tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42664579294325432272023-11-16T01:58:55.778-05:00On the RoadCarol's travel blog ... and Carol's random musings on travel as she was attempting to figure out her plan for her year off. Travelling has now begun!
For photos of my travels, see my photo site here: www.carolontheroad.shutterfly.comCarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-7935145121929667732011-03-31T22:50:00.000-04:002011-03-31T22:50:49.363-04:00Heigh ho, heigh ho ...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's off to work I go. Tomorrow, in fact, if such a thing is really possible.<br />
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I think I'm even okay with the concept. It might even be good, to have a purpose to my days beyond how long I spend ont the beach and which yoga class I go to before lunch at which cafe. <br />
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People make a difference, of course -- it makes a work day so much more enjoyable if you get to spend it surrounded by good people. I got a chance to visit with some of my old coworkers this week, and they're a pretty good bunch. Travel gives you the chance to meet some fantastic people -- locals and other travellers -- but it's nice to spend time with people I already know.<br />
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And I'm thinking it's a good thing, even, to challenge my brain in ways it hasn't been challenged for a while; use the analytical left side instead of the free-thinking creative right that I've put to work writing fiction this year. I might even find it fun going back to all those numbers (remember I'm in finance, after all -- and I`m a math geek to boot).<br />
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I am much clearer now than I once was that having work that is challenging and interesting is important to me; it's all well and good to say work-life balance is important (and it is), but for whatever hours I choose to spend at work I want it to be doing something that pushes me, tests my limits and puts whatever talents I have to good use. And yes, I'm okay with the notion that a sense of professional accomplishment is important to me; I`m unlikely to turn into a barista at Starbucks any time soon. <br />
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I'm also much clearer that having work with <i>meaning</i> is important to me; I don't think that I will ever choose to go back to the singleminded pursuit of the bottom line that ultimately drives the private sector. I don't know, for sure, whether I want to stay in government or seek something else, but it's a pretty good place to go back to at least for a while.<br />
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And hey, I get paid again, which can only be a good thing. I`ve got to pay for that new pair of shoes somehow ...</div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-85163587783481632092011-03-31T22:33:00.001-04:002011-03-31T22:36:32.725-04:00Culture Shock<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It’s funny when the familiar becomes unfamiliar, when you arrive back somewhere that you’ve known your whole life and that has indelibly imprinted itself on your DNA and your outlook on the world. Unexpected things become magical, dazzling, as you return to that world from an alien place. Take it from me that Canada's a freaking amazing country, in case you ever doubted this.</span> <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">There may possibly not be any two countries on the planet more different than Canada and India. India, perhaps more outwardly friendly but a deeply conservative society at heart; Canada, polite and reserved at first glance, but in reality the most tolerant, accepting, laidback and generous place on earth. India, where cricket reigns supreme, everything’s a negotiation and waiting your turn will never get you anywhere; Canada, where hockey stirs the national passion, taxis are metered and merchandise price-tagged, and you’re unspeakably rude if you don’t wait politely in line.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">I love them both, but I know where I’d rather live. I’m actually glad to be home, although my mind is still boggling at how quickly the time went by.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was odd, though, arriving back. Things that I wouldn’t have noticed a year ago are suddenly strange and note-worthy. Like driving from the airport and not seeing one single cow on the road. Like walking down Yonge Street in downtown Toronto, and not hearing a single horn. Seeing traffic stop at red lights and even let pedestrians cross the road without trying to run them down.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Going into shops and having salespeople acknowledge me with polite smiles, then leaving me alone to browse. Looking at the price tag on the shoes I bought and paying without being able to haggle the cost down. (Don’t ask what I paid, you don’t want to know. But they’re very cute and they make me feel better about having to go back to work, so they’re worth it.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Walking down the street, without anyone calling out to me from shops to try to get me to come in and buy; I haven’t heard a single “Come look my shop, very good price madam”. Not getting stopped once by anyone trying to take my picture; I’m no longer a rock star goddess and hardly any one pays me any attention at all. Talking to men who don’t automatically assume that they’re getting lucky just because I said “hello”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Going outside fully attired in winter coat, hat and gloves, instead of tie-dyed Indian cotton dress and hair tied back with a scarf. Leaving most everything at home instead of having to walk around with all my valuables strapped to my person. Getting good coffee as a matter of course, instead of a rare exception to the rule (well, Kerala did good coffee, but the rest of India didn’t). