One of the really great things about living at an embassy, being surrounded by embassies, is that everyone is constantly holding various cultural events (movies, art shows, lectures) that are more or less free and frequent.
So last night Bryan and I decided to attend this German film night, to support the new student director and hey, see some good independent film. It was a pretty neat set up, in the courtyard of the German embassy, and an excellent turn out. The film is called “Vakuum”.. and I honestly don’t know if I could tell you what it was about. (Even though it did have English subtitles) Described as a “sci-fi –action-thriller-romance”, it pretty much hit every one of those nails on the head. You’ll have to watch the trailer at the website to even get the gist of it.
Have you ever watched one of those movies where it’s totally good up until like, the last five minutes? That’s kind of what happened. I mean – not that the last five minutes were bad.. I just think maybe some strange (synonymous with bad) choices were made. For example, the whole introduction of a soul vs. mind vs. mind control type thing where somebody keeps souls in boxes. That’s not just something that you leave for the last couple minutes. Or comical (meant to be non comical) things like making your main female look like the guy from “Powder” in the last few minutes. All Bryan could think was that she was going to need some SPF 300. (Actually, I believe his exact words were “Hunny, you are gonna need some SPF 300!”) neither of us could stop laughing every time the camera panned to her. They really should have made her a little more off-white, perhaps an ecru. She was just too.. white. (Listen to me, like I’m a sci-fi-action-thriller-romance Ebert and Roeper. Sheesh. )
It was pretty neat to be out there in the heat (we sat in chairs that had mosquito coils underneath.. we were smart..) in the courtyard of the embassy, watching this young guys oeuvre.. I imagine he must feel a great deal of pride when “Direktor” comes up on the screen with his name under it. We actually got to watch that twice, the projector started having a conniption in the heat.
There’s a Canadian film festival on right now as well, and we’re going to see one of those on Friday night. It’s called “A Silent Love”.. sounds pretty good, it’s a new film, but black and white, so you’ve got to respect that just on principle. *smile* I’m excited.
Then (this was kind of a spur of the moment idea from Bryan) Bryan and I are going to Amritsar this weekend to see the Sikh Golden Temple, then to the Wagah/ Attari boarder to see the closing of the border at night. Apparently it’s really impressive, quite the macho show, I’ll let you know all about it. We were going to go into Lahore, Pakistan for the night, but one of us has travel restrictions, and it isn’t the friendly Canadian gal. Hmmm. Not a worry, I’ll sport a burka in due time. Wish me luck, will be back late Sunday. With any luck, with a bit more of a tan than this fluorescent office light is offering me.
(Oh, forgot to mention - German security was the strickest I've been through yet. They only let you in one at a time, with a pat down, bag check, metal detector, wand if needed, id, and your name on the guest list!! I made mention of it to Bryan, he told me to save first prize until we go to the Israeli's this evening. Yeah... that makes sense. )
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
S'kau now?
So, from Mandi we hopped on an early bus to Manali. Now, from what we’ve read about Manali, there isn’t that much to look forward to except the fact that they are a big enough transport hub that they run buses to Delhi. It was basically decided we would go to Manali purely for this fact. Lonely Planet otherwise said that it was a busy, hippy-ish tourist town with not much potential except to be a bit of a drug and wannabe spiritual haven. I imagine (with squinted eyes, while I was there.. ) that it really was beautiful back in the 60’s, and probably would have lived up to its Shangri-La moniker. But jumping off the bus, I definitely felt my heart drop a little.
As far as I could see were relatively modern buildings, tonnes of billboards and dirty hippies and unfortunate looking dogs. Beyond that.. were the mountains. I’ve never been so up close and personal with a mountain side, you basically had to cross a small river and you were right at the base. It was astonishing – snow covered peaks literally within a short walk.
Unable to imagine staying in Manali, we cracked up Lonely Planet. They recommended a little town outside Manali, Vishisht. About a ten minute rickshaw ride to the wrong guesthouse.. and we truly were in heaven. We were dropped off at “Dharma Guest House”, and had to climb up a relatively treacherous but completely endearing set of stone stairs to get there. It was basically the highest guesthouse into the mountains, looking down on all the houses and restaurants, and faced right into the most beautiful mountain I have ever seen. Hamish and I didn’t think that there was any way that we could afford such beautiful rooms and such a fantastic view.. But at 350 rupees (about 9 dollars ish) it was a steal. Earlier in the season it probably would have been a lot cheaper, but the owner informed us it was going up to 800 rupees next week, then beyond as it got busier. I would have paid a lot more – to step out my door and look at the mountains, to sit on the porch swing and look at the stars and the village.. It was priceless.
Vishist was fantastic. It had this air of a place that had discovered from some guidebook that it was cool, and really didn’t give half a flying tiger about it. Vishisht actually has hot springs in the upper mountains, and they pipe them down into the village baths – which you walked through upon reaching the bottom of the steps. Essentially we left our hotel, wound our way through houses and backyards and come out in the middle of the hot springs; people washing clothes, dogs, their children, themselves. It was great, we eventually came to know the rotation of who would be there when. All the men would take a wash in the morning, then those who didn’t have anyone to wash their clothes would do it after, then in the afternoon mums would drag their kids down and do laundry while they scrubbed their kids clean.
The baths were flanked by two temples, made of exquisitely carved dark wood. It was so incredibly beautiful to walk through these gates of temples and into the mist of the public baths, then climb the steps up to a warm bed and a view that was, and probably still is, beyond description.
Vishisht proper was tiny and sweet. A dozen restaurants and a few shops selling the necessary toques and mittens that everyone forgot to bring. There was basically no meat in any of the restaurants, the closest thing was trout fished from the river you could see right from the patio. Behind the shops, the community began. These huge wooden rambling houses, with cows and goats tied to the front porch, vegetable gardens in the back – it was unlike any other small town - the architecture a mix of wild west, colonial gothic and Indian mughal style. With the mountain air, the clean glacier water and the hot springs.. Everyone just looked healthier. The cultural mix of Tibetans, Nepalese, Indian, various hill tribes; it genetically conspired to make some of the most beautiful people I have ever seen. Wide tanned faces, huge smiling eyes, it was a phenomenal sight.
Our first evening there was spent wandering around, Hamish walked along the river while I did a little knitting, had some tea and did a little shopping. After some quality lazing about and exploring, we went on a search for coffee, something other than Nescafe, which is the bland potato in wolfs clothing in India. So, ambling down main street, there was a little hand painted sign in an alley “Tired of Nescafe?” It seemed like a wilier version of fate than what I was used to – but we followed suite.
The alley was water logged, filled with rocks and debris and some sort of construction was going on overhead. We took a wrong turn and ended up in somebody’s home, turns out that’s actually what we were looking for, just downstairs. We backtracked, and came to a menu hand painted onto a concrete wall, surrounded by little chairs and chess boards. Standing, dumbfounded, a little blond lady came out the door and asked us if we’d like coffee. Which, ultimately, we did.
She introduced herself as Morena, and then introduced her boyfriend (which makes their relationship sound menial – the appeared to be so much more than just what the simple moniker of boyfriend and girlfriend denote) Nathin. She is a Croatia girl, an Indian Studies major, he’s a sweet young Indian guy with his masters in economics, and together they run a little Turkish coffee shop out of the back of their concrete bedroom/home. And in the spare time, they motorcycle around India. I don’t think that sounds believable – but ultimately, it was.
