The lake itself it relatively unimpressive, the vaulting mountains around it is really what lends to its beauty. The fences and trees surrounding the lake are covered in layers and layers of prayer flags, they get so dense at some points it seems as though the trees themselves are solely constructed of flags. From a distance they look like an exuberant 5 year olds cupcake decorating, up close the feuilles of flags look simply mystical.
The fish, much to my surprise, were entirely visible. All three billion of the 2 foot long slimy looking things. They fed on the algae and plant life surrounding and floating on the lake, and the occasional “offering” that was thrown in by a passer by. I’m not entirely sure what a pack of piranhas looks like, but I imagine it to be somewhat like what I saw that day. When a bunch of what appeared to be small animal crackers (I’m not sure what significance they might have, those tasty lions and tigers) were thrown into the lake, the fish were literally flinging themselves on top of each other, with much gnashing of mouths and flailing of tails. I thought this was particularly amazing, until we walked a little further around the lake.
On the opposite side of the lake, there was a small area cut into the grass that allowed people to get really up close and personal to these lion and tiger eating monsters. Only here, the fish were about four deep and actually throwing themselves up onto the grass and concrete then wiggling back down into the water. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I don’t know if I would have believed it to tell the truth. But I’m now drafting a letter to National Geographic to let them know they should get the heck to Rewalsar.
After taking some photos and poking about the lake, we decided it was time for a bite to eat and some tea. Good thing. The minute we sat down to tea, it started to hail. I haven’t been cold in months, let alone seen anything remotely resembling hail. But, there it was, pounding the buses and the people and the tin roof. So, in our Indian equivalent of a greasy spoon, we spent the next couple hours drinking tea, reading (me: Milan Kundera, Hamish: Steinbeck) and writing letters to be mailed home. It was honestly one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. To sit in the cold, pulling a shawl around me, drinking some of the best, hottest, most rainy day appropriate tea – I don’t think I could ever visit Rewalsar unless I was guaranteed the same treatment.
So, after about half an hour of exploring, and half a day of drinking tea and being in complete and utter inclement weather bliss – we left Rewalsar, thinking it was probably one of the best days of our trip.
Next – Really, onto Manali. Sort of.
Rewalsar Lake, if I’m remembering this right, has significance to both Buddhists and Sikhs, so the community that has grown up around it is extremely diverse. You’d have to do your own research (this job has robbed me of all interest in ever doing research again and I’ve decided to remain blissfully ignorant of anything that isn’t imparted to me via Fox Friends News. ) but from what I saw when I was there, it really is a lovely little place.
The lake, regarded as medicinal.. (gosh…) is populated by some of the largest, meanest, ugliest fish I have ever seen. While we read the guidebook going up to Rewalsar, there was this curious passage that suggested visitors “watch the fish, monkeys and birds argue over offerings.” Now, other than Joan Rivers, who is beginning to look an awful lot like a barracuda, I have never seen a fish argue over much of anything. Nor, having been advised to look in a lake for fish, have I ever seen any. My luck, or something like it, was about to change.
The entrance to Rewalsar lake is flanked by a Buddhist monastery on one side, and a plethora of small little dhabas and tea huts on the other. The lake itself it relatively unimpressive, the vaulting mountains around it is really what lends to its beauty. The fences and trees surrounding the lake are covered in layers and layers of prayer flags, they get so dense at some points it seems as though the trees themselves are solely constructed of flags. From a distance they look like an exuberant 5 year olds cupcake decorating, up close the feuilles of flags look simply mystical.
The fish, much to my surprise, were entirely visible. All three billion of the 2 foot long slimy looking things. They fed on the algae and plant life surrounding and floating on the lake, and the occasional “offering” that was thrown in by a passer by. I’m not entirely sure what a pack of piranhas looks like, but I imagine it to be somewhat like what I saw that day. When a bunch of what appeared to be small animal crackers (I’m not sure what significance they might have, those tasty lions and tigers) were thrown into the lake, the fish were literally flinging themselves on top of each other, with much gnashing of mouths and flailing of tails. I thought this was particularly amazing, until we walked a little further around the lake.
