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 The need to find a hotel superseded the one to find food, and we followed the guerrilla style “where’s Waldo” type advertising of a Lonely Planet endorsed guest house.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.

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.

Trips Overdue

I guess I'll just pick up from today, because otherwise I won't be able to remember all the things I've been doing, all the places we've been. I'll have to write about Rishikesh when I get home, because I'm so immersed in this whole mountain town thing that I can't wrap my head around anything else.

Shimla -

We (my friend Hamish and I - he was my dive instructor on the boat in Burma - yet another story- he came to visit India, I had time to do a little travelling with him.) left Monday morning for the train station to hit Shimla, a really lovely little mountain town about 2200 metres up into the Shivalak range of the Himalayas. It was a really neat little train ride, because you have to do about 6 hours on the main Shatabdi Express, then hop on this completely collonial toy train that runs on these little tracks and goes through 103 bridges on its way to Shimla. Now, our main train engine on the express went out, and we had to wait to be kinda pushed into the town to catch the toy train. (Another reason I'm afraid this country has nuclear capabilities...their trains don't work.) We did manage to get there in plenty of time to be absolutely jam-crammed onto this little train. Now, I've visited some pretty awful bathrooms here in India.. but none so terrible, so purtrid, acrid, and horrible as the train bathroom. Which is saying a lot when all it is is a whole in the train floor. Apparently the idea of bracing yourself to pee is more foreign here than sour cream, because about an hour into the ride it was pretty much possible to skate in the sludge from one end of the train to the other with what might be on your feet. Yum. The scenery was enough to completely take your mind away from it. It was this stunning mix of terraced farming, bright jewels of red flowering trees, snow capped mountains, cactus, monkeys.. It was a mix of just about every landscape I've ever seen, sprinkled onto the side of a mountain. This train wasn't completely reliable either, and we periodically stopped between the 103 bridges to give the engine some zen time.

Shimla was completely worth it. It was originally where the British went when Delhi got too hot in the summer, and I can see why. It's pretty chilly up there, at night you definately needed layers. (5 layers for those of us used to the heat). In the day, it's absolutely stunning, very warm, very green. Everything is built into the mountain side, so it has this lovely appearance of brightly colored paint running down the hills, so bright and sweet are all the houses and shops. Its supposed to be a fairly touristy place, but we really didn't see more than a couple white people. The good thing about the places that are tourist attractions is that they don't really give a damn, they know they'll be more, so they don't bother. So we pretty much were left alone to explore the town.

I have to say, the best tea I've ever had in my life was in Shimla. They have these little dhabas (food shops) all around Indian cities.. But the one that we found was beyond amazing. We've officially dubbed them BLD's, because all they say on the outside is "Breakfast - Lunch - Dinner". In Shimla, just down from Christ Church, is this tiny hole in the wall, with the best Indian food and best tea I've ever had. Bar none. I think the most we paid for a meal was 100 rupees, and that was with about 4 cups of tea, 3 main dishes, and about 10 chapatis. About 3 dollars, maybe a little less. We went there for breakfast first, then returned for dinner that night. (Which the grumpy looking little chef seemed quite pleased with.) Every meal left us stuffed, and it was so good it was terrifically impossible to not eat everything, though I'm pretty sure my stomach was begging not to be punished any more. But the smell of this little shop -the onions, the curry, the dahl, the beedies, the fresh mountain air - combined with the fact there were only seats for about 10 people, that everything was made in front of you, that the arch of an eyebrow was all you needed to get more chapatis.. It was fantastic.

Our first full day in Shimla, both Hamish and I slept in, both being exhausted from the trip and having such amazingly comfortable 3$ room beds. (Seriously, it was so comfortable.) I woke up with a bit of a start, I thought maybe somebody was on the balcony, as I could see something moving. Lucky for me and my modesty, it was just a bunch of monkeys unscrewing all my porch lights and smashing them. Just up the hill from Shimla, about a 2 or 3km walk, is the Jakkhu temple, devoted to Hanuman, the monkey god. Which, as you can well imagine, brings many monkeys into the surrounding area. They kind of wander around like dogs do in Delhi, with the exception that the Delhi dogs don't pick your pockets. The temple was lovely, bright and beautiful and sparkly, as expected. We sat and had tea and looked out at the mountains, trying to make out any snowy peaks. We met another little family from Paris, another from Agra, took pictures and relaxed.. It was wonderful.

The next morning we left on the early bus to Mandi, a relatively short (4 hr) bus ride, down from about 2200 metres to only 800metres. Needless to say.. Mandi was a little bit warmer. Now, any of you who know me.. know that it generally takes a LOT to make me throw up, but when I do start.. beware. This story should demonstrate that point adequetly enough.

Indian buses, never mind Indian buses careening around mountain curves.. are fairly erratically driven. It's like one big long game of chicken, played alternately with cars, cows, mountain sides and tractors. So without extreme "intestinal fortitude" as Bryan says, you're almost certain to join the majority of passengers hanging listlessly out the window retching and vomitting. (Thus the strange colour that Indian buses take on after a few months of service.) Hamish and I were doing quite fine, more tired that naseaous, when I felt a big yawn rolling over me; at the same time the lady in front of me felt a corresponding wave of naseau. The universe and science conspiring in this cruel game, we turned a hard corner and above mentioned vomit deposited itself in above mentioned yawning mouth. My.. yawning.. mouth.

After having recovered (not without a lot of spitting, swearing, gagging and water gargling) we continued on out way with our Indy 500 wannabe driver.


Up next - He's going to stop... right?

Its All Uphill in the Mountains

At least I have a good excuse for being totally un-diligent in updating this.. I've been in the Himalayas white water rafting with Bryan for three days, then I got home Monday at midnight and hit the road with a friend at 5 the next morning togo to Shimla, another mountain town up at about 2200 metres. We're doing a week of travelling before I have to head back to start my smashing new temporary job in Political Affairs at the embassy. Its absolutely, unabashadly beautiful up here.. And, all my lovely cold weather friends- it was minus 2 here this morning when I woke up to monkeys pulling the porch lights off in my hotel room.. Its the coldest I've been sinceI left Canada, and I have to say, that with the exception of some terribly awfully stylish leg warmers, my little butt has been a little chilly. I promise a full update when I get home, for now, I'm actually going to knit a scarf on the bus ride to the next town. Missing you all, and always wishing that you could see what I get to see. Take care!