They were fantastic, and Morena’s coffee was such that we returned the next day. But that evening we spent until late into the night talking and smoking and drinking cinnamon Turkish coffee and knitting (Morena was making a scarf as well) and being quiet. It was fantastic. Nathin summed up our laughter at the somewhat dubious alley entrance thus – “The people who brave that alley, who want to know what is here – those are the people that we want to know, that we want to meet.” I can’t think of a better way to streamline and meet people. They taught us one important thing. The Croats have invented a single word to mean “Would you like a cup of coffee?” - Sh’ kau? (shh-cow) The answer, if you’re so inclined, is “Ocho” (sounds like the Spanish word for eight). We didn’t, however, learn how to say no. So when I do make it to Croatia, I’ll do so drinking a heck of a lot of coffee.
The evening was really chilly, (by my standards) and I had about 5 layers, a toque and a scarf on to sit out on the patio. I wouldn’t have changed a thing. It’s a completely different sensation, so clean and beautiful and real to be chilled by mountain air, instead of an air conditioner. I enjoyed every second of it.
The next morning proving just as beautiful as the previous, we had an unforgettable breakfast of dahl and garlic chapattis. They used really thin slices of garlic mixed into the chapatti bread, and it was phenomenal. We sat right outside the public baths at the one outside table there was, and could only exclaim at how lucky we were to be eating such good food at the base of such beautiful snow capped mountains. I don’t know if I’ve ever had such a meal in my life, in view of such beauty – but I doubt I’ll have another until I eat breakfast again in Vishisht.
After breakfast we walked up through the village to a waterfall that was so beautiful and cold that I don’t think pictures will do it justice. We crested a ridge and came on the full view and were absolutely taken aback. It only increased the surrealness of the frame that there were all these long haired blue eyed mountain goats and huge cows being grazed by a group of hill tribe women. It was almost unbelievable, so intrinsically beautiful that at the time, you take it for granted instead of simply staring. I climbed down and sat on one of the dry rocks in the waterfall and continued to knit my scarf. Whenever I wrap it around my neck, I know that some part of it was knit amidst a herd of goats and a Himalayan waterfall.
I’m not sure why I fell in love with Vishisht so hard. It could have been the 360 degrees of mountains, maybe the people, maybe the food and the air and the happiness it invoked in me.. I think it’s a beautiful place, filled with kind and beautiful people. It was the perfect end to my trip. Sometimes I wonder if had I turned around when leaving, if it really would still be there.
So that was my trip. I’ll spare you the details of my horrible 14 hour ride home in a broken bus seat with an unhappy arranged marriage beside me. The only wonderful thing about that part was the end. (And standing around at three in the morning with an Israeli, an Italian, and an Australian drinking sugary chai and watching ancient bollywood kung-fu movies on a bathroom break.)
There’s a funny thing about travelling. When a person paints a picture, they’re not an artist. When a person plays a note, they aren’t necessarily a musician. But when you go from one place to another, when you see the things you see, and you tell the stories you live.. you are, inevitably, a traveller. And without a doubt, you learn the beauty and weight of the words "Welcome Home".
As far as I could see were relatively modern buildings, tonnes of billboards and dirty hippies and unfortunate looking dogs. Beyond that.. were the mountains. I’ve never been so up close and personal with a mountain side, you basically had to cross a small river and you were right at the base. It was astonishing – snow covered peaks literally within a short walk.
Unable to imagine staying in Manali, we cracked up Lonely Planet. They recommended a little town outside Manali, Vishisht. About a ten minute rickshaw ride to the wrong guesthouse.. and we truly were in heaven. We were dropped off at “Dharma Guest House”, and had to climb up a relatively treacherous but completely endearing set of stone stairs to get there. It was basically the highest guesthouse into the mountains, looking down on all the houses and restaurants, and faced right into the most beautiful mountain I have ever seen. Hamish and I didn’t think that there was any way that we could afford such beautiful rooms and such a fantastic view.. But at 350 rupees (about 9 dollars ish) it was a steal. Earlier in the season it probably would have been a lot cheaper, but the owner informed us it was going up to 800 rupees next week, then beyond as it got busier. I would have paid a lot more – to step out my door and look at the mountains, to sit on the porch swing and look at the stars and the village.. It was priceless.
Vishist was fantastic. It had this air of a place that had discovered from some guidebook that it was cool, and really didn’t give half a flying tiger about it. Vishisht actually has hot springs in the upper mountains, and they pipe them down into the village baths – which you walked through upon reaching the bottom of the steps. Essentially we left our hotel, wound our way through houses and backyards and come out in the middle of the hot springs; people washing clothes, dogs, their children, themselves. It was great, we eventually came to know the rotation of who would be there when. All the men would take a wash in the morning, then those who didn’t have anyone to wash their clothes would do it after, then in the afternoon mums would drag their kids down and do laundry while they scrubbed their kids clean.
The baths were flanked by two temples, made of exquisitely carved dark wood. It was so incredibly beautiful to walk through these gates of temples and into the mist of the public baths, then climb the steps up to a warm bed and a view that was, and probably still is, beyond description.
Vishisht proper was tiny and sweet. A dozen restaurants and a few shops selling the necessary toques and mittens that everyone forgot to bring. There was basically no meat in any of the restaurants, the closest thing was trout fished from the river you could see right from the patio. Behind the shops, the community began. These huge wooden rambling houses, with cows and goats tied to the front porch, vegetable gardens in the back – it was unlike any other small town - the architecture a mix of wild west, colonial gothic and Indian mughal style. With the mountain air, the clean glacier water and the hot springs.. Everyone just looked healthier. The cultural mix of Tibetans, Nepalese, Indian, various hill tribes; it genetically conspired to make some of the most beautiful people I have ever seen. Wide tanned faces, huge smiling eyes, it was a phenomenal sight.
Our first evening there was spent wandering around, Hamish walked along the river while I did a little knitting, had some tea and did a little shopping. After some quality lazing about and exploring, we went on a search for coffee, something other than Nescafe, which is the bland potato in wolfs clothing in India. So, ambling down main street, there was a little hand painted sign in an alley “Tired of Nescafe?” It seemed like a wilier version of fate than what I was used to – but we followed suite.
The alley was water logged, filled with rocks and debris and some sort of construction was going on overhead. We took a wrong turn and ended up in somebody’s home, turns out that’s actually what we were looking for, just downstairs. We backtracked, and came to a menu hand painted onto a concrete wall, surrounded by little chairs and chess boards. Standing, dumbfounded, a little blond lady came out the door and asked us if we’d like coffee. Which, ultimately, we did.
She introduced herself as Morena, and then introduced her boyfriend (which makes their relationship sound menial – the appeared to be so much more than just what the simple moniker of boyfriend and girlfriend denote) Nathin. She is a Croatia girl, an Indian Studies major, he’s a sweet young Indian guy with his masters in economics, and together they run a little Turkish coffee shop out of the back of their concrete bedroom/home. And in the spare time, they motorcycle around India. I don’t think that sounds believable – but ultimately, it was.
They were fantastic, and Morena’s coffee was such that we returned the next day. But that evening we spent until late into the night talking and smoking and drinking cinnamon Turkish coffee and knitting (Morena was making a scarf as well) and being quiet. It was fantastic. Nathin summed up our laughter at the somewhat dubious alley entrance thus – “The people who brave that alley, who want to know what is here – those are the people that we want to know, that we want to meet.” I can’t think of a better way to streamline and meet people. They taught us one important thing. The Croats have invented a single word to mean “Would you like a cup of coffee?” - Sh’ kau? (shh-cow) The answer, if you’re so inclined, is “Ocho” (sounds like the Spanish word for eight). We didn’t, however, learn how to say no. So when I do make it to Croatia, I’ll do so drinking a heck of a lot of coffee.