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">No one begging for change, anywhere (well, except for that one very polite guy at the corner of Yonge who wished me a happy day even though I didn't give him anything). Women wearing clothes that show some skin, and no one being scandalized by this. No one huddled around piles of burning trash on the streets at night. Not a single open sewer in sight.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Getting on public transit without worrying about my bag being slashed (more a problem in South America than in India). Taking a cab and just paying what it said on the meter with no argument with the driver. Going inside and being able to turn on the heat to get warm (unlike South America, or the UK or Ireland). Getting prompt and attentive services from waitstaff who actually want to earn their tips.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Finally having a proper haircut instead of hacking it off myself. Wearing pretty shoes instead of practical ones. Being able to choose from more than two T-shirts when I’m getting dressed. Planning an outfit for my first day back at work that doesn’t involve MEC clothing or tie-dye. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Waking up in my familiar and friendly neighbourhood, in my own space that has a million books I know and love (instead of whatever random offering I found in a book exchange). Seeing people of all persuasions walking down the street with their gender of choice, because I`m back in a society that is accepting of a multiude of different lifestyles instead of just one way to live, Realizing that I’m in Toronto because I <i>choose</i> to be, not just because I kind of ended up here once upon a time. Seeing people I know and love, whom I will get to hang out for more than a day or two. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Coming home. It’s a good feeling.</span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-6670455503266704992011-03-23T14:35:00.002-04:002011-03-23T14:51:20.445-04:00Holy Holi!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.49985404267966715" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">(Written in Arambol, March 21st)</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">India, in some ways, is an amazingly tolerant country. There are a multitude of religions in this nation, which all seem to co-exist in relative harmony; there are trouble spots between Muslims and Hindus (mostly in the north, near Pakistan), but Indian newspapers would have you believe that those woes are all caused by rabble-rousers from the other side of the border. (I take no position as to whether or not that’s true.) It wasn’t always so — a million people died on both sides of the border in massacres, when India and Pakistan were partitioned — but for the most part, today, people seem to accept whatever faith you choose to adopt.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">80% of the population is Hindu, but every other faith seems to be represented as well. The Buddhist world is centred here, with the Dalai Lama living in India in exile, and Sikhs, Parsis, Jains, and Zoroastrians also share space with believers of the majority faiths. Christianity is even well-represented, having been in India, according to legend, since 52 A.D., when St. Thomas the Apostle arrived in Kerala in the south. Catholicism, of course, was spread throughout Goa by the Portuguese (who didn’t quite subscribe to the Indian attitude of tolerance, as they brought an Inquisition with them as well). </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Hinduism, the primary faith, believes that there are many paths to the divine, and has cunningly incorporated aspects of rival religions to hang on to their majority. (Buddha, it was decided, was one of the incarnation of the Hindu Lord Vishnu, so, really, Buddhists are just Hindus.) It seems to be more a way of life and a philosophy than strictly a religion, with a whole pantheon of gods, or, more correctly, many different manifestations of the one divine consciousness. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">God, to a Hindu, is G.O.D.: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">G</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">enerator (Brahma), who created the world; </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">O</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">perator (Vishnu), who runs the place; and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">D</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">estroyer (Shiva), who is in charge of destruction and reproduction. There are many representations of each divine force, and devout Hindus seem to pick which they choose to worship, depending on their specific needs; each “god” and “goddess” (as well as the big three, there’s Ganesh, Krishna, Lakshmi, Parvati, Kali, Hanuman and a host of others) stands for one aspect of the divine. The temple where I was blessed by a Hindu priest (who was terribly distressed by my single state) was dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey god.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I've decided, though, that my personal favourite is Ganesh (or Ganesha). He’s the elephant god, and brings good luck, prosperity and new beginnings, as well as being the patron of writers. A statue of him is meant to be placed at the entrance to your home to bring these blessings to your guests. He’s an all-around good guy, I think, and besides, the little elephant god statues are just so cute. A shopkeeper in town told me that Holi is a festival honouring Ganesh, but as he was attempting to sell me statues at the time, I’m not sure I believe it.