Three Beautiful Things

I'm not sure what makes some particular moments in life so beautiful.. Maybe it's the joy and surprise at witnessing them, maybe it's just a combination of simple factors like mindset and sunlight and perhaps at any other time we would have missed them.. But I'll always remember these three things.

1. I was walking down Nyaya Marg, my street, on my way to the American Embassy for lunch. It was pretty blazing hot, but I had my iPod tuned to Aimee Mann and a bottle of water in my purse so I was alright. Coming towards me, barefoot, was this young guy, maybe 15, 16 years old at the most. He looked like he was talking into his hand, which looked, at 15 feet away, like it was filled with garbage. As I got closer, I could see he was cupping a little bird in his hand, talking to it and petting it. As I walked by, it seemed like everything slowed.. The hot wind starting blowing a little softer, the music was more poignant.. It was a fantastic slow motion event in my life. This boy looked at me, and I'm sure he didn't even register me, so wrapped up he was in talking to this little dusty bird. I'm not sure what it was - but it I do know it was fantastic and beautiful and memorable.

2. I know I've mentioned this before in my favorite things... But I think I need to elaborate, if only because it was 10 minutes in my life that I will cherish. A few Fridays ago, Bryan and I were making cheesecakes to take to his staff picnic, which we delinquently didn't start baking until about 9 o'clock in the evening. By the time we got around to the second one, we realised that we didn't have enough (ok.. we didn't have any) eggs. So we took the puppies, on this beautiful, warm clear night, and walked to the market at the end of the street. Sometimes, just having somebodies hand in yours is enough to make any event perfect unto itself. But to be walking in and out of little spheres of streetlights, comfortable in the city sounds and the beautiful smell of Delhi at night.. it was wonderful. The eggs we bought were still warm from the day, and to have them slipped into a homemade (homemade!!) brown paper bag by a gentleman how didn't know what to watch, us or the cricket game murmering on his little tv.. The brightness of the shop will always stand out. The darker the evening gets, the more the little markets stand out with their bare lights hanging from wires, the glow of little tv sets and the orange fireflies of cigarrette ends - markets end up looking otherworldly, sitting illuminated among all the darkened houses. To be there, warm on the outside, on the inside, to be beside somebody you care about, experiencing such a sliver of lovelyness.. it was beautiful.

3. It was hot yesterday. I was grumpy, sweaty, and in an incredible hurry. Rajesh was driving me to one of the hotels to pick up chocolates, and it was all I could do not to be vocally grumpy. We were driving down one of the wider streets when we slowed down behind a bunch of cars. There was a young guy on a bicycle in front of all the traffic, conducting. He had a walkman on, and both hands outstretched to the sides, leading the traffic in a completely lovely symphony of horns. But he was taking his time, peddling deliberately and carefully, looking alternately like a parade leader and a mad man, furiously and beautifully directing bicycles and rickshaws and cabs and people. We rolled by, and I could only smile for the rest of the day.

I Love Apple Pie.. And Table Tennis Too..

First, a word of warning. If ever you are in the situation where you are inviting a couple of non-english speakers to dinner, I would say, pepper the party with people who DO speak engligh, and a lot of it. That is my little piece of humble advice.

Last evening Bryan and I hosted the Chinese defence attache and his wife for dinner at Bryan's residence. Now, I have to say I was mislead a little in believeing that his wife spoke a bit of english. She spoke none. Well. I suppose "Hello" and "Yes" and "Thank-you", but I can say that in about 10 languages, so it doesn't count. And not like it didn't look like she was trying, but I bet she had an easier go at dinner than Bryan and I who played "cross cultural non-sequiter" (as Bryan put it) with her husband.

It went a little something like this.

Us - "These are my favorite appetizers"

Him - "Yes, I play tennis, I learned from a book"

Us - "Oh. It's good exersise yes?"

Him - "Because Chinese staff live on compound, we get together a lot to cook and drink".

Needless to say, it kept us on our toes. But when you go from speaking about marathons to the system of ranking chinese officials in one giant leap.. You can't decide if you need another glass of wine or if you've already had too many.

My personal source of entertainment (and I'm pretty sure Bryan would second me here) was actually the food. You are all aware of Amit, the strange cook that Bryan employs. Well, he gets really excited when he gets to entertain, and now that Bryan has let him know that four meat dishes and some broccoli does not a dinner make; he's had to find some other ways to express his culinary creativity. Namely by garnishing the food, or creating one off wonders like the tuna casserole that I've heard about.

Last night, it was the mashed potatoes. It was all I could do to kick Bryan under the table and hide my smile behind my napkin when Amit unveils the crockery dish of mashed potatoes with a giant tomato rose in the middle, and toast stuck precariously in all sides of the dish. Toast. Would you maybe like some starch with your starch? Although, when he did bring out dessert, (two types of apple pie.. one that had this strange nuclear green tint about it, individually plated for us with a slice of ice-cream.. ) I did have to chuckle. What did he think? "Well, if they don't eat the failed green slice that looks like it came overnight from Chernobyl, then I'm sure they'll enjoy the one baked in a cupcake tin that doesn't resemble anything close to apple pie. Yes. "

Now, as classy as I am, (no really boys, sit down, stop laughing) near the end of the night I was beside myself with thinking of a nice warm bed to crawl into and forget all about Chinese-American-Canadian relations and funny apple pie. But not before I got something stuck in my tooth and decided to excavate with my tongue, forgetting my mouth was full of tea. At that point in the night, my motor skills and mouth/brain coordination was misfiring at a rapid rate. Luckily, when I spurted tea all over myself with a noise vaguely resembling a wet fart, it was in the middle of a particularily humerous story about how a Chinese army commander decided to surrender Beijng. Good lord. Next time I'll just hold back until they're talking about the dead Pope.