The evening was really chilly, (by my standards) and I had about 5 layers, a toque and a scarf on to sit out on the patio. I wouldn’t have changed a thing. It’s a completely different sensation, so clean and beautiful and real to be chilled by mountain air, instead of an air conditioner. I enjoyed every second of it.
The next morning proving just as beautiful as the previous, we had an unforgettable breakfast of dahl and garlic chapattis. They used really thin slices of garlic mixed into the chapatti bread, and it was phenomenal. We sat right outside the public baths at the one outside table there was, and could only exclaim at how lucky we were to be eating such good food at the base of such beautiful snow capped mountains. I don’t know if I’ve ever had such a meal in my life, in view of such beauty – but I doubt I’ll have another until I eat breakfast again in Vishisht.
After breakfast we walked up through the village to a waterfall that was so beautiful and cold that I don’t think pictures will do it justice. We crested a ridge and came on the full view and were absolutely taken aback. It only increased the surrealness of the frame that there were all these long haired blue eyed mountain goats and huge cows being grazed by a group of hill tribe women. It was almost unbelievable, so intrinsically beautiful that at the time, you take it for granted instead of simply staring. I climbed down and sat on one of the dry rocks in the waterfall and continued to knit my scarf. Whenever I wrap it around my neck, I know that some part of it was knit amidst a herd of goats and a Himalayan waterfall.
I’m not sure why I fell in love with Vishisht so hard. It could have been the 360 degrees of mountains, maybe the people, maybe the food and the air and the happiness it invoked in me.. I think it’s a beautiful place, filled with kind and beautiful people. It was the perfect end to my trip. Sometimes I wonder if had I turned around when leaving, if it really would still be there.
So that was my trip. I’ll spare you the details of my horrible 14 hour ride home in a broken bus seat with an unhappy arranged marriage beside me. The only wonderful thing about that part was the end. (And standing around at three in the morning with an Israeli, an Italian, and an Australian drinking sugary chai and watching ancient bollywood kung-fu movies on a bathroom break.)
There’s a funny thing about travelling. When a person paints a picture, they’re not an artist. When a person plays a note, they aren’t necessarily a musician. But when you go from one place to another, when you see the things you see, and you tell the stories you live.. you are, inevitably, a traveller. And without a doubt, you learn the beauty and weight of the words "Welcome Home".
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Did I mention the Showers?
So I’m going to leave off from Mandi for a little bit, and slip in my Rishikesh trip here. If I don’t, it’s just going to turn into one of those blurry warm colored memories that you can’t quite put your finger on. I think I may be getting old. *laugh*
So the plan was (initially) that we would leave early on the Shatabdi express up to Dehradun, where we would then be picked up by the rafting company and driven to our camp. Sounds pretty simple hey? Only in India could this go wrong.
So Bryan and I leave with plenty of time, packs loaded, smiles wide – and find, with relative ease, the platform upon which the Shatabdi express arrives. Which can be difficult, considering navigation to the platform does not exclude simultaneously navigating around cows, crap and beggars. We counted ourselves lucky, and when the train arrived, promptly secured out luggage and sat down in our preassigned seats.. Directly behind a gaggle of school children intent on boring holes into us by staring.
It wasn’t a big deal that the train was taking a long time to load, that it didn’t appear that the train would leave on time.. or the surprising fact that it seemed to have arrived early. It wasn’t a big deal that we were going to be surrounded by strange children who all appeared to be named Ryan. It wasn’t a big deal that we only had one set of earplugs.
It was a big deal, however, when a couple rushed onto the train and looked blankly at us, as though we were sitting in their seats. Bryan whipped out our tickets, which declared, without a doubt, that seat 19 and 20 did belong to us. On the other Shatabdi express, that arrives just after the FIRST Shatabdi express, and leaves before it – on the same platform.
Now, if this was a one off thing– say, today, they just happened to have both trains (one going to Dehradun, one going to Amritsar) arrive at the same platform, with the same name, at approximately the same time, I would lean towards some understand. But, as our ticket agent expressed with an ingratiating smile – “It happens to about 30 people a day”. “Everyday.” Oh India. You have the bomb.
Bryan took charge, and rented us a car and driver to get us to the camp. What we didn’t know, was that this driver came from a parallel universe, perhaps called Aidni, because he sure wasn’t like any other driver I’d seen.
Our first clue basically shocked us into silence. The driver, sporting a seatbelt, refused to speed. In fact, when we asked if he could possible go a little faster than molasses uphill in January, he derisively pointed to the speed limit sign. It was phenomenal. He even put his emergency lights on if he had to stop for directions. About an hour into our trip, I was desperate for a washroom (which basically can be described as a thick tree, large bush or rock), but he kept driving for about 15 minutes after I requested a stop. So, we enforced a stop near a bush, hoped out, relieved ourselves Indian style, and got back in. Where after the driver continued on for about 5 minutes, arriving at some sort of luxury commode building in the middle of nowhere, and informed us that we should wait in the car, and he would return in 5 minutes. Which he did, clean and assumedly, evacuated. He wouldn’t pee on the side of the road, and there we were, two white skinnies, being publicly chastised. Yikes.
It got funnier. We brought peanut butter sandwiches and apple pie and the like, not wanting to stop for lunch – but at our drivers pressing (and the fact that he was driving) we did stop for about 20 minutes. We stopped, as most drivers stop, at the strangest, most touristic (which is a word) place I’ve ever seen. And the whole bloody place had tin signs covering just about any infarction you were thinking about. “Don’t feed the fish”, “Don’t bother the birds” “Don’t Loiter Here” “If you brought it from home, eat it at home” – and so on and on and on.. We figure they must have had a cousin in the sign making business. By the looks of it, he was a very rich man.
The drive was in total about 7 hours. Its amazing what you learn about somebody, from somebody etc – In 7 hours. For instance – Bryan is a really good road tripper… and I like to sleep. *laugh* The drive was entirely worth it though (even the harrowing parts going into the mountains. Little did I know it was a precursor to further trips) because our camp was so lovely, the people so nice.. Even though we were arriving late they kept lunch on for us, showed us around camp. It was great.
We stayed in these completely Hemingway-esque tents, doors to the river and the adjoining mountain. The only lights were candles stuck in a sand pot for you, and the sand was covered with straw mats for a floor. It was unbelievably cute, kind of like roughing it in a Pottery Barn catalogue.
The sand kicked up into a giant sandstorm not long after we got there, forcing us to unpack and do all the necessary yet unpleasant tasks that should be completed prior to the fun stuff. Luckily, the enforced adultness didn’t last for too long, and Bryan got to try his hand at kayak rolls from out lovely guide Kent. (Who happened to be from British Colombia. Oh yes.) From there, when the river got too cold, we had a fantastic “jungle shower”.
I’m not really one for forced cleanliness, if I can be, I will be, if not, I don’t smell TOO badly. But these jungle showers were a thing of total and utter fantasticalness. (which too, you’ll be surprised, is also a word.) Huge green drums filled with water, hung from a tree, with a makeshift showerhead and tepid, perfect lake water. They’ve spread out rocks to make a floor, and surrounded the whole thing with a bamboo screen. You really do feel like you’re in a shampoo commercial to tell the truth. *smile* I think I had one or two showers a day, there is just something so luxurious about standing nude in the forest, washing the holy Ganga river off with sun warmed water.