On the opposite side of the lake, there was a small area cut into the grass that allowed people to get really up close and personal to these lion and tiger eating monsters. Only here, the fish were about four deep and actually throwing themselves up onto the grass and concrete then wiggling back down into the water. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I don’t know if I would have believed it to tell the truth. But I’m now drafting a letter to National Geographic to let them know they should get the heck to Rewalsar.
After taking some photos and poking about the lake, we decided it was time for a bite to eat and some tea. Good thing. The minute we sat down to tea, it started to hail. I haven’t been cold in months, let alone seen anything remotely resembling hail. But, there it was, pounding the buses and the people and the tin roof. So, in our Indian equivalent of a greasy spoon, we spent the next couple hours drinking tea, reading (me: Milan Kundera, Hamish: Steinbeck) and writing letters to be mailed home. It was honestly one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. To sit in the cold, pulling a shawl around me, drinking some of the best, hottest, most rainy day appropriate tea – I don’t think I could ever visit Rewalsar unless I was guaranteed the same treatment.
So, after about half an hour of exploring, and half a day of drinking tea and being in complete and utter inclement weather bliss – we left Rewalsar, thinking it was probably one of the best days of our trip.
Next – Really, onto Manali. Sort of.
Oh Mandi
So we left off careening around the mountain sides, screeching to a halt to alternately avoid cattle, women, rocks and pick up passengers. The most endearing thing about this whole “stop-go” approach is that it’s entirely unfettered by any semblance of order, or god forbid – a bus stop. People just give that empiric nod on the side of the road that can alternately mean “more chapattis”, “too expensive”, and heck, even “I want on the bus”. Seeing said nod, ticket attendant blows his tin whistle with as much power as he can, connecting with a yet untapped nerve in the drivers knee that ploughs the brake succinctly into the floor, and the passengers into the seat in front of them. Charming, it really is.
Come our third hour on the bus, the charm, as well as the cushions that were at one point our asses.. was quickly waning. Mandi, the city we were attempting to reach, was still a good 10km away, but considering the whistle was wheezing about 5 times a kilometre, a bit of a walk was starting to sound like a bit of fun.
Happily, and how Hindu I must say – we didn’t even have to make the decision. Because with a resounding crunch, we smacked directly into the side of an unsuspecting little car attempting to cross the road. I’ve been in India for a while now, visited over the past two years.. And I had yet to have even seen an accident, let alone be in one. Which, we quickly learned, was kind of like unwillingly being called up to the stage to be that volunteer performer in a shaky little act.
Everyone, men, women, children, hurled themselves from the bus. The visible villagers standing up on the hill all rushed down with their vastly differing opinions on what happened. To tell the truth, it was pretty much just Hamish and I left on the bus, trying to make out exactly how bad the driver’s head wound really was. (Evidently not that bad – he got himself out of the car and promptly disappeared. Hopefully not into a ditch somewhere.) Cigarettes were lit, judge, jury and trial selected, and they looked pretty happy to stand and argue all day as we paid our 3 rupees to get to the next town on another, equally courageous and flippant, little bus.
Finally arriving in Mandi was pretty much a relief in and of itself. The need to find a hotel superseded the one to find food, and we followed the guerrilla style “where’s Waldo” type advertising of a Lonely Planet endorsed guest house. (Literally – it was like a treasure hunt for accommodations – signs were alternately hung in trees or painted on crumbling walls – what fun!)
Now, I know that for 300 rupees (about 9 bucks) I really shouldn’t expect too much. Perhaps the dust was in my eyes or my general good sense was knocked loose in our fender bender.. But I guess I’m not entirely sure how I agreed to sleep on such yucky sheets. Yes, in some places, sheets are a luxury. And so is getting dinner with your room. But, never, ever, should the two be combined, you really shouldn’t look at your bed thinking that perhaps dinner was included IN the sheets. I pretended it was spilt curry and slept in leg warmers. Which didn’t prevent bed bugs from marring my usually pristine buttocks. But, thus are the perils of a 300 rupee room.