But, we did it. We made it through the evening, tea stained and full of apple pie(s). I'm not entirely sure how we did it, perhaps the Chinese are thinking the same thing this morning. But heck, if we can make it through the Chinese.. I say lets have the Russians next week. At least they'll appreciate the potatoes...

No really, I'm much worse.

I can't even be patient zero here. You think you're the only one that is doubled over in pain, head swimming, doing the Delhi "hurry hurry" shuffle to the washroom.. But no. Our cook's kids are sick. Bryan is sick. My sister is sick, my dad is sick. Eventually, I think you get lost in the plethora of complaints, and you're really better off in a closet that echoes so you can at least hear your groans reciprocated. Becuase it really is hard to show sympathy for anyone else when you're sure that you're going to implode at any second and they definately look like they may be faking.

Even WORSE.. I'm feeling better. Then you have to contend with the naysayers who are like "Oh, at least you're feeling better, I'm still sooo sick." And you want to say "Well, I still have a little headache, and I'm sure I was MUCH sicker than you you wimp." Or is that just me? So now I'm fervently trying to avoid the sick people, not to avoid getting sick, but to avoid psychosematically putting myself back there. I think there must be something wrong with me. In my head. And I'm betting it's worse than anything you've ever had.

Is that a sign?

You could make a killing here in Delhi writing grammatically and sensical signs. No joke. I forgot to mention - on the way to the riding grounds Sunday morning, in blazing 5 inch letters, was this sign:

"Dead Slow Horses Have The Right Of Way".

Althought it's hard to match "R. Stones Uralogical Clinic".. It may come close.

Ms. Poshlust's Favorite Things (April)

1. Tweed - Really, I don't think there is anything more colonial, more dignified, more upstanding.. than a suit, a jacket.. that litterally stands up on its own .
2. Riding boots - I'm hooked. After seeing all the women stomping around in their burnished leather.. I'm in.
3. Hot weather music - Jack Johnson, Zero7, The Roots, Jill Scott... I'm not sure if it cools you down or heats you up..
4. Going to bed with jewlery on - I never knew how wonderful it was to get up at night to pee and look like a sleepy debutante. Jewlery it is.
5. Pineapple juice - I think I drink a carton a day. I have the Oktoberfest mug from the American embassey last October (no shit) and it's the perfect size for about 4 ice cubes and have a carton of juice. I'll forever associate Oktoberfest with pineapples now. Shiza.
6. ArtForum magazine- Any of you with access, enjoy it. My dearest Mr. Almost Poshlust has been so wonderful as to mail me the monthly installments, and I savour them one glossy page at a time.
7. Okayplayer.com - For all of your best hip hop news, book reviews, and an uproariously funny cartoon every morning.
8. Ubiquity - Written by Mark Buchanan, it's a book I never thought I'd read, and definately never thought I'd enjoy.. And now it's pretty much one of my alltime favorite books. Please also read Malcolm Gladwell's "Blink" and "The Tipping Point", and "The Elephant Vanishes" by Haruki Murakami. Camote - these recommendations are all pretty much for you. Who am I kidding. ;-) You're the only one that I KNOW would a) read these and b) love them. Or at least understand them.
9. Beautifully Simple Things - Helped Bryan make a cheesecake on Friday, had to go get eggs at about 10pm, in the beautifully warm dark night. Bought 10 eggs for 20 rupees, they were put in a homemade paper bag, and everyone smiled at us. Life is good.
10. Ticking things off - I have this painfully simple list of things I want to do in life, included are things like making soup, staying silent for one day, etc etc. Small, simple things. Have accomplished one this month, and am close to a second! Drank Scotch and smoked a cigar, which has been on that list since I was like.. 15. Then, on the 27th of this month, I've officially not work make-up for one month! Pretty good for a city girl hey?

Interim Update

So my level of blog absenteeism has been a little high lately. I've been trying to get all my Burma adventures down in a draft, but I think it's going to take me awhile, so I figure I might as well keep blogging in the mean time. Apologizing, of course, assumes that anybody still checks in here, so for those of you who do.. I'm sorry!

It's been busy here in Delhi pretty much as soon as the wheels touched tarmac. I don't know how I manage to be so busy when I really have so little to actually do. I think perhaps I talk myself into being busy.

Saturday attended a staff picnic for Bryan's work, had a lovely time. Made a few new aquaintences while these huge friggin' flying fox fruit bats circled overhead. Honestly, in the past month, I've seen more strange and rare wildlife than I have my whole entire life. It's a rare day where I sit in a palatial backyard smoking a cigar and wondering if they really do JUST eat fruit.

Sunday morning (Camote, you'd have been so proud!) I went horseback riding with the Indian colonel, Bryan, and Greg and Wendy, friends of Bryan. My horses name sounded decidedly close to Flower, so I figured I was safe. Of course, Bryan hops on his horse and succeeds immediately at looking like the Marlboro man, Greg and Wendy look like something out of a British pastoral scene.. And where does that leave me? Looking somewhat like the girl who decided to mount an ornery Mr. Ed. "Flower" was a titch tempermental, and not totally unlike driving a volkswagon minus the power steering and comfortable seats. With the exception that a volkswagon has multiple speeds, and Flower had two: slow, and fast. Kinda like a broken mixmaster. Nevertheless, despite later feeling like I had literally broken my ass, it was a great time. After riding, we went and sat with the Colonel and various other officials in this stunningly beautiful little garden, with a cricket field in the background, and drank lovely tea and had egg sandwiches. It was quite the timewarp, and a most enjoyable one.

Alas, be it the broken ass, egg sandwiches or malaria (we've yet to decide) I'm not feeling so great. I've had a burgeoning cold for the past few days, and now it appears to have switched course and has turned into some sort of achey yucky flu type deal. Luckily, that left me free yesterday to be a complete lay about and watch movies.