You’d think at this point we’d taken a vacation solely to take showers and sleep in tents.. but we were also rafting!! We’d missed the first trip by missing our train, but it really didn’t seem like we missed much, from what we heard. We discovered that a friends of Bryan’s were their with their family and au pere (who was this awesome little woman named Natasha who could basically do anything, and with phenomenal strength and laughter) so we had built in company on the rafts as well.
Perhaps its ingrained as a Canadian, part of my genetic code; maybe it’s just because we did a lot of canoeing when I was little. But I know how to paddle, I know how to keep time, and for god sakes, I know how to pull my weight. We had a couple of lily-dipping no gooders in our raft, and I was secretly wishing for them to a) lose their paddles or b) we lose them. Neither of which happened. Gr. But according to Kent, we were some of the best paddlers he’d had all season, which was excellent. We passed a few rafts struggling and thwaping each other with their paddles, and I tell you, we all sat a little taller that’s for sure.
The first set of rapids we ran, we all went in the big raft. They warm you up with a few little ones (One of which, way up in the Himalayas, is named after a Canadian) then you hit this one called “The Wall”. If ever there was a more imposing name, I don’t know if I’ve heard it. (Because the only other bad one we went through was called the “golf course”, on the second day. Pansy name.) Everyone but three people (there was 5 of us and 2 guides) got thrown into the river, but it was totally worth it, and completely fun. You get that fantastic effect where everyone forgets about trying to be suave and just babbles on and on about how cool that was, what happened, who got tossed first.. It was fantastic.
That night, we had just about the best meal I may have had in my life. (Isn’t it funny how things you would never normally enjoy, or even like, in normal life taste instantly better outside after a long day?) We were all sitting around the campfire, the whole camp (maybe about 20 of us) and we got barbequed chicken and potatoes with homemade garlic butter.. I couldn’t get enough. There is something about eating like that under a full moon, flanked by mountains, Hindi music drifting down from the yoga temple.. That makes just about anything taste good.
The nights were cool and perfect and the mornings quickly hot. The second day rafting was planned early, and Bryan and I decided to take the two man ducky, a little mini raft. Its shaped like a kayak, but inflated like a raft, and apparently a lot of fun whether you can manage to stay in or out of it.
If I could go back, I would do every trip and a bunch more in the ducky. It was so much fun. You’re that much closer down to the waves, (and ultimately the rocks) and you get to feel a whole lot more. It was fantastic! Bryan was an excellent captain, he steered that thing phenomenally. The only time we got tossed out was in these rapids called the “Golf Course”. You go over one part successfully, and land right into a trap, where one wave swings you sideways, and another flips you over.
It was, I can say without shame, a little scary. I hit the water almost completely vertical, and it sucked me down right to the bottom with such force I have never felt in my life. I’m happy that it was me, and not somebody less comfortable under water. It was so forceful, that it actually ripped one of my shoes off. While the water was holding me there, and I was waiting for my lifejacket to pull me back up, I could feel something hit my face.. It was my shoe! The water spit me out, I smashed my hand on a rock, and we were off again. I’ve never had so much fun – and I finally have a good athletic beer story.
The nights were sometimes just as wonderful as the days. The common areas were under big white parachutes, it looked so exotic with all the bamboo chairs. Bryan was smart enough to bring two bottles of wine, which we really enjoyed after all the Gatorade and iodined water. I haven’t sat around a campfire in a long time – I forgot what it’s like. People are more generous around a campfire – they share popcorn and smiles and stories with would-be strangers. Then the kids drift off to bed, the conversations get quieter as the fire gets lower, everything seems to take it’s cue from the fire.
So the plan was (initially) that we would leave early on the Shatabdi express up to Dehradun, where we would then be picked up by the rafting company and driven to our camp. Sounds pretty simple hey? Only in India could this go wrong.
So Bryan and I leave with plenty of time, packs loaded, smiles wide – and find, with relative ease, the platform upon which the Shatabdi express arrives. Which can be difficult, considering navigation to the platform does not exclude simultaneously navigating around cows, crap and beggars. We counted ourselves lucky, and when the train arrived, promptly secured out luggage and sat down in our preassigned seats.. Directly behind a gaggle of school children intent on boring holes into us by staring.
It wasn’t a big deal that the train was taking a long time to load, that it didn’t appear that the train would leave on time.. or the surprising fact that it seemed to have arrived early. It wasn’t a big deal that we were going to be surrounded by strange children who all appeared to be named Ryan. It wasn’t a big deal that we only had one set of earplugs.
It was a big deal, however, when a couple rushed onto the train and looked blankly at us, as though we were sitting in their seats. Bryan whipped out our tickets, which declared, without a doubt, that seat 19 and 20 did belong to us. On the other Shatabdi express, that arrives just after the FIRST Shatabdi express, and leaves before it – on the same platform.
Now, if this was a one off thing– say, today, they just happened to have both trains (one going to Dehradun, one going to Amritsar) arrive at the same platform, with the same name, at approximately the same time, I would lean towards some understand. But, as our ticket agent expressed with an ingratiating smile – “It happens to about 30 people a day”. “Everyday.” Oh India. You have the bomb.
Bryan took charge, and rented us a car and driver to get us to the camp. What we didn’t know, was that this driver came from a parallel universe, perhaps called Aidni, because he sure wasn’t like any other driver I’d seen.
Our first clue basically shocked us into silence. The driver, sporting a seatbelt, refused to speed. In fact, when we asked if he could possible go a little faster than molasses uphill in January, he derisively pointed to the speed limit sign. It was phenomenal. He even put his emergency lights on if he had to stop for directions. About an hour into our trip, I was desperate for a washroom (which basically can be described as a thick tree, large bush or rock), but he kept driving for about 15 minutes after I requested a stop. So, we enforced a stop near a bush, hoped out, relieved ourselves Indian style, and got back in. Where after the driver continued on for about 5 minutes, arriving at some sort of luxury commode building in the middle of nowhere, and informed us that we should wait in the car, and he would return in 5 minutes. Which he did, clean and assumedly, evacuated. He wouldn’t pee on the side of the road, and there we were, two white skinnies, being publicly chastised. Yikes.
It got funnier. We brought peanut butter sandwiches and apple pie and the like, not wanting to stop for lunch – but at our drivers pressing (and the fact that he was driving) we did stop for about 20 minutes. We stopped, as most drivers stop, at the strangest, most touristic (which is a word) place I’ve ever seen. And the whole bloody place had tin signs covering just about any infarction you were thinking about. “Don’t feed the fish”, “Don’t bother the birds” “Don’t Loiter Here” “If you brought it from home, eat it at home” – and so on and on and on.. We figure they must have had a cousin in the sign making business. By the looks of it, he was a very rich man.
The drive was in total about 7 hours. Its amazing what you learn about somebody, from somebody etc – In 7 hours. For instance – Bryan is a really good road tripper… and I like to sleep. *laugh* The drive was entirely worth it though (even the harrowing parts going into the mountains. Little did I know it was a precursor to further trips) because our camp was so lovely, the people so nice.. Even though we were arriving late they kept lunch on for us, showed us around camp. It was great.
We stayed in these completely Hemingway-esque tents, doors to the river and the adjoining mountain. The only lights were candles stuck in a sand pot for you, and the sand was covered with straw mats for a floor. It was unbelievably cute, kind of like roughing it in a Pottery Barn catalogue.