We were both fairly exhausted with the combination of an early morning and tangible fear, so Hamish promptly fell asleep. I sat out on the huge concrete slab out back, watching a storm roll in over the mountains and reading about Mandi. The temperature dropped substantially as the storm got closer, so I bundled up and moved under the overhang to continue knitting my scarf. (Funny thing – the farther north you go, the more people you see knitting. The hill people generally all knit their own clothes, which is understandable – but why so many foreigners?? My theory? They get up to the mountains and realise that with the absence of appropriate clothing, they might just have to make some of their own. *smile* ) I discovered from a kind, yet forward young boy that upstairs was a hostel for students getting their medical degrees, or entering into a bachelor of science program. (Which I became suspicious of the next morning when I heard a plethora of vomiting – I’d like to think it was just nerves and not some self induced doctor experiments.)
While the rain started to pour and I curled up in my deliciously white plastic lawn chair outside my brutally stark guest house, I couldn’t have been happier. The girls on the upstairs balcony were alternately studying and singing, and from what I could catch of their conversation, betting on something or another. To smell the river and watch the mountains and the rain and hear them singing as I knit my scarf.. Sometimes I wonder at the luck that I have in life. That I get to sit out a rainstorm in the Himalayan foothills, listening to Bollywood tunes sung softly from overhead while I knit a scarf from wool I found in a little shanty bazaar. I can’t believe that I get to have moments like that in my life.
Mandi itself was sweet, honestly unimpressive, and in that I mean they never tried to be impressive and ultimately succeeded. . Warm and functional and homey, Mandi is divided for the most part by a large river, with a smattering of bridges linking one side of the town to the other. We stayed on the somewhat less impressive but far quieter side of town, but truly enjoyed exploring the other. Like most towns, being built into the side of a mountain dictated that the roads and markets run in parallel switchbacks, lending to the feeling that you’re simply walking back and forth; you wouldn’t know any different if the shops on either side didn’t change.
As usual, the markets were the most impressive at night, when the saree shops are illuminated from the inside like enormous colored Chinese paper lanterns and the vegetable markets are luminescent under the portable gas lights that the venders spark without due attention. The market in Mandi had unusually narrow streets, still in an original and charmingly defunct cobblestone, which, although not conducive to walking uphill was indeed very lovely.
Hamish, being the strappingly tall young man that he is, attracted a lot of attention from a duo of tiny Indian girls. (I’ll let you know here that they frequently sized up Hamish, and unable to find the words to describe him, just kept referring to me as ‘chotti madam’. Tiny Lady.) One was the unfortunate bearer of an indecipherable speech impediment, leading the other to always be leaning in close to her mouth and translating into Hinglish, as though operating an amicable ventriloquist dummy. They were both dressed in the typical thrift store communion style dresses, imminently dirty and loved by most little Indian girls. Hamish willing took a picture with the two little girls, which their father was so proud of that he wrote down the address of his sweet shop and made me promise (with the bribe of something sweet and warm and sticky into the hands of Hamish and I) that we send him the picture of the enormous white man and his two fairy like daughters. I don’t know what kind of sweet it was, but it was delicious and if I ever eat it again I’ll be able to see, in my mind, the two tiny little girls and their beaming father.
Next up – From Mandi to Manali, a paradigm shift.
Come our third hour on the bus, the charm, as well as the cushions that were at one point our asses.. was quickly waning. Mandi, the city we were attempting to reach, was still a good 10km away, but considering the whistle was wheezing about 5 times a kilometre, a bit of a walk was starting to sound like a bit of fun.
Happily, and how Hindu I must say – we didn’t even have to make the decision. Because with a resounding crunch, we smacked directly into the side of an unsuspecting little car attempting to cross the road. I’ve been in India for a while now, visited over the past two years.. And I had yet to have even seen an accident, let alone be in one. Which, we quickly learned, was kind of like unwillingly being called up to the stage to be that volunteer performer in a shaky little act.
Everyone, men, women, children, hurled themselves from the bus. The visible villagers standing up on the hill all rushed down with their vastly differing opinions on what happened. To tell the truth, it was pretty much just Hamish and I left on the bus, trying to make out exactly how bad the driver’s head wound really was. (Evidently not that bad – he got himself out of the car and promptly disappeared. Hopefully not into a ditch somewhere.) Cigarettes were lit, judge, jury and trial selected, and they looked pretty happy to stand and argue all day as we paid our 3 rupees to get to the next town on another, equally courageous and flippant, little bus.