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmqz1iV5yvEFZElI-OK_-yQvsV5eytS1Un9V42O73LGiOgYuWulRcc-Z7qtowgdY0ArV4UZSr-Ge8qb336XaZs7Ub3NWDjeOPQ-uUD-Ul_b-Q1to6kHr2lLT45U78aoTYrAP-dKDxHeIw/s1600/Mar+20-11+Arambol%252C+India+%25232+-+Carol%2527s+been+Holi-ed%2521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmqz1iV5yvEFZElI-OK_-yQvsV5eytS1Un9V42O73LGiOgYuWulRcc-Z7qtowgdY0ArV4UZSr-Ge8qb336XaZs7Ub3NWDjeOPQ-uUD-Ul_b-Q1to6kHr2lLT45U78aoTYrAP-dKDxHeIw/s200/Mar+20-11+Arambol%252C+India+%25232+-+Carol%2527s+been+Holi-ed%2521.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carol's been Holi-ed!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But Holi has become my favourite Hindu holiday anyway ... although I hadn’t actually realized till I walked down the street yesterday that it was happening. I’d heard about this particular festival, but only knew it was <i>that day </i>when I got doused in all the colours of the rainbow by people flinging coloured powder and dyed water on passersby. It ushers in the spring each year, according to the lunar calendar (which happened to coincide with the Western start of spring for 2011). Hindus of all ages take to the streets with water guns or bags of dye to mark the occasion. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">In Arambol, they seemed to take particular delight in decorating foreigners, coating some of them in a wealth of colour from head to toe. (I got off relatively lightly, but it still took me forever to wash all the damn dye off again before I went to sleep!) The one street winding through the town literally ran with colour as the partying got into high gear. In some parts of India, apparently, the Holi traditions also involve women beating men with wooden sticks, but that didn’t happen here (more’s the pity, as there’s an obnoxious man or two I’d happily chase down!).</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It pre-dates Christianity, and traditionally the coloured powders are made from medicinal ayurvedic herbs, to bring good health with the changing of the seasons. Nowadays, of course, the powders are usually synthetic, but the spirit is still there: it seems to be all about having a good time, celebrating a bit of that old spring fever. Kind of like the Hindu version of Mardi Gras, or Carnivale.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And it’s definitely used by Indian men as a reason to give hugs to every Western woman they encounter. Hey, anything for an excuse, I suppose ...</span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-79430304015974983032011-03-22T00:18:00.001-04:002011-03-22T00:19:36.811-04:00Backpacking Then and Now (Part II)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.6121547920991394" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">(Written in Arambol, March 20th)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s odd, really, thinking about going home. I thought I’d be sad to be finishing my time off, reluctant to give up the freedom that comes with not having an office schedule to keep. I thought I’d be dreading going back to work and taking up adult responsibilities again. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Oh, that’s all true in some ways. This year off has been a very valuable experience and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. But, instead of dread and reluctance, I find that mostly I‘m okay with the concept of “real life” again. Much of that, I think, is because of the point in my life at which I chose to do this; had I gone wandering around the world for an extended period of time when I was, say, 27 instead of 42, it might’ve been a very different story.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You might’ve read the post I wrote a while ago about what it’s like backpacking now (as a *cough* </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">older</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> traveller) compared with travelling when you’re young. (If you haven’t, please go back and read; I thought it was pretty funny and you might get a laugh or two.) That one was a lighter look at the differences in the experience, but this one is a more serious take. It appears I am in a contemplative mood, this close to the end of my trip, so I thought I’d share some of it with you.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My experience travelling now, as a 42-year-old woman (hey, that might be the first time I’ve admitted to my real age this trip!), is very different than it was when I was 20-something. Some of that’s just the changes to how you manage the day-to-day experience of travelling; the fact that I can write this blog to tell you all about my trip, add my pictures online so you can take a peek well before I get home, keep in touch with everyone at home instantaneously through Facebook and email and Skype, and do all my research and bookings online on the fly, makes the practical side of travel light years removed from what it was like in 1993, when I first hit the road as a backpacker.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But there are other differences that are more profound, differences more related to my age and my stage of life than to the technological advance of the 2000’s compared with the early 1990’s. Different, too, to the travels of the 20-somethings I’ve met along the way; our experiences of day-to-day travel are similar, but our outlooks are quite different.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The biggest difference, I think, is that I’m going </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">back</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> now. When I first went off backpacking, there was no </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">back</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> to go back to, as I’d just finished university and one stage of my life had ended. Whatever I did next was going to be invented from scratch, whether I chose to hit the road with a backpack or start a “grown-up” life at home. That’s the case, too, for the 20-somethings I’ve met along the road this time; they’ve finished university (or not yet started), given up temporary casual jobs, left all their stuff in storage at Mom and Dad’s (since they don’t yet have permanent homes), and hit the road.