The sand kicked up into a giant sandstorm not long after we got there, forcing us to unpack and do all the necessary yet unpleasant tasks that should be completed prior to the fun stuff. Luckily, the enforced adultness didn’t last for too long, and Bryan got to try his hand at kayak rolls from out lovely guide Kent. (Who happened to be from British Colombia. Oh yes.) From there, when the river got too cold, we had a fantastic “jungle shower”.
I’m not really one for forced cleanliness, if I can be, I will be, if not, I don’t smell TOO badly. But these jungle showers were a thing of total and utter fantasticalness. (which too, you’ll be surprised, is also a word.) Huge green drums filled with water, hung from a tree, with a makeshift showerhead and tepid, perfect lake water. They’ve spread out rocks to make a floor, and surrounded the whole thing with a bamboo screen. You really do feel like you’re in a shampoo commercial to tell the truth. *smile* I think I had one or two showers a day, there is just something so luxurious about standing nude in the forest, washing the holy Ganga river off with sun warmed water.
You’d think at this point we’d taken a vacation solely to take showers and sleep in tents.. but we were also rafting!! We’d missed the first trip by missing our train, but it really didn’t seem like we missed much, from what we heard. We discovered that a friends of Bryan’s were their with their family and au pere (who was this awesome little woman named Natasha who could basically do anything, and with phenomenal strength and laughter) so we had built in company on the rafts as well.
Perhaps its ingrained as a Canadian, part of my genetic code; maybe it’s just because we did a lot of canoeing when I was little. But I know how to paddle, I know how to keep time, and for god sakes, I know how to pull my weight. We had a couple of lily-dipping no gooders in our raft, and I was secretly wishing for them to a) lose their paddles or b) we lose them. Neither of which happened. Gr. But according to Kent, we were some of the best paddlers he’d had all season, which was excellent. We passed a few rafts struggling and thwaping each other with their paddles, and I tell you, we all sat a little taller that’s for sure.
The first set of rapids we ran, we all went in the big raft. They warm you up with a few little ones (One of which, way up in the Himalayas, is named after a Canadian) then you hit this one called “The Wall”. If ever there was a more imposing name, I don’t know if I’ve heard it. (Because the only other bad one we went through was called the “golf course”, on the second day. Pansy name.) Everyone but three people (there was 5 of us and 2 guides) got thrown into the river, but it was totally worth it, and completely fun. You get that fantastic effect where everyone forgets about trying to be suave and just babbles on and on about how cool that was, what happened, who got tossed first.. It was fantastic.
That night, we had just about the best meal I may have had in my life. (Isn’t it funny how things you would never normally enjoy, or even like, in normal life taste instantly better outside after a long day?) We were all sitting around the campfire, the whole camp (maybe about 20 of us) and we got barbequed chicken and potatoes with homemade garlic butter.. I couldn’t get enough. There is something about eating like that under a full moon, flanked by mountains, Hindi music drifting down from the yoga temple.. That makes just about anything taste good.
The nights were cool and perfect and the mornings quickly hot. The second day rafting was planned early, and Bryan and I decided to take the two man ducky, a little mini raft. Its shaped like a kayak, but inflated like a raft, and apparently a lot of fun whether you can manage to stay in or out of it.
If I could go back, I would do every trip and a bunch more in the ducky. It was so much fun. You’re that much closer down to the waves, (and ultimately the rocks) and you get to feel a whole lot more. It was fantastic! Bryan was an excellent captain, he steered that thing phenomenally. The only time we got tossed out was in these rapids called the “Golf Course”. You go over one part successfully, and land right into a trap, where one wave swings you sideways, and another flips you over.
It was, I can say without shame, a little scary. I hit the water almost completely vertical, and it sucked me down right to the bottom with such force I have never felt in my life. I’m happy that it was me, and not somebody less comfortable under water. It was so forceful, that it actually ripped one of my shoes off. While the water was holding me there, and I was waiting for my lifejacket to pull me back up, I could feel something hit my face.. It was my shoe! The water spit me out, I smashed my hand on a rock, and we were off again. I’ve never had so much fun – and I finally have a good athletic beer story.
The nights were sometimes just as wonderful as the days. The common areas were under big white parachutes, it looked so exotic with all the bamboo chairs. Bryan was smart enough to bring two bottles of wine, which we really enjoyed after all the Gatorade and iodined water. I haven’t sat around a campfire in a long time – I forgot what it’s like. People are more generous around a campfire – they share popcorn and smiles and stories with would-be strangers. Then the kids drift off to bed, the conversations get quieter as the fire gets lower, everything seems to take it’s cue from the fire.
Unfortunately, we were only there for two and a half days. The good thing is, apparently we caught some of the best rapids at their best points, with the best paddlers in our group. I don’t think you could really ask for more than that. I’d recommend it to anyone – it’s romantic and adventurous and beautiful. And hey.. there’s even showers.
Swimming With Bats
For the past two days I’ve been working the most abysmal shift, due primarily to my own stupidity. My regular work day goes from 8:30 until 5:30, and I agreed, to help a friend, to work the 6 – 10pm security shift at night. I think I’m just a sucker for people with soft pleading voices. *sigh*
So last night, after my shift was over, I decided to go swimming. We have this beautiful pool between my house and work, and it was just too tempting to bypass last night. There’s something about a pool at night – the way it glows turquoise and seems so perfectly glassine, no snot nosed kids with super soakers and water wings in sight. What there were, and what was so fantastic… were the bats. The pool would be perfectly serene, then they would take this spiralling graceful dive, skimming the surface, making the most satisfying sound as they scooped up water. I didn’t disturb them at all, they just dove around my slow and deliberate breast stroke as they pleased, coming within inches of me and swooping away.
An embassy close to ours was having some sort of celebration, shooting enormous fireworks high into the sky, a fantastic reward to having to do the backstroke. The miniature sonic booms they created were muffled underwater, it sounded as though a war was going on underneath my flutter kicking legs, and a celebration above.
There is something decidedly baptismal about taking a long, quiet swim late at night. I could feel everything melting away, my horrible no good very bad day, my tiredness, my sadness. I felt as though when I got out that while I was cleaner, stronger, calmer.. I wouldn’t want to go back into the water, it seemed a little dirtier, a little less pristine. The pool was rippled, the bats crashing without grace into little waves that weren’t there before.
So last night, after my shift was over, I decided to go swimming. We have this beautiful pool between my house and work, and it was just too tempting to bypass last night. There’s something about a pool at night – the way it glows turquoise and seems so perfectly glassine, no snot nosed kids with super soakers and water wings in sight. What there were, and what was so fantastic… were the bats. The pool would be perfectly serene, then they would take this spiralling graceful dive, skimming the surface, making the most satisfying sound as they scooped up water. I didn’t disturb them at all, they just dove around my slow and deliberate breast stroke as they pleased, coming within inches of me and swooping away.
An embassy close to ours was having some sort of celebration, shooting enormous fireworks high into the sky, a fantastic reward to having to do the backstroke. The miniature sonic booms they created were muffled underwater, it sounded as though a war was going on underneath my flutter kicking legs, and a celebration above.
There is something decidedly baptismal about taking a long, quiet swim late at night. I could feel everything melting away, my horrible no good very bad day, my tiredness, my sadness. I felt as though when I got out that while I was cleaner, stronger, calmer.. I wouldn’t want to go back into the water, it seemed a little dirtier, a little less pristine. The pool was rippled, the bats crashing without grace into little waves that weren’t there before.