Finally arriving in Mandi was pretty much a relief in and of itself. The need to find a hotel superseded the one to find food, and we followed the guerrilla style “where’s Waldo” type advertising of a Lonely Planet endorsed guest house. (Literally – it was like a treasure hunt for accommodations – signs were alternately hung in trees or painted on crumbling walls – what fun!)
Now, I know that for 300 rupees (about 9 bucks) I really shouldn’t expect too much. Perhaps the dust was in my eyes or my general good sense was knocked loose in our fender bender.. But I guess I’m not entirely sure how I agreed to sleep on such yucky sheets. Yes, in some places, sheets are a luxury. And so is getting dinner with your room. But, never, ever, should the two be combined, you really shouldn’t look at your bed thinking that perhaps dinner was included IN the sheets. I pretended it was spilt curry and slept in leg warmers. Which didn’t prevent bed bugs from marring my usually pristine buttocks. But, thus are the perils of a 300 rupee room.
We were both fairly exhausted with the combination of an early morning and tangible fear, so Hamish promptly fell asleep. I sat out on the huge concrete slab out back, watching a storm roll in over the mountains and reading about Mandi. The temperature dropped substantially as the storm got closer, so I bundled up and moved under the overhang to continue knitting my scarf. (Funny thing – the farther north you go, the more people you see knitting. The hill people generally all knit their own clothes, which is understandable – but why so many foreigners?? My theory? They get up to the mountains and realise that with the absence of appropriate clothing, they might just have to make some of their own. *smile* ) I discovered from a kind, yet forward young boy that upstairs was a hostel for students getting their medical degrees, or entering into a bachelor of science program. (Which I became suspicious of the next morning when I heard a plethora of vomiting – I’d like to think it was just nerves and not some self induced doctor experiments.)
While the rain started to pour and I curled up in my deliciously white plastic lawn chair outside my brutally stark guest house, I couldn’t have been happier. The girls on the upstairs balcony were alternately studying and singing, and from what I could catch of their conversation, betting on something or another. To smell the river and watch the mountains and the rain and hear them singing as I knit my scarf.. Sometimes I wonder at the luck that I have in life. That I get to sit out a rainstorm in the Himalayan foothills, listening to Bollywood tunes sung softly from overhead while I knit a scarf from wool I found in a little shanty bazaar. I can’t believe that I get to have moments like that in my life.
Mandi itself was sweet, honestly unimpressive, and in that I mean they never tried to be impressive and ultimately succeeded. . Warm and functional and homey, Mandi is divided for the most part by a large river, with a smattering of bridges linking one side of the town to the other. We stayed on the somewhat less impressive but far quieter side of town, but truly enjoyed exploring the other. Like most towns, being built into the side of a mountain dictated that the roads and markets run in parallel switchbacks, lending to the feeling that you’re simply walking back and forth; you wouldn’t know any different if the shops on either side didn’t change.
As usual, the markets were the most impressive at night, when the saree shops are illuminated from the inside like enormous colored Chinese paper lanterns and the vegetable markets are luminescent under the portable gas lights that the venders spark without due attention. The market in Mandi had unusually narrow streets, still in an original and charmingly defunct cobblestone, which, although not conducive to walking uphill was indeed very lovely.
Hamish, being the strappingly tall young man that he is, attracted a lot of attention from a duo of tiny Indian girls. (I’ll let you know here that they frequently sized up Hamish, and unable to find the words to describe him, just kept referring to me as ‘chotti madam’. Tiny Lady.) One was the unfortunate bearer of an indecipherable speech impediment, leading the other to always be leaning in close to her mouth and translating into Hinglish, as though operating an amicable ventriloquist dummy. They were both dressed in the typical thrift store communion style dresses, imminently dirty and loved by most little Indian girls. Hamish willing took a picture with the two little girls, which their father was so proud of that he wrote down the address of his sweet shop and made me promise (with the bribe of something sweet and warm and sticky into the hands of Hamish and I) that we send him the picture of the enormous white man and his two fairy like daughters. I don’t know what kind of sweet it was, but it was delicious and if I ever eat it again I’ll be able to see, in my mind, the two tiny little girls and their beaming father.