If you haven't seen Hotel Rwanda yet, please, please do. It's an absolutely amazing movie. It's based on a true story centering around the genocide that took place in the early 90's. I don't think it's supposed to be one of those movies that you can watch again and again.. but it really is superb. Don Cheadle made me laugh and cry, in a film that really should just have inspired torrents of tears. It's surprisingly unbiased, as much as a film about such a subject can be, and I think my heart actually stopped on one or two occasions. So if you have a chance, please rent it. I'll let you know that the end is uplifting enough to warrant all the tears, which is what I wish somebody had told me!

So, I'm slowly on the mend (I'm sure of it, even though I don't feel like it.. ) trying to find little things to do about the house and otherwise. Hope everyone is well, I miss you all!

Thumbs up I say.

Hello Everyone!

Have no fear, I'm perfectly fine. I was in the middle of Burma when the earthquake happened, and nowhere near Phuket when the tsunami sirens went off. Apparently the quake was felt a little in Phuket, but mostly just intense fear when everyone had to run to the hills. I can't even imagine. So I'm happy that I was in Burma then, safe and sound, underwater actually! I'm just in Phuket airport, on my way to Bangkok for a little bit, then finally back to Delhi. Will be posting all my adventures from there. Hopeing that everyone is well, have missed hearing from you all. Will talk to you in a couple days.

Ms. Poshlust Is Okay

Hello Everyone,

This is Brad (Mr. Almost Poshlust) here. I just wanted to post a quick little blog to let everyone know that our favourite little Blogger is doing just fine. The earthquake off Indonesia has not troubled the family trip in any way.

I must admit, I was worried. I received word from the tour guide himself that all was A.O.K. so we can all rest easy and await more amazing blogs from the talented Ms. Poshlust.

Merry Christmas,

Brad

But this time, I'm not being deported.

Hello Everyone! Just a short little reminder - Poshlust Inc. will be silent from this evening (the 23rd of March) until about April 5th. I'm taking my first family vacation, to Bangkok and Burma. We'll be diving off the coast of Burma for about 7 days I believe, the rest is time spent in Bangkok. I'll be keeping a journal on the boat, which I'll then put on here.. so stay tuned. I'll miss you all, please take care of each other. Love Always!

Scrambled Eggs

My family never ceases to amaze me. I mean that in the broadest sense of the word. I suppose they always make me laugh.. But sometimes it's one of those "oh my lord" laughs. Which is why, I guess, I love them so damn much.

We're going to be in Burma for Easter, so my mother decided that last Sunday would be our easter dinner. She cooked a big ham and scalloped potatoes and all that jazz, it was excellent. We invited Bryan over (Roselyn the cook thinks he eats so much because he's lonely. Hmm. *laugh*) to help with the ham eating, and sat down to dinner around 6:30.

Anybody who's ever eaten a meal with my family knows what a hoot it can be. I am the lucky recipient of one of the kindest, funniest families on earth - and there is nothing quite like watching my brother and my dad laugh silently at the table. There being 3 young people at the table, the talk turned to JackAss, and the explanation of said show to my parents. I thought I was going to die. It was so funny. Bryan was in pain he was laughing so hard, my father was crying, and my brother looked like he was repetatively making the sign of the cross, although I think he was just trying to breath. We must have laughed for a good half an hour, everytime we'd manage to stop somebody would slip back into giggles and we'd be off again.

Now, my lovely mother has had a little bit of trouble letting tradition slip away. Although our home no longer holds three children (we're 20, 18, and 14) she insisted (not that we tried very hard to disuade her) that we have an Easter Egg hunt after dinner, post dishes. But, seeing as how we were older, we would have to do it in the dark with flashlights.

Lucky for me, I've got Mr. Mountaineering-river fjording-lizard eating-special forces on my side (and we all know they have the best bad ass gear) so I got to use what looked suspiciously like and OBGYN headset with a big light on the front. My brother and sister had to use regular old un-special flashlights. Well - maybe not true.

This wouldn't be a true McQuade celebration if somebody didn't hurt themselves. My mother has a special sneak attack flashlight, that's actually a stun gun. You just connect the handle at a certain spot, turn it on, and voila, your own special Indian Cooker. She had just been to old Delhi that afternoon, wherein she keeps it connectd (though turned off) in her purse in case of emergency.

She forgot.

Our home has this eerie ability to fall silent whenever anyone is about to do something embarrasing, perhaps to maximize either the embarrassment or the humour, I'm not sure which. But the house was silent when my mother turned on her flashlight and a sound akin to a large bug-zapper preceded the screaming akin to a banshee. She was fine, a little numb, a little angry, but cogniscient enough to swear Bryan to complete secrecy. And so, the hunt began.

We're a fairly communist family at heart. There are a couple rules to our egg hunt - Eggs are hid in 3's, and you can only take one. (Apparently, when there are 4, you can only take 1 as well.. which I found out the hard way after Bryan tattled on me and I had to face the Bunny Tribunal.) After a certain point (decided by the egg hiders) you can go back and pick up everything than anyone else hasn't found. Basically futile, because when the hunt is over, we sit down and divide all the eggs into respective colour groups, then evenly divide them among the kids. It's been this way since I can remember there being more than one kid in our house.

So, we hunted, we gathered, we divided. It was wonderful. My mother has come up with yet another excellent way to extend tradition in our family. I can only hope that when I have kids I can do the same.. or at least make them laugh when I cause myself bodily harm. The things you learn from your Mom. So Happy Easter in advance everyone, enjoy the egg hunts. Or heck, just watch Jackass and stick a fork in a socket. You can feel just like you were at my house!

Once upon a time in India.

Once upon a time, there lived a Princess. This Princess lived in a beautiful apartment castle with two faithful lions and a man with cameras for eyes. She was very happy there. Until, the King and Queen moved far across the beautiful, and sometimes smelly, ocean, to live in far off India. Eventually, the Princess decided to trade her life of arts and culture for one of farts and vultures; packed a suitcase full of couture and made a 2 day long dash around the world.

The Princess was very happy there. It was very warm, which suited her, and she could almost forget about the smell of urine if she tried hard enough. When she squinted her eyes and plugged her nose, she knew that she really did love her new kingdom. Even if it didn't love her so much, or just wanted her to shop at the jezebel emporiums.