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But for me? I have a career, which I’m going back to; I’m not temping or waitressing or whatever until I figure out what I want to do. I have a home, with furniture and furnishing and a vast array of shoes in the closet; I’m not crashing with my parents until I find a place to live. I’m going back to a city which I’ve come to love and where I’ve lived for more than a decade; I’m not starting all over in a brand new place. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s been an interlude in my “real life”, this year. Had I done this when I was younger, it would’ve been different; it would’ve been harder to give up the freedom to wander when I didn’t have anything specific to go back to.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But you know what? I have lots to go back to — lots of stuff that I like, and that I probably appreciate a lot more now than I did at the start of this year off. I like having home, friends, career: roots, in a word. I like having a corner of the world where I feel that I belong, instead of being a rootless nomad trying to figure out where it is that I should stop. (And I like the idea that I’m going to have money coming in again, instead of always going out!)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And, of course, there’s the shoes. There’s no room on the road for pretty, frivolous shoes, shoes that you wear just because you like the way they look, not just because they’re comfortable and you can walk for hours in them. So I’ll be happiest, probably, about trading in the Tevas and hiking boots for my Manolos and Jimmy Choos. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And I just might have to reward myself for going back to work, with a new pair of ... oh, maybe Christian Louboutins. Anyone want to come shopping with me? Meet me at Holt’s on the 24</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super;">th</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> of March; I’ll be the one drooling in the shoe department.</span></span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-69091808419116776832011-03-22T00:16:00.002-04:002011-03-22T00:26:28.289-04:00The Meaning of Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.6003351024485617" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Written in Arambol, March 19th)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I can’t believe I go home in three days.<i> (Ed. note: as I'm posting this, it's the day I'm leaving. Forgive the temporal confusion!) </i></span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><i> </i></span><i><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></i><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">(Well, more correctly, I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">start</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> going home in three days, I actually get there in four. I fly from Goa to Delhi on the 22</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super;">nd</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">, then catch a 1 a.m. flight on the 23</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super;">rd</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> from Delhi to Toronto.)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There have been times when this year has dragged (waiting around for medical appointments for my broken wrist, for example), but mostly it has flown by. In just over a week, I’ll be going back to work and my “real life”, whatever that is now going to entail.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I think when I started this year, I was looking to figure out the meaning of life — not the big, over-arching, cosmic universal meaning, but the one specific to </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">my </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">life. I’d figured out the hard way (depression and stress and weight gain) before I left that my life, as it was then, wasn’t working for me. Oh, I’d gotten some things right: I like having a challenging job that gives me a sense of accomplishment and lets me do the world some good (in however small a way), so I’m unlikely to chuck it in to become a cocktail waitress any time soon; I have some wonderful friends and an incredible family that will always have my back, whatever I choose to do. I’d set some goals for myself that were pretty amazing to me when I actually achieved them: I got my CFA charter, I got my black belt in karate, I ran (and finished) a marathon. I’d figured out that I was happy being single (mostly), but that it didn’t mean I shouldn’t embrace the romantic side of life, too, wherever it might lead. These are all good things.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But not everything worked. It’s not an accident that I started this year-and-a-bit off 40 pounds heavier than I am now; if you eat too much as a means of self-comforting and drink too much to blot out the anxiety and the stress, there’s something very wrong underneath. I was living in a narrower and narrower little world and finding myself less and less willing to reach out to the people around me. I wasn’t always this way, but as I got older — and my close friends got married, had babies, moved to the suburbs — I found myself with a shrinking circle of “life” outside of work, and it became easier and easier to spend all my time at the office. At least there I got some recognition, some sense of accomplishment, and even a sense of community; even more so, perhaps, it was easier to spend time there than to be forced to pay attention that I had less and less in the rest of my life.