Next up – From Mandi to Manali, a paradigm shift.
In the Interim.. Or the Intern.. Hmm..
Why I feel the need to post apologies and excuses for being summarily absent in blogging - I'm not entirely sure. But I have been awfully busy with my lovely new job, and in the off time - my horrible old job, (security work) which, for some reason, I keep agreeing to do.
BUT, the wonderful thing is, that I have been able to get a lot done in the reading department. Yes, some of them may seem a little boring to you, but frankly, I found "External Affairs - Cross Border Relations" (an examination of India's relationship with China, Pakistan, Bhutan, Bangladesh, Nepal, Sri Lanka and Afghanistan) to be really interesting. If this seems a little yawn oriented, I've also finished up "Down and Out in Paris and London" by George Orwell (who, by the way, was born Eric Arthur Blair..and BORN.. in India!!). It's an excellent read, purportedly a semi-autobiographical account of his start as a writer in.. ta da.. London and Paris. Try as he might to the opposite, he manages to make poverty look just a little appealing. Especially when a bad meal is fresh bread, wine and chocolate. Oh.. spare me.
Also, for those inclined to read the cream of the crop, I picked up an amazing (while unfortunately named) book, a compendium of phenomenal writing.. called.. "The Best American Magazine Writing 2004". Now.. I'll send an autograph and a t-shirt to the person who can come up with a worse name than that. However, the deeply ingrained "don't judge a book by it's cover" (or in this case an awful name) stopped me from throwing it back on the shelf.. And I'm so pleased that I kept it. It truly is some of the best writing I've read in a LONG time, all in a dashing little purple black blue and green package. Do pick it up.. you won't regret it. If anything, Tucker Carlson's article regarding Al Sharpton is worth every penny. I knew that bow-tied bastard would put out one day. (You can chose which one I'm referring to at this point.)
If your looking for something a little tougher, a nose bleed read if you will – then I’ll suggest “The Wealth of Nations” by Adam Smith. (Which my somewhat smug friend said he read in Econ. 20 – wherein I think at that point I was trying to convince my class that investing our monopoly money in Bayer, the only company with a large stock of anthrax vaccine, was a good bet. We could have been mega monopoly rich. Bastards.) I think it’s one of those books that you really appreciate having read after it’s completed; I know it’ll definitely help in my voracious endorsement of a militant communist Poshlust realpoltik. But for now, it just looms, a huge orange and black and yellow tome, floating around in my handbag like a crazed capitalist monarch. (The butterfly kind.)
So there you go, my few recommendations for making your brains a little heavier. (It’s a fact folks.) As soon as I manage to extricate myself from this horrendous work schedual, I’ll try and update my real life adventures, and not just the ones I’m finding in this pages and bylines. Because, as I see it, I’m officially two and a half adventures behind – Diving in Burma, Rafting in Rishikesh (which I’m pretty sure I spell differently every time) and then the rest of my mountain adventure. Because as of now, the biggest adventure that came my way was trying to hold my breath the length of the public washroom in the park that I ran in this morning. Now, I suppose an argument could be made that it pretty much sounds like I was running from one coast of India to the other.. but I digress.
I’m off to fight the office battle with the office photocopier. Hope all is well.
So there you go, my few recommendations for making your brains a little heavier. (It’s a fact folks.) As soon as I manage to extricate myself from this horrendous work schedual, I’ll try and update my real life adventures, and not just the ones I’m finding in this pages and bylines. Because, as I see it, I’m officially two and a half adventures behind – Diving in Burma, Rafting in Rishikesh (which I’m pretty sure I spell differently every time) and then the rest of my mountain adventure. Because as of now, the biggest adventure that came my way was trying to hold my breath the length of the public washroom in the park that I ran in this morning. Now, I suppose an argument could be made that it pretty much sounds like I was running from one coast of India to the other.. but I digress.
I’m off to fight the office battle with the office photocopier. Hope all is well.
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