But all was not to stay so tranquil. Her magic passport, which had until this time held her safe and strong, with a magic Visa inside.. Began to tire, and she realised it would expire on the 16th of March! The Princess was very dissapointed, as she did not want to return to her old kingdom, and did not want to be put into a barred tower where hair growth only promoted lice, not rescuing by handsome princes.

The Princess fled to the King and Queen, afraid and upset. The King declared he would do everything in his power to keep her safe, and the Queen, with her sometimes psychic powers, already knew that it would be alright.

The King tried his hardest, enlisting the help of two Visa Sirens, Meena and Priya, to send word out over all of the government castles that they needed to extend his daughters Visa, and keep her safe here. Meena and Priya worked all day and all night, searching for somebody to help.

Soon a magic scroll arrived and the Princess drew hope - India did not mind if she stayed, she must only go to "The Ministry of Foreign Affairs" to seek Mr. Lal's approval. This, unfortunately, was a task that she must complete herself, although they allowed the Queen to come for moral support.

So, at noon on the designated day, the Princess rode confidently out on a white steed with her mother in tow. (Actually an old white volvo. Steed it is.) They raced to the office, the Princess soon discouraged by the double talk and empty promises sprouted by the ominous Mr. Lal and his Reception gaurd. So, the Princess and Queen decided to go shoe shopping and eat mango ice cream to relieve their copious anxiety. They returned refreshed and newly shod to the ministry, and were directed to Reception.

A dark, dank little whole filled with greying souls and empty eyes that didn't care anymore.. Reception was lorded over by a large man with three telephones. Striding up to him, confident in her looks if not her brain, the Princess asked where she might find Mr. Lal. "Mr. Lal only sees people between 9 and noon!" the Receptionist bellowed. "Yes," stammered the Princess, "But we have an appointment at 2!". "I did not know of this, you must come back in the proper hours. Goodbye!".

The princess whipped out her trusty cell phone and called the number she had for Mr. Lal. No, he was on lunch, yes, he would be back in half an hour. The Princess worked on a hunch. "Is this Mr. Lal?" she asked. "Yes. Now I will see you in half an hour at F7" The Princess marched out to the gaurd and demanded to know where F7 was, so that she might wait for Mr. Lal. The guard, using the oldest trick in her kingdom, claimed not to speak english. Luckily, the Princess was not only beautiful, but learned and cunning, and could understand what he was saying in Hindi, which basically amounted to a lot of horse shit.

Out of nowhere, a handsome, blond Polishman whispered "I'll show you the way to Mr. Lal's! Follow me!!" The Princess and Queen took after the Polishman. The wound their way through the government office, going through back offices where still more people lounged, looking for hearts, brains, courage and passports. Sometimes they thought they would be sucked into the plush chairs and would have to wait for eternity under the dusty electric fans. But they pushed on, following the blonde man in front of them until he whispered, "We're here! There he is!".

The Princess and Queen stepped tentatively into a room, dusty and grey as a jail cell, but far worse. Stacked shoulder high were millenia worth of Visa requests, hopes and dreams turned into tea tables and foot rests. The Princess could barely look, could barely walk in. THere were no computers, no fans, just 8 men at desks arguing over carbon paper and doomed to push files from one side of the desk to the other forever.

At the back of the room in front of a curtain (that we did not look behind) sat a man, startling in his resemblance to the Karate Kids grandfather (but Indian), yelling into his phone. He was yelling at his pet Receptionist that he was supposed to let us in. The Princess defiantly pulled out her security badge and marched up to the desk. "Mr. Lal, " she almost shouted, "I need your help."

"Yes," snivelled Mr. Lal, "You do. But first Princess, you must promise me three things. One - that you will tell your Visa office that we accomadate Canadians by taking them in late, they should accomodate us. Two - My one daughter lives in Canada, my other daughter wants to visit her, you must get her a Visa. And three, and this will be the hardest. You must wait here in this dusty room, and laugh at my awful jokes, and not succumb to dispair when I say I'm leaving for 15 minutes and do not return for an hour."

The Princess drew strength from deep down, and simply nodded her head. She laughed at his jokes, she filled out all his ridiculous forms and sat, stone faced, while he left them to calcify in the dirty horrible room. At long last, Mr. Lal returned, surprised to find them there, more so to find frozen smiles still on their faces. "These Canadians," he thought, "They are far too nice." Finally defeated, he granted her another 3 months in India, and told her to proceed to the FFRO office to get the Visa.

The Princess glanced at the clock. 3:15. The office was closed! Mr. Lal, impressed and moved by her looks if not her brain, felt some part of his heart melting, and called the office to ask them to remain open for them! The Princess and Queen raced out of the awful office, unable to spot the beautiful Polishman, into the open air and back onto their noble steed.

They raced across the city, dodging cows and beggars and potholes, to arrive breathless at the FFRO office. They ran in, to find a small little man singing instructions. "We are closed. Closed at 3. Come back tomorrow if you want to see." " We are here for inspector Bishct!" yelled the Princess, emboldened by her previous success. The little man pointed to a desk, who spoke amazing words. "Give them the forms."

The Princess filled out the forms with much aplomb, and was directed to line 5. There were babies screaming and people blank with waiting for eons. It was all she could do to sit and laugh with the Queen at the man who appeared to be sleep working at the head of line 5. Finally, he called her up and handed her a completed visa. The Princess was so excited, they paid and left immediately, returning home triumphant and relaxed.

From this point, the Princess knew that she could do anything. She had been to the very heart of Indian government, and survived. She had stood up to bad jokes and interminable waits, crying babies and lewd stares. She had even found time to shoe shop and eat Mango Zap ice cream in between!

And she knew, deep down, that she would always have a very soft spot for Polish people. That night, she said a little prayer for her Polish saviour, hoping that he too would someday get what he was looking for from Mr. Lal.

And with that.. She fell asleep.