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So that’s got to change, when I go home and pick up the reins of “real life” again. I need more time with friends, more openness to new people and new situations, and more time doing the things I truly love to do. For the last, you’ve probably figured out that one of these things is writing; one of the things I’ve loved about this year off is the concentrated time I’ve had to write, both in this blog and otherwise. I need to keep this in my life.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I need to keep a challenging job, too, although I don’t know exactly yet what that job should be. In all likelihood, I won’t be going back to the same job; I talked to my boss a few days ago about another job opening that might be a good opportunity (and would let the manager who took over for me to stay in her job, without me temporarily disrupting things). While there would be comfort in the familiar, it would probably be a very good thing to start afresh. Begin anew, and begin as I mean to go on, rather than falling back into the same old rut. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’m pretty sure that I want to stay in the public sector, somewhere. Not government, maybe, as I sometimes find it frustrating to get things done in the huge monolith that is the civil service bureaucracy. But I like the dedication and passion that most people bring to public sector work; they’re there, mostly, because they care about what they do and have a genuine interest in making the world a better place. I like being surrounded by those kinds of people.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I didn’t specifically seek to work for the government, but when I was looking to leave the oil company where I worked and a civil service job came up, I grabbed it. And it’s turned out to be a really good thing; making a difference matters to me, too. Making a profit for shareholders, the primary aim of my private sector life, didn’t give any meaning to my work. I am tempted, occasionally, to go back when I see how much money my friends in private-sector finance are making, but you know what? I do pretty well as I am, and I don’t need to be richer; I’d rather do the kind of work I do for the public good than for a company’s bottom line. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">(And really, how many pairs of expensive shoes do I need? I can afford enough already. As one of the young backpackers I met earlier in India put it, after she learned that I own Manolos and Jimmy Choos and sometimes wear one or the other to work ... I’m “living the dream” already. Who needs a private sector salary?)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How this is all going to shake out in terms of my day-to-day life, I’m not sure, but as long as I keep </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">thinking </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">about the choices I’m making — not just falling into a convenient pattern — I think I’ll figure it out in a way that makes me happy. I don’t know that I’ve figured out my own personal meaning of life, but I’m clearer about what is important to me and what isn’t. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And, most of all, I’ve had a hell of a good time along the way. </span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-88097323277457464602011-03-21T07:32:00.003-04:002011-03-21T07:33:18.263-04:00The Art of Red Tape<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">(Written in Arambol, March 19th)<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Well, I’ve left the tranquillity of Mandrem behind me and sought out the bright lights of Arambol, further north along the coast. This entailed walking along the beach for, oh, half an hour or so this morning, backpack strapped on and shoulder bag slung over top, as it seemed the easiest way to get there. The only other way was to backtrack down the beach a bit and hike up the hill to get to the road, hail a taxi and get to Arambol from inland. This seemed unnecessarily complicated and not actually that much less work, so I decided to hike along the beach.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I regretted it slightly about halfway there, as the day was already hot and muggy at 9 a.m. But just as I was getting fed up enough with blinking the sweat out of my eyes to lay down on the sand and scream, I was there. At least from Asvem to Mandrem to Arambol, it’s pretty much just one continuous stretch of sand, with varying degrees of touristed-ness along the way, and I think you could hike up all the way from Anjuna or even further. (That’s something like 25 kilometres away by road, though, so trudging all that way through the sand with a backpack might not be your best choice.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I opted this time for a room in a guesthouse on the “main street” of town, instead of a hut on the beach; for 250 rupees a night, I have a large room, a queen-size bed (albeit with very hard mattress), a private bathroom with hot shower, and my own terrace that looks toward the beach. I can get a fascinating glimpse from here into the “secret” life of Arambol, as I look down over the rooftops; tucked in behind the tourist shops and restaurants strung out along the one street, there is a whole network of alleyways and hidden shacks and washing lines that none of the foreigners ever see. So it’s a real town, after all, not just an artificial creation for tourists!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The guy who showed me my room was remarkably laid back about the whole endeavour; he unlocked the door, advised me I could use my own padlock if I wanted, and left me to it. He doesn’t know my name, didn’t get any money from me, and hasn’t seemed to be around much since; I could probably just walk out of here without paying on Tuesday morning and no one would be the wiser. (I wouldn’t do that, though; quite aside from being a basically honest person, it would feel entirely too miserly to sneak out on a bill of not much more than $15 for three nights.