Barracudas, Buddha and hail.. oh my.
Well, it’s not off to Manali quite yet, to tell the truth. While we slept in Mandi for two nights, we only really spent a day there – the second day we travelled up to a lovely little place called Rewalsar lake.
Rewalsar Lake, if I’m remembering this right, has significance to both Buddhists and Sikhs, so the community that has grown up around it is extremely diverse. You’d have to do your own research (this job has robbed me of all interest in ever doing research again and I’ve decided to remain blissfully ignorant of anything that isn’t imparted to me via Fox Friends News. ) but from what I saw when I was there, it really is a lovely little place.
The lake, regarded as medicinal.. (gosh…) is populated by some of the largest, meanest, ugliest fish I have ever seen. While we read the guidebook going up to Rewalsar, there was this curious passage that suggested visitors “watch the fish, monkeys and birds argue over offerings.” Now, other than Joan Rivers, who is beginning to look an awful lot like a barracuda, I have never seen a fish argue over much of anything. Nor, having been advised to look in a lake for fish, have I ever seen any. My luck, or something like it, was about to change.
The entrance to Rewalsar lake is flanked by a Buddhist monastery on one side, and a plethora of small little dhabas and tea huts on the other. The lake itself it relatively unimpressive, the vaulting mountains around it is really what lends to its beauty. The fences and trees surrounding the lake are covered in layers and layers of prayer flags, they get so dense at some points it seems as though the trees themselves are solely constructed of flags. From a distance they look like an exuberant 5 year olds cupcake decorating, up close the feuilles of flags look simply mystical.
The fish, much to my surprise, were entirely visible. All three billion of the 2 foot long slimy looking things. They fed on the algae and plant life surrounding and floating on the lake, and the occasional “offering” that was thrown in by a passer by. I’m not entirely sure what a pack of piranhas looks like, but I imagine it to be somewhat like what I saw that day. When a bunch of what appeared to be small animal crackers (I’m not sure what significance they might have, those tasty lions and tigers) were thrown into the lake, the fish were literally flinging themselves on top of each other, with much gnashing of mouths and flailing of tails. I thought this was particularly amazing, until we walked a little further around the lake.
On the opposite side of the lake, there was a small area cut into the grass that allowed people to get really up close and personal to these lion and tiger eating monsters. Only here, the fish were about four deep and actually throwing themselves up onto the grass and concrete then wiggling back down into the water. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I don’t know if I would have believed it to tell the truth. But I’m now drafting a letter to National Geographic to let them know they should get the heck to Rewalsar.
After taking some photos and poking about the lake, we decided it was time for a bite to eat and some tea. Good thing. The minute we sat down to tea, it started to hail. I haven’t been cold in months, let alone seen anything remotely resembling hail. But, there it was, pounding the buses and the people and the tin roof. So, in our Indian equivalent of a greasy spoon, we spent the next couple hours drinking tea, reading (me: Milan Kundera, Hamish: Steinbeck) and writing letters to be mailed home. It was honestly one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. To sit in the cold, pulling a shawl around me, drinking some of the best, hottest, most rainy day appropriate tea – I don’t think I could ever visit Rewalsar unless I was guaranteed the same treatment.
So, after about half an hour of exploring, and half a day of drinking tea and being in complete and utter inclement weather bliss – we left Rewalsar, thinking it was probably one of the best days of our trip.
Next – Really, onto Manali. Sort of.
Rewalsar Lake, if I’m remembering this right, has significance to both Buddhists and Sikhs, so the community that has grown up around it is extremely diverse. You’d have to do your own research (this job has robbed me of all interest in ever doing research again and I’ve decided to remain blissfully ignorant of anything that isn’t imparted to me via Fox Friends News. ) but from what I saw when I was there, it really is a lovely little place.
The lake, regarded as medicinal.. (gosh…) is populated by some of the largest, meanest, ugliest fish I have ever seen. While we read the guidebook going up to Rewalsar, there was this curious passage that suggested visitors “watch the fish, monkeys and birds argue over offerings.” Now, other than Joan Rivers, who is beginning to look an awful lot like a barracuda, I have never seen a fish argue over much of anything. Nor, having been advised to look in a lake for fish, have I ever seen any. My luck, or something like it, was about to change.
The entrance to Rewalsar lake is flanked by a Buddhist monastery on one side, and a plethora of small little dhabas and tea huts on the other. The lake itself it relatively unimpressive, the vaulting mountains around it is really what lends to its beauty. The fences and trees surrounding the lake are covered in layers and layers of prayer flags, they get so dense at some points it seems as though the trees themselves are solely constructed of flags. From a distance they look like an exuberant 5 year olds cupcake decorating, up close the feuilles of flags look simply mystical.
The fish, much to my surprise, were entirely visible. All three billion of the 2 foot long slimy looking things. They fed on the algae and plant life surrounding and floating on the lake, and the occasional “offering” that was thrown in by a passer by. I’m not entirely sure what a pack of piranhas looks like, but I imagine it to be somewhat like what I saw that day. When a bunch of what appeared to be small animal crackers (I’m not sure what significance they might have, those tasty lions and tigers) were thrown into the lake, the fish were literally flinging themselves on top of each other, with much gnashing of mouths and flailing of tails. I thought this was particularly amazing, until we walked a little further around the lake.
On the opposite side of the lake, there was a small area cut into the grass that allowed people to get really up close and personal to these lion and tiger eating monsters. Only here, the fish were about four deep and actually throwing themselves up onto the grass and concrete then wiggling back down into the water. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I don’t know if I would have believed it to tell the truth. But I’m now drafting a letter to National Geographic to let them know they should get the heck to Rewalsar.
After taking some photos and poking about the lake, we decided it was time for a bite to eat and some tea. Good thing. The minute we sat down to tea, it started to hail. I haven’t been cold in months, let alone seen anything remotely resembling hail. But, there it was, pounding the buses and the people and the tin roof. So, in our Indian equivalent of a greasy spoon, we spent the next couple hours drinking tea, reading (me: Milan Kundera, Hamish: Steinbeck) and writing letters to be mailed home. It was honestly one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. To sit in the cold, pulling a shawl around me, drinking some of the best, hottest, most rainy day appropriate tea – I don’t think I could ever visit Rewalsar unless I was guaranteed the same treatment.
So, after about half an hour of exploring, and half a day of drinking tea and being in complete and utter inclement weather bliss – we left Rewalsar, thinking it was probably one of the best days of our trip.
Next – Really, onto Manali. Sort of.
Oh Mandi
So we left off careening around the mountain sides, screeching to a halt to alternately avoid cattle, women, rocks and pick up passengers. The most endearing thing about this whole “stop-go” approach is that it’s entirely unfettered by any semblance of order, or god forbid – a bus stop. People just give that empiric nod on the side of the road that can alternately mean “more chapattis”, “too expensive”, and heck, even “I want on the bus”. Seeing said nod, ticket attendant blows his tin whistle with as much power as he can, connecting with a yet untapped nerve in the drivers knee that ploughs the brake succinctly into the floor, and the passengers into the seat in front of them. Charming, it really is.
Come our third hour on the bus, the charm, as well as the cushions that were at one point our asses.. was quickly waning. Mandi, the city we were attempting to reach, was still a good 10km away, but considering the whistle was wheezing about 5 times a kilometre, a bit of a walk was starting to sound like a bit of fun.