Barely Legal

So as of midnight tonight, my visa expires. We're in a mad scramble to get it renewed today. I've just gotten a letter from the Ministry of External Affairs stating that they don't have a problem with me renewing my visa from within the country, and now my mum and I have to go down to the Indian Visa office and beg them to do in a few hours what usually takes a couple days. Good GOD. I'm not entirely sure how I get myself into these troubles, but I must have been pretty nasty to some previous boyfriend to have this kind of karma. So rest assured all you slighted men - you've had your revenge.

The stress has been causing a plethora of strange dreams - be it building a homeless shelter with my friend Matt and the rapper Jay-Z (who proceded to fall in love with me.. of course... Damn you Beyonce.. he doesn't want that much junk in the trunk..), or running an Amazing Race with Bryan, wherein we were the two most cut throat competitors in history. I vaguely remember stealing a Vietnamese long boat. I'm not sure what it all means, other than I should probably stop eating chocolate before I go to bed, and stop brushing my teeth with local water.

Before I forget to mention, SEA, thank you for your wonderful offer. There is nothing that I miss or need too terribly, just that you offered was enough. Know also that if you want anything from here (and that goes for anyone) that it's so easy for me to send it to you. So please, don't hesitate to ask.

Alright lovelies, I'm going to get my mother and head to the visa office. (For some reason, in my mind, it really does deserve capitals.. Visa Office. It's some strange, forboding place that seems to loom so large.. Knowing India, it probably doesn't loom at all. ;-) Wish me luck!

How come PETA hasn't heard about this..

And how can I tell them? This is friggin' hilarious, and made my entire week. www.savetoby.com

Hey Baby.. Ever kiss an illegal alien??

Ok - so due to some totally unforseeable (yet at the same time preventable - I'm told) events, I might have to leave the country tomorrow until I can get my visa renewed. It was one of those "Hey, you have a funny passport photo. And hey - your visa expires soon" kinda events. (Does that fly with anyone? It was a little more complex than that.. but above situation could have totally happened.) So, as a result, I might get to go see Sri Lanka for a bit. (Hmm.. it kinda sounds like I'm being shuttled out to have a baby somewhere else.. but it really is a visa problem!!) I'm trying to refrain from having phrases like "flee the country" "deported in the middle of the night" and "inevitably fell into the sex trade" run through my mind - but it's way cooler if I get to tell that story. (Maybe minus the "sex trade" part.) Rather than "to avoid being killed by the avalanche of paper and twisting her poor fathers back doing diplomatic backflips for his daughter". Cause really.. haven't you always wanted to flee the country? At least I get to do it with an iPod and a big purse.. grabbing only what you can carry is so passe. Talk to you soon - hopefully! Love you all, will try keep you updated.

PS - No really, how do these things HAPPEN to me?

Tender Disclaimer

It appears that I was a little harsh on the two puppies, as Bryan pointed out with a hurt look this evening. They are smelly, and nothing takes away the fact that they're ghetto Delhi dogs - BUT... They are really friendly, have sweet little personalities (Tess crawls around like a snake all the time and Jack seems to have a built in spring) and are super affectionate. Sure, I'm one undergarmet short because of them, but would I trade that for finding said undergarmet over Jack's head like an eyepatch? Not anytime soon. *smile* And you know, since I stepped in all that pee, my feet are feeling softer...and my legs are a little more defined after chasing them all over the house. So really - even Delhi dogs have a silver lining. Even if it's just that they taste good on the barbeque..

Out Damn Spot! Shoo!

Like all good stories, this one starts with a mildly irrational phobia. I get really scared living totally alone for the first little while, and turn into one of those OCD people who check on the locks 3 times a night. Never mind the fact that I had a gaurd, a big front gate, and two dogs to protect me. That's where the irrational part comes in.

Lucky for my sanity, this usually goes away after a few days. But what definately helped, was the fact that my bedroom door at Bryan's has like, 10 locks on it. So I felt even better locking me, my cell phone, two dogs and my honour in at night. Until about the third day, when I realised on the outside of the door, stuck so pertly into the locks - were the keys. Instead of dwelling on my own stupidity, I simply took the keys out and placed them so neatly onto the bedside table.

Thursday afternoon, after returning from a day out, I hung my shopping bag on the bedroom door, and let the puppies loose. Seizing the chance to wreak more havoc in my life, they ran straight for the shopping bag, and slammed the bedroom door while tugging on it. Locking all my clothes (save the ones I had just put into the washing machine, after having changed into pj's) my books, the shower, the painkillers.. into the bedroom. It was like slow motion - running towards the dogs, yelling at them, them pulling even harder on the door, it clicking shut.. Damn.

So this is like, 6 o'clock. The gaurd doesn't get there until 8:30. So I have to wait, and try all the spare keys I can find out in the open in this door. This, of course, leaving ample time for me to worry. So I decide to venture outside, seeing if maybe I can open one of the windows in the bedroom. At which the dogs think I'm a much maligned intruder, and have me dancing all over the backyard trying to avoid stepping in dog crap.

The gaurd finally gets there, and I have to find something to wear. I substitute a bathing suit for bra and underwear, and it's a good thing too. Because the only pants I had were the wet ones I had to pull out of the washing machine. Luckily I had a somewhat normal shirt in my purse. So it basically looked like I had just waded across a river to get there when I asked the gaurd for his help.

So he started calling superiors, who called the embassy, who told me they would send somebody to pick the lock. Ten minutes later, a Sikh midget and two Indian giants arrive. No word of a bloody lie, they look like they are straight from the Bollywood version of The Wizard of Oz. It didn't help that the midget was wearing an enormous bright yellow turban. It was completely surreal. They take one look at the lock, and begin to hammer at it with what looks like a rubber mallet and a railway tie spike, until the lock pops out the other side, leaving a neat little hole. And the door completely sheared off on the inside. To which they smile, and turn to leave. So I, in hysterics, ask when exactly this will be fixed. And they say tomorrow. Which could me next year.

Amazingly, the carpenter does arrive the next day. At 7 in the morning, when I'm still trying to decide if the previous evening was a dream. It wasn't, because this toothless old man takes one look at the door, another at me (still in my bathing suit, and now with a nasty case of bed head) and leaves to call his supervisor. Who informs me that I'll need a new door.