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">What a change from elsewhere in India — if this is what I can expect in Arambol, I think I’ll like the casual vibe of the place. Usually, at a minimum, you have to fill out a form listing all your particulars (name, age, birthdate, nationality, passport number, visa number, date of entry into India, your previous stop, your next stop, your expected date of departure from India), and often you have to surrender your passport so they can laboriously make copies of all the relevant pages. There`s often a register to sign as well, after the fingerprint check and retinal scan. (Okay, I`m lying about the last bit.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But then, Indians do seem to love their bureaucracy — it`s not just hotels. I think they’re better at creating bureaucracy for its own sake than any other country I’ve ever seen. You’ll have read my post about getting my Indian visa (or, if you haven’t, you should go back and do so immediately), which would have given you a flavour of the concept. That experience has proved to be a good portent of things to come. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Bureaucratic winners so far are the post office and the bank. Both places had armies of people hard at work — or, at least, taking up space in the respective offices — but only one person who seemed to be able to do anything helpful. (I’m still not sure what everyone else was there for, except that I suppose in a country of 1.2 billion people you’ve got to find something for them all to do ... even if it’s just taking up a seat at a desk.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I went into the post office in Kochi to mail some stuff home, which ought to be a straightforward task, one would think. But it took the better part of two hours to get my parcel sent on its way: first I stood and waited in line, before realizing that my polite Canadianness was never going to get me to the front of the queue; then I pushed my way to the window of the next available cashier and told her what I needed to do. She took my parcel, very gravely; weighed it; measured it; opened it up to inspect the contents; motioned me over to another counter to seal the package. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">That done, I went back and presented the finished parcel. “How much to send this to Canada?” I asked. She looked at me, consideringly, and took the parcel in one hand and hefted it. Then she, still gravely, handed it back and directed me over to another counter, where someone else would be able to help me. Once I got to see him, we went through the same process again (why the first woman had bothered to do all that, I don’t know). He handed me some forms to fill out, which I eventually did to his satisfaction after a couple of false starts (he was very picky), and argued with me about the necessity of having an Indian return address on my package (I gave up, finally, and put my hotel’s address on there; with luck my package won’t go there instead).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually I was done. I got out of there after being accosted by a gang of schoolchildren; one of them dared another to go shake my hand and introduce himself; once he’d done it, the rest of them shrieked with laughter and had to do the same. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The bank was equally fun. Most of the time in India I’ve been taking out money from ATMs, as they’ve been in most towns. But there was not in Anjuna (except an ATM that would only allow cash advances from credit cards), so I had to break into my stash of emergency travellers’ cheques. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I headed off to the bank and found another peculiar little set-up, with at least half a dozen employees behind the counter and one man in a cage-type enclosure at the end, who seemed to be passing out the cash. Great, I thought, he’s the guy I need to talk to; I saunter over there (barging my way through in a very un-Canadian manner). He knew just enough English to tell me to speak to someone at the counter, which I managed to do after a bit of effort to flag someone’s attention. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">She listened as gravely as the post office lady to my request, but indicated that I would have to speak to the one particular man who could help. Since he seemed to be the only person who could help <i>anyone</i> (whether they wanted to open a new account, make a withdrawal, cash a cheque or change money), I was waiting a while.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Finally I was able to take a seat at his desk. I explained again what I was after; he handed me a stack of forms to fill out. Once I’d done that, he took a long and careful look at the travellers’ cheques I proffered, and went away to make a phone call about them (there was one phone at the far side of the bank, a rotary-dial model that looked about fifty years old). After a lengthy conversation, he returned, apparently satisfied that everything was in order. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Next, he asked to see my passport; that in hand, he went to talk to the first woman I’d spoken to, and sent her off to make a photocopy. Where exactly she had to go, I’m not sure, but she went out the front door of the building and didn’t return for another half an hour (she couldn’t have done this while I was waiting to see the boss man?)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Passport returned, I then waited while the boss man conferred with an underling and totted up some figures on a calculator. Finally, I was handed back yet another form (filled out by hand, with carbon copies in triplicate) and a brass token, and sent back to the man in the cage to receive my cash. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I handed him the paperwork (and the token when he requested it, although I’m still not sure what that was supposed to be for), and waited again while he had a long discussion with the other two men involved in this transaction. Then the underling took the forms back and proceeded to enter the data laboriously on the one computer in sight. Some time later, he passed the forms back through the slot into the cage (keeping one copy for himself) and the second man in the cage painstakingly counted out my cash.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I checked my watch as I was leaving: I’d been in the bank for about three hours. Compare that with my bank at home, which completed my transaction to buy the damn travellers’ cheques in the first place in about 15 minutes! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Ah, India. Ontario government bureaucracy is going to seem like <i>nothing</i> when I go back to work; we’re a veritable model of efficiency, it seems. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-11692504890165914232011-03-21T02:03:00.002-04:002011-03-21T02:06:47.363-04:00Too Much of a Good Thing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: small;">(Written in Mandrem, March 18th)</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wow, this place is really quiet. It’s been nice, being able to just chill out and laze on the beach and stare at the waves. But it’s a little unsettling, though, to actually spend some time alone after spending the past couple of months surrounded by hordes of people everywhere I go. I thought Anjuna was pretty quiet, this late in the season, but there was at least one place (Curlie’s) where I could reliably find people pretty much any hour of the day or night.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqd8iMHYpO2wJKVjyuaLPuC7i_chDUjgnlBZ3dNaBzdAInxLXkCi-DlBSeKbJVqX7CXLdbGb6oemj7-5xtCavoBV8qBNbz52_0zvHOYlwh_HW0i5giy8rHyL21n_Tb-fhj2v_FBexEsHrR/s1600/Mar+16-11+Mandrem%252C+India+%25238+-+my+home+for+a+few+nights+%2528the+one+on+the+right%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqd8iMHYpO2wJKVjyuaLPuC7i_chDUjgnlBZ3dNaBzdAInxLXkCi-DlBSeKbJVqX7CXLdbGb6oemj7-5xtCavoBV8qBNbz52_0zvHOYlwh_HW0i5giy8rHyL21n_Tb-fhj2v_FBexEsHrR/s200/Mar+16-11+Mandrem%252C+India+%25238+-+my+home+for+a+few+nights+%2528the+one+on+the+right%2529.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My little home in Mandrem (right)</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now, you know I like my space. I’m never going to be someone who chooses to spend 24 hours a day in the company of other people; to stay sane, I need to carve out time for myself every day, where I can think and write and read and just <i>daydream</i> in the solitude of my own company. I go squirrelly after a while if I am constantly surrounded by other people. But, it seems, even I can have too much time alone.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had a long wander up and down the beach yesterday, and Mandrem really is just a few huts and cafes strung out along the sand. There’s a village, up over the hill, but it’s far enough away that it’s really a separate place. I was confused yesterday as I walked up and down the beach, trying to figure out where Mandrem actually was; I walked north and found myself in Arambol (second only to Anjuna as the traveller haunt of choice in north Goa), and walked south and found myself in Asvem Beach (a little scruffy, and for some inscrutable reason, mainly frequented by Russian travellers). Then I realized that Mandrem Beach really is just this, this long and mostly empty stretch of sand. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">It probably isn’t always <i>quite</i> this quiet, but it’s the tail-end of the season now and there aren’t so many travellers around. Everywhere I enquired when I was looking for a place to stay had rooms available, and I think I’m the only one staying in the little hut complex where I landed. The only people here, after the sunbathers go back to wherever they’re staying, are the Indian guys who work in the little cafe. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s nice, but I think more than a night or two might be too much of a good thing. Both Arambol and Asvem are under half an hour’s walk away, and both have lots of options for things to do during the day and lots of nightlife (well, Arambol does, at least); problem is, there`s no way really to get there except to walk. If I went out at night, and took a taxi back, I`d still have to walk down to the beach from the road through the deserted woods and empty sands.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">As for walking along the beach, well, there are no lights or buildings most of the way, and it isn’t really safe to walk it by myself late at night; women travellers in Goa have been attacked at night doing that very thing. So even though there are lights, and people, and action, at Arambol and Asvem just a short way away, I’m not really comfortable seeking out any night life there when I have no good way to get home afterward. If I was with someone, I’d feel okay going out late and walking back down the deserted beach; as it is, I feel a bit trapped after dark (as it is now).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">So I think tonight will be my last night here. I had almost decided, my first night here, to go look for somewhere closer to the “civilization” of Arambol to the north; the lack of options at night, other than hanging out by my hut, made solitude feel less of a choice and more as if it had been foisted upon me. I like spending time alone, sometimes, but it feels better when I am alone because I’ve chosen to be, not because I <i>have </i>to be.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">But I decided in the hot light of day that I’d embrace the solitude. Do a lot of reading, a lot of writing at night, and seek out other activities during the day if I really wanted to. It’s done my writing productivity a world of good, as I sit with my little netbook and pound away at the keyboard, listening to the waves crash and watching the moonlight play across the sea. And I like my little hut, basic as it is; the mosquitoes aren’t bad, there are no geckos to chirp me awake (unlike Varkala) and no cockroaches (unlike Anjuna). It’s been a good little home for a couple of days, and I’ve loved being able to walk straight out my front door and across the sand into the sea.