Happily, and how Hindu I must say – we didn’t even have to make the decision. Because with a resounding crunch, we smacked directly into the side of an unsuspecting little car attempting to cross the road. I’ve been in India for a while now, visited over the past two years.. And I had yet to have even seen an accident, let alone be in one. Which, we quickly learned, was kind of like unwillingly being called up to the stage to be that volunteer performer in a shaky little act.
Everyone, men, women, children, hurled themselves from the bus. The visible villagers standing up on the hill all rushed down with their vastly differing opinions on what happened. To tell the truth, it was pretty much just Hamish and I left on the bus, trying to make out exactly how bad the driver’s head wound really was. (Evidently not that bad – he got himself out of the car and promptly disappeared. Hopefully not into a ditch somewhere.) Cigarettes were lit, judge, jury and trial selected, and they looked pretty happy to stand and argue all day as we paid our 3 rupees to get to the next town on another, equally courageous and flippant, little bus.
Finally arriving in Mandi was pretty much a relief in and of itself. The need to find a hotel superseded the one to find food, and we followed the guerrilla style “where’s Waldo” type advertising of a Lonely Planet endorsed guest house. (Literally – it was like a treasure hunt for accommodations – signs were alternately hung in trees or painted on crumbling walls – what fun!)
Now, I know that for 300 rupees (about 9 bucks) I really shouldn’t expect too much. Perhaps the dust was in my eyes or my general good sense was knocked loose in our fender bender.. But I guess I’m not entirely sure how I agreed to sleep on such yucky sheets. Yes, in some places, sheets are a luxury. And so is getting dinner with your room. But, never, ever, should the two be combined, you really shouldn’t look at your bed thinking that perhaps dinner was included IN the sheets. I pretended it was spilt curry and slept in leg warmers. Which didn’t prevent bed bugs from marring my usually pristine buttocks. But, thus are the perils of a 300 rupee room.
We were both fairly exhausted with the combination of an early morning and tangible fear, so Hamish promptly fell asleep. I sat out on the huge concrete slab out back, watching a storm roll in over the mountains and reading about Mandi. The temperature dropped substantially as the storm got closer, so I bundled up and moved under the overhang to continue knitting my scarf. (Funny thing – the farther north you go, the more people you see knitting. The hill people generally all knit their own clothes, which is understandable – but why so many foreigners?? My theory? They get up to the mountains and realise that with the absence of appropriate clothing, they might just have to make some of their own. *smile* ) I discovered from a kind, yet forward young boy that upstairs was a hostel for students getting their medical degrees, or entering into a bachelor of science program. (Which I became suspicious of the next morning when I heard a plethora of vomiting – I’d like to think it was just nerves and not some self induced doctor experiments.)
While the rain started to pour and I curled up in my deliciously white plastic lawn chair outside my brutally stark guest house, I couldn’t have been happier. The girls on the upstairs balcony were alternately studying and singing, and from what I could catch of their conversation, betting on something or another. To smell the river and watch the mountains and the rain and hear them singing as I knit my scarf.. Sometimes I wonder at the luck that I have in life. That I get to sit out a rainstorm in the Himalayan foothills, listening to Bollywood tunes sung softly from overhead while I knit a scarf from wool I found in a little shanty bazaar. I can’t believe that I get to have moments like that in my life.
Mandi itself was sweet, honestly unimpressive, and in that I mean they never tried to be impressive and ultimately succeeded. . Warm and functional and homey, Mandi is divided for the most part by a large river, with a smattering of bridges linking one side of the town to the other. We stayed on the somewhat less impressive but far quieter side of town, but truly enjoyed exploring the other. Like most towns, being built into the side of a mountain dictated that the roads and markets run in parallel switchbacks, lending to the feeling that you’re simply walking back and forth; you wouldn’t know any different if the shops on either side didn’t change.
As usual, the markets were the most impressive at night, when the saree shops are illuminated from the inside like enormous colored Chinese paper lanterns and the vegetable markets are luminescent under the portable gas lights that the venders spark without due attention. The market in Mandi had unusually narrow streets, still in an original and charmingly defunct cobblestone, which, although not conducive to walking uphill was indeed very lovely.
Hamish, being the strappingly tall young man that he is, attracted a lot of attention from a duo of tiny Indian girls. (I’ll let you know here that they frequently sized up Hamish, and unable to find the words to describe him, just kept referring to me as ‘chotti madam’. Tiny Lady.) One was the unfortunate bearer of an indecipherable speech impediment, leading the other to always be leaning in close to her mouth and translating into Hinglish, as though operating an amicable ventriloquist dummy. They were both dressed in the typical thrift store communion style dresses, imminently dirty and loved by most little Indian girls. Hamish willing took a picture with the two little girls, which their father was so proud of that he wrote down the address of his sweet shop and made me promise (with the bribe of something sweet and warm and sticky into the hands of Hamish and I) that we send him the picture of the enormous white man and his two fairy like daughters. I don’t know what kind of sweet it was, but it was delicious and if I ever eat it again I’ll be able to see, in my mind, the two tiny little girls and their beaming father.
Next up – From Mandi to Manali, a paradigm shift.
Come our third hour on the bus, the charm, as well as the cushions that were at one point our asses.. was quickly waning. Mandi, the city we were attempting to reach, was still a good 10km away, but considering the whistle was wheezing about 5 times a kilometre, a bit of a walk was starting to sound like a bit of fun.
Happily, and how Hindu I must say – we didn’t even have to make the decision. Because with a resounding crunch, we smacked directly into the side of an unsuspecting little car attempting to cross the road. I’ve been in India for a while now, visited over the past two years.. And I had yet to have even seen an accident, let alone be in one. Which, we quickly learned, was kind of like unwillingly being called up to the stage to be that volunteer performer in a shaky little act.
Everyone, men, women, children, hurled themselves from the bus. The visible villagers standing up on the hill all rushed down with their vastly differing opinions on what happened. To tell the truth, it was pretty much just Hamish and I left on the bus, trying to make out exactly how bad the driver’s head wound really was. (Evidently not that bad – he got himself out of the car and promptly disappeared. Hopefully not into a ditch somewhere.) Cigarettes were lit, judge, jury and trial selected, and they looked pretty happy to stand and argue all day as we paid our 3 rupees to get to the next town on another, equally courageous and flippant, little bus.
Finally arriving in Mandi was pretty much a relief in and of itself. The need to find a hotel superseded the one to find food, and we followed the guerrilla style “where’s Waldo” type advertising of a Lonely Planet endorsed guest house. (Literally – it was like a treasure hunt for accommodations – signs were alternately hung in trees or painted on crumbling walls – what fun!)
Now, I know that for 300 rupees (about 9 bucks) I really shouldn’t expect too much. Perhaps the dust was in my eyes or my general good sense was knocked loose in our fender bender.. But I guess I’m not entirely sure how I agreed to sleep on such yucky sheets. Yes, in some places, sheets are a luxury. And so is getting dinner with your room. But, never, ever, should the two be combined, you really shouldn’t look at your bed thinking that perhaps dinner was included IN the sheets. I pretended it was spilt curry and slept in leg warmers. Which didn’t prevent bed bugs from marring my usually pristine buttocks. But, thus are the perils of a 300 rupee room.