By this point, I've given up hope on pretending this didn't happen. Especially when there are pieces of door everywhere and the maid hasn't shown up. And won't show up again. So, instead, I get to revel in choosing a new bedroom door and imagining various vicious things to do to the puppies. None of which come to fruition, because as soon as Bryan walks in the door the next morning - the puppies act as though they could never even have had the notion to be bad.

So it's done. My week of dog sitting, living alone, pretending to be responsible, my phobia of intruders. The door will be replaced "next week", and the regular maid came back this morning, and has no doubt already had a heart attack looking at the shape of her poor house.

And I just found out that in Nagaland, they eat dogs. Particularily tender little puppies. Anybody want to take a trip?

Recipes Welcome

Immediately after I had posted my homage to Bryan's puppies - I walked into the livingroom to find why they had grown suddenly quiet. They have torn in half my favorite pair of underwear, and eaten a summer dress that I've had since I was in grade 9; that's made it across the ocean 3 times now, weathered countless summers, dates, spilt ice cream, climbed trees, rollerbladed.. And now has only one cap sleeve and a gigantic whole in the butt. Spaghetti sauce it is.

Here Puppy..

These puppies are driving me mental. Honestly, at some point this week, I began to sympathise with the people who ate dog, and wonder what it might taste like in a spaghetti sauce.

A little background on these mongrel barbarians. Bryan, looking for a dog to replace his inimitable Ace, stumbled (god knows how) across Jeevashram, a little pound outside of Delhi that houses just about everything. Hairless rabbits, blind donkeys, you name it, they've got it. In spades. Including dogs. So, being the righteous and upstanding citizen that he is, Bryan chose to take not one, but two, of the little Orphan Annies. Well, actually, a little orphan Tess and a little orphan Jack if you want to get into specifics.

Said dogs can only be described as.. "Delhi Dogs". Dubious origins (bastards no doubt), of mixed breed (there's probably like, 1/1000 french poodle in there) and certainly not of genteel nor subdued manner. In fact, Jack has adopted an adorable trait wherein when you tell him to sit, he leaps straight into the air. Oh! And Tess has her own trick too! When you yell at her, she flops over onto her back, and pees straight into the air, soaking herself and usually you in the process. The rub lies in the fact that the madder you get, the more she pees. Then you have to act like a regular Escariot and charm her with soothing tones out the door, until you give her a final what-for in the behind.

The gardener, bless his heart, almost weeps everytime he comes here to find his marigolds ripped quite heartily out of their pots and deposited neatly on the welcome mat. Or all of the dirt out of the planters, as Jack and Tess can't decide whether they buried something in there in another life; or if dirt just tastes good. It must, because they are constantly eating all of the potting soil out of the houseplants. The gardener is lucky there ARE any pots left, as I've noticed when they tire of fighting over who is going to bring me the masticated marigolds, they roll the pots around until they smash.

And they smell. God bless their little hearts, but they are just hummy. You can't wash the smell of Delhi dog off of them! My own little dogs sniffs me with some disdain when I come home now, and gives me a look equivalent to "You've been slumming it again haven't you?". I thought about giving them a bath, but honestly could only think of putting them in a garbage bag and filling it with water and let nature take it's course. It would drown the fleas too you know. Or maybe just tossing them in the washing machine. Best I can figure, I'm just going to wait until a warm day and take my revenge (for me and the gardener) with a hose full of cold water. Teach those little bastards to wake me up to pee at seven am! Like you can't hold it.

Because they do! They do hold it! They are Delhi Dogs.. they don't know anything else but to pee where they live! They go to Doggie Play Day on Sunday, and don't pee for hours, they have to do it at home! In the living room! Because god knows, that finely groomed American Embassy grass just isn't good enough - it has to be a nice beige burber, or how about some cherry hardwood? Much better.

I've got two more days to go here. Not that I'm not thouroughly enjoying the peace and quiet in the evening, or sleeping in such a big bed, or having the television all to myself.. (which, as I get older, is more important to be able to control to turn it off, not on.) There are just two snouts, eight legs, four ears adding up to two incredible pissing machines that I could do without. Until the power goes out. Then.. maybe it's not so bad. All I have to do is tell Jack to sit and yell at Tess, and we've got a full on eight legged assault. ;-) Have so much more to tell about my day, but must get to bed. The puppies will be up early, ergo so will I. Ah. Bliss.

Mornings Away From Home

I love Delhi in the morning. I'm currently looking after Bryan's dogs in another part of town.. and enjoying myself thouroughly. It's a little farther away from all the hustle and bustle of the main roads, and as a result is exceedingly quiet.

It seems like at the begining of the day.. Delhi just isn't as dirty. All the dew and the rain of the previous evening washes away any dirt that isn't seriously ingrained; and believe it or not, it smells fresh and clean. The air is a little clearer, the breakfast fires have gone out and won't be relit until dinner, the cars haven't started for rush hour. Even the noise is less. You'd think you were anywhere else.. except that the birds that wake me up in the morning are these huge green parrots. Then I smile, and know that I'm truly not in Kansas.

It's always a little strange, your first night in a new house. Everyone's house sounds different at night - so it was strange falling asleep last night to so little noise. (Except for this perfectly tell-tale heart alarm clock that no matter where I put it.. I can hear..) I was a little nervous being alone in such a big house.. I'm not sure how good the dogs would be in protecting me. They just roll over and pee when they're frightened.. So unless I have an intruder made of sugar, they really wouldn't be much help. Luckily, I've got a guard outside, and a fort of a house with ten locks on every door. So not even my overactive imagination could find a scenario wherein I was in trouble. The fact that I can lock myself into the bedroom helps too. *laugh* The maid was a little surprised when she arrived this morning, unable to get in due to the chain across the front door. Luckily the dogs alerted me to her presence by raising one ear, turning around, and promptly falling back asleep. Cerberus they are not.

I'm home for the afternoon, then back to the peacefulness of Bryan's. If it wasn't for those damn yowly dogs.. *laugh* Ahem. Just joking. I'm having a fine time - hope everyone is well. Sarah - Happy Birthday.. What is it, 25 years old now? You don't look a day over. Take care, miss you all.

Q. What's Black and White and Red all over?

A. - The keynote speaker at last nights Black and White ball, celebrating black history month, after making mention of the (and I quote) "Black marks on our history in terms of race relations". I guess he didn't practice in front of his wife. Or maybe she was laughing too hard at so blatant a pun that she couldn't tell him.

It was a lovely night. The tent was beautiful, the speakers wonderful, and the food palatable, which is a compliment unto itself. With things like ham hocks and 'grilled river fish' (I did not hazard which river.) and ' melt in your mouth sweet potatoes' it was certainly a fried green tomatos kinda dinner.

Everyone looked really lovely, my outfit came together nicely, and Bryan looked very sauve in his tux. Everyone pretty much adhered to the sensical "black and white" dress code, of course saving the Indian guests; who sported everything from red to aqua sequins. Ah, and our dear German DJ who wore khakis and looked like a little aryan soldier - solidified by the fact he kept asking us to take a "journey through black music" with him. I have to say, though I attempted to act as though this was a very plebian affair - I did have a very lovely time, dancing and drinking and smoking cigars in a huge white tent. It was so colloquial, so lux and vice to be on a baseball field-cum-ballroom-cum-time machine, listening to Dinah Washington and bemoaning the need for Joan Rivers to teach a few people about fashion. (ie - a bustle is not appropriate if you can already hide a family of 5 behind you.)

So today was primarily spent recouperating, cat napping, reading. My mother and sister returned rejuevenated from London, happy to be home, unsure if they were happy to be home in India. Took our dog, the neighbours jack terrier (we're dog sitting) and Bryan's dogs to the "doggie play day" at the American Embassy. As usual, the Canadian dogs spent time either completely oblivious, or trying to look a lot bigger than they were. All the half lame American dogs had Napolean complexes, and let me to believe wholeheartedly in pet psychology - and poison darts. My embarassing beagle spent the majority of time with her nose to the ground following everyone by scent instead of looking up and finding them that way - needless to say, between the dogs being concerned over her considerable girth, and the fact that she just liked to sniff butts - She was about as well recieved as a leper. That's my doggie.

Not too much on the go this week. Bryan is away at some "Jungle Warfare" thing - seriously. They've eaten snakes and pigeons and stuff. So I won't have any friends here this week. (That's right, you haven't miscounted. One friend, minus one friend... leaves me with no friends. ) I'm going to try and attend a lot of the galleries I've been putting off, and maybe stay at Bryan's while he's gone to look after the puppies. Hope everyone is starting their week with a bang, I miss you all. Will try to post a little more..and a little less erratically. Talk to you soon. Love always!!

I'll have the McTikki Aloo, hold the curry sauce.

It's a universal truth. Wherever you go in the world, McDonalds fries taste exactly the same. Whether they serve them with beer (Germany) or wine (France) - They taste like home, wherever that may be for you. Interestingly enough - the menu, is not. In a Hindu country like India, the sign saying "Absolutely no beef products used in this restaurant" pretty much sets the tone. We replace the Big Mac with the Maharaja Mac, Cheeseburgers with McTikki Aloos (potato burgers) and Fresh Salads with Brocoli and Cheese Curry Pans. It's an adventure everyday here. Thank Ronald MacDonald that they still have Coke. Because then I'd be really out of my element.

Explanations Welcome.

I wish I understood this country a little more. It seems like the more I read, the more I think I understand... the more I know that I really don't get it at all. I find that everyday, I have to just put it aside in order to avoid requiring a paradigm shift in thought just to buy vegetables.

In my world, perhaps a very western one, veracity and charachter and honesty are all very important things, things that make up who I am, and what I expect the people around me to be. Here.. that really isn't the case. I'm not sure if it's the result of the abject poverty, the "Get mine any way I can to survive" type attitude, or what... But it's everywhere. Is it vestigal? Is it a charachter trait of the country? Becuase it's still prevelant in the upper classes, who certainly aren't wondering about their next meal. If you swindle me, or steal from me, or lie to me, and I fall for it, it's my fault. And you should bear no reprecussion if I catch you, other than to laugh with me over my own stupidity. Everyone is very quick to forgive here, the swindling and stealing and cheating go nearly unmarked.

Is it a result of the religion here? The fact that, once explain to me by a friend, a bad life here is only like a bad day in our lives - you get another one to try again. With the belief in reincarnation and 2nd, 3rd, 19th chances - does it really matter what kind of shitty house you live in now? Mayhap you'll just get a better one in the next life. You can't take it with you, and you really can't change anything that's preordained and has a set plan.. so why try? I have a feeling communism would work here. We want better for our children, we want them to have more- schooling, a house. It doesn't appear that anyone wants to move out of their station here. Or perhaps, their idea of more, is just smaller and less noticeable than ours - bigger meals instead of bigger houses?

I'm confused. I wish I understood more, I wish I could have somebody give me straight answers; instead of those tainted with patriotism, shame or misunderstanding. I want to be able to wrap my head around this country that I'm living in.. and somehow.. I'm pretty sure I need an exponentially bigger head.

Lost in Translation

I went to the Italian Cultural Centre (right across the street!) yesterday, for lunch with my friend Bryan. The chef there has trained overseas in Italian cooking, so everything is pretty good. However, we found the small touch that reassures us that we aren't anywhere else but in India. The cheese cake had mozzarella in it.

5 Funny Things I Love About Delhi

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

Soft Target My Ass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Bad Apple

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

Amoebas and Medias

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

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

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

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

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

as always, to all of you.

This Ain't No CNN

Apologies, as always, for my delinquencies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It started with a feather.

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

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

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

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

Except for maybe the goose feathers.

No, really. Out of my EARS.

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

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

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

*whoosh* (Off with the pants)

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

Me - "Oh. I'm sorry!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drinkers with a Running Problem..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ON ON!

Bake it like a Bengali.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Culturally Insensitive? Me?

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

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

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

Ah. I see.