We were both fairly exhausted with the combination of an early morning and tangible fear, so Hamish promptly fell asleep. I sat out on the huge concrete slab out back, watching a storm roll in over the mountains and reading about Mandi. The temperature dropped substantially as the storm got closer, so I bundled up and moved under the overhang to continue knitting my scarf. (Funny thing – the farther north you go, the more people you see knitting. The hill people generally all knit their own clothes, which is understandable – but why so many foreigners?? My theory? They get up to the mountains and realise that with the absence of appropriate clothing, they might just have to make some of their own. *smile* ) I discovered from a kind, yet forward young boy that upstairs was a hostel for students getting their medical degrees, or entering into a bachelor of science program. (Which I became suspicious of the next morning when I heard a plethora of vomiting – I’d like to think it was just nerves and not some self induced doctor experiments.)
While the rain started to pour and I curled up in my deliciously white plastic lawn chair outside my brutally stark guest house, I couldn’t have been happier. The girls on the upstairs balcony were alternately studying and singing, and from what I could catch of their conversation, betting on something or another. To smell the river and watch the mountains and the rain and hear them singing as I knit my scarf.. Sometimes I wonder at the luck that I have in life. That I get to sit out a rainstorm in the Himalayan foothills, listening to Bollywood tunes sung softly from overhead while I knit a scarf from wool I found in a little shanty bazaar. I can’t believe that I get to have moments like that in my life.
Mandi itself was sweet, honestly unimpressive, and in that I mean they never tried to be impressive and ultimately succeeded. . Warm and functional and homey, Mandi is divided for the most part by a large river, with a smattering of bridges linking one side of the town to the other. We stayed on the somewhat less impressive but far quieter side of town, but truly enjoyed exploring the other. Like most towns, being built into the side of a mountain dictated that the roads and markets run in parallel switchbacks, lending to the feeling that you’re simply walking back and forth; you wouldn’t know any different if the shops on either side didn’t change.
As usual, the markets were the most impressive at night, when the saree shops are illuminated from the inside like enormous colored Chinese paper lanterns and the vegetable markets are luminescent under the portable gas lights that the venders spark without due attention. The market in Mandi had unusually narrow streets, still in an original and charmingly defunct cobblestone, which, although not conducive to walking uphill was indeed very lovely.
Hamish, being the strappingly tall young man that he is, attracted a lot of attention from a duo of tiny Indian girls. (I’ll let you know here that they frequently sized up Hamish, and unable to find the words to describe him, just kept referring to me as ‘chotti madam’. Tiny Lady.) One was the unfortunate bearer of an indecipherable speech impediment, leading the other to always be leaning in close to her mouth and translating into Hinglish, as though operating an amicable ventriloquist dummy. They were both dressed in the typical thrift store communion style dresses, imminently dirty and loved by most little Indian girls. Hamish willing took a picture with the two little girls, which their father was so proud of that he wrote down the address of his sweet shop and made me promise (with the bribe of something sweet and warm and sticky into the hands of Hamish and I) that we send him the picture of the enormous white man and his two fairy like daughters. I don’t know what kind of sweet it was, but it was delicious and if I ever eat it again I’ll be able to see, in my mind, the two tiny little girls and their beaming father.
Next up – From Mandi to Manali, a paradigm shift.
In the Interim.. Or the Intern.. Hmm..
Why I feel the need to post apologies and excuses for being summarily absent in blogging - I'm not entirely sure. But I have been awfully busy with my lovely new job, and in the off time - my horrible old job, (security work) which, for some reason, I keep agreeing to do.
BUT, the wonderful thing is, that I have been able to get a lot done in the reading department. Yes, some of them may seem a little boring to you, but frankly, I found "External Affairs - Cross Border Relations" (an examination of India's relationship with China, Pakistan, Bhutan, Bangladesh, Nepal, Sri Lanka and Afghanistan) to be really interesting. If this seems a little yawn oriented, I've also finished up "Down and Out in Paris and London" by George Orwell (who, by the way, was born Eric Arthur Blair..and BORN.. in India!!). It's an excellent read, purportedly a semi-autobiographical account of his start as a writer in.. ta da.. London and Paris. Try as he might to the opposite, he manages to make poverty look just a little appealing. Especially when a bad meal is fresh bread, wine and chocolate. Oh.. spare me.
Also, for those inclined to read the cream of the crop, I picked up an amazing (while unfortunately named) book, a compendium of phenomenal writing.. called.. "The Best American Magazine Writing 2004". Now.. I'll send an autograph and a t-shirt to the person who can come up with a worse name than that. However, the deeply ingrained "don't judge a book by it's cover" (or in this case an awful name) stopped me from throwing it back on the shelf.. And I'm so pleased that I kept it. It truly is some of the best writing I've read in a LONG time, all in a dashing little purple black blue and green package. Do pick it up.. you won't regret it. If anything, Tucker Carlson's article regarding Al Sharpton is worth every penny. I knew that bow-tied bastard would put out one day. (You can chose which one I'm referring to at this point.)
If your looking for something a little tougher, a nose bleed read if you will – then I’ll suggest “The Wealth of Nations” by Adam Smith. (Which my somewhat smug friend said he read in Econ. 20 – wherein I think at that point I was trying to convince my class that investing our monopoly money in Bayer, the only company with a large stock of anthrax vaccine, was a good bet. We could have been mega monopoly rich. Bastards.) I think it’s one of those books that you really appreciate having read after it’s completed; I know it’ll definitely help in my voracious endorsement of a militant communist Poshlust realpoltik. But for now, it just looms, a huge orange and black and yellow tome, floating around in my handbag like a crazed capitalist monarch. (The butterfly kind.)
So there you go, my few recommendations for making your brains a little heavier. (It’s a fact folks.) As soon as I manage to extricate myself from this horrendous work schedual, I’ll try and update my real life adventures, and not just the ones I’m finding in this pages and bylines. Because, as I see it, I’m officially two and a half adventures behind – Diving in Burma, Rafting in Rishikesh (which I’m pretty sure I spell differently every time) and then the rest of my mountain adventure. Because as of now, the biggest adventure that came my way was trying to hold my breath the length of the public washroom in the park that I ran in this morning. Now, I suppose an argument could be made that it pretty much sounds like I was running from one coast of India to the other.. but I digress.
I’m off to fight the office battle with the office photocopier. Hope all is well.
So there you go, my few recommendations for making your brains a little heavier. (It’s a fact folks.) As soon as I manage to extricate myself from this horrendous work schedual, I’ll try and update my real life adventures, and not just the ones I’m finding in this pages and bylines. Because, as I see it, I’m officially two and a half adventures behind – Diving in Burma, Rafting in Rishikesh (which I’m pretty sure I spell differently every time) and then the rest of my mountain adventure. Because as of now, the biggest adventure that came my way was trying to hold my breath the length of the public washroom in the park that I ran in this morning. Now, I suppose an argument could be made that it pretty much sounds like I was running from one coast of India to the other.. but I digress.
I’m off to fight the office battle with the office photocopier. Hope all is well.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
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?
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?
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
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!
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
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.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
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...
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
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.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
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.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Ms. Poshlust's Favorite Things (April)
- 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 .
- Riding boots - I'm hooked. After seeing all the women stomping around in their burnished leather.. I'm in.
- Hot weather music - Jack Johnson, Zero7, The Roots, Jill Scott... I'm not sure if it cools you down or heats you up..
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- Okayplayer.com - For all of your best hip hop news, book reviews, and an uproariously funny cartoon every morning.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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!
Sunday, April 03, 2005
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.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
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
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
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!
Thursday, March 17, 2005
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 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.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
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!
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!
Monday, March 14, 2005
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..
Sunday, March 13, 2005
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?
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
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.
Monday, March 07, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
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.
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