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">But I think I’ve had my fill. Tomorrow, then, I’m going to head up to Arambol. Who knows, I might even stay somewhere where other people are also staying, and go out tomorrow night; now there’s a thought.</span></span></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-82607262997280444292011-03-21T01:02:00.000-04:002011-03-21T01:02:02.768-04:00Write Like You Mean It<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:RelyOnVML/> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowComments/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>(Written in Mandrem, March 17th)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Mandrem is proving to be the complete opposite of the other places I’ve been in Goa.<span> </span>It’s a world away from the frantic hussle of Calengute and Baga, quieter than the trippy trance soundtrack of Vagator and Anjuna, and the only place I’ve been in India where there isn’t one single shop, as far as I’ve been able to tell.<span> </span>(I didn’t even think that was possible!)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>The deserted location means I pretty much stay put after dark, as it isn’t wise to wander down the empty unlit beach at night.<span> </span>Oh, I go out in front of my hut, and went for a swim at about midnight last night, but walking back from Arambol, for example, would be a very bad idea by myself.<span> </span>So I don’t go out at night; there’s nowhere to go in Mandrem.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Fortunately many of the things I love to do are best done while spending time on my own.<span> </span>I’ve had lots of time to write, and read back over the things I’ve written earlier this year;<span> </span>unfortunately, it also gave me enough time to realize that something I’ve been working on is currently written from the wrong character’s point of view, so there’s some extensive rewriting in my future.<span> </span>(This might be harder once I go back to working full time.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>And I love to read, voraciously.<span> </span>I’ll read pretty much anything I can get my hands on, if I don’t have any other choice; this has meant that my reading material this year has been inconsistent in quality, as I exchange books on the road when the opportunity presents itself or trade with another traveller.<span> </span>Once or twice, I’ve gotten to read things I’ve really loved and that I will seek out again at home (given the extra weight and volume to carry, I didn’t keep the books in question).<span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Let’s see, what books?<span> </span>I don’t think I’d read anything of John Irving’s before, but I loved <i>A Prayer for Owen Meany</i>; the only trouble with that book, though, was that the copy I acquired was missing pages 1 through 15.<span> </span>(So I still don’t know exactly how it starts.)<span> </span>I picked an Anne Tyler somewhere else, that I really enjoyed; I’d read many of her novels before and I always enjoy the quirky little worlds she creates.<span> </span>I re-read <i>Heaven and Hell</i> recently, the last novel in John Jakes’ <i>North and South</i> trilogy; I read the series years ago and loved it all (and the TV miniseries, although I think I loved that mostly because Patrick Swayze played the character Orry Main).<span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>And I have a copy of a novel by Kiran Desai (a writer from India), which won the Man Booker prize in 2006.<span> </span>I’m saving as a treat for the long plane ride home as an appropriate way to say goodbye to the country. In the same spirit, right now I'm reading <i>The Jewel in the Crown.</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><i> </i> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>But other than those, I’ve read a lot of very forgettable stuff.<span> </span>Oh, I’ve enjoyed most of it, and I wouldn’t say that most of them were really <i>bad</i> (with one or two notable exceptions); it’s just that they didn’t leave much of an impression.<span> </span>I like books that make me think or laugh uproariously or cry like my heart is broken, or books that are so beautifully written that the words veritably <i>sing.<span> </span></i>The music of Michael Ondaatje’s prose awes me, every time, and he is an entertaining storyteller to boot (it’s a rare combination). </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Most of the books I’ve read haven’t been that.<span> </span>They’ve been run-of-the-mill, formulaic thrillers or mysteries or chick lit that entertained me while I was reading but that went completely out of my head the second I closed the book.<span> </span>I’ve found myself thinking, after I’d finished some, “Hey, wait a minute, I can write better than that!”<span> </span>And you know what?<span> </span>I CAN.<span> </span>I can write bloody brilliantly sometimes.<span> </span>(Other times, not so much, but we’ll ignore those times.)<span> </span>So why on earth are these people getting published, and I’m not?<span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Oh, right, I haven’t tried.<span> </span>That would be a good first step, wouldn’t it?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I started to get inspired last year when I went to a book launch; a friend from a writing class a few years ago got published and her first book came out in the fall.<span> </span>She’s currently working on book number three of the series about her fictional detective Clare Vengel, and I can’t wait to read more.<span> </span>(Check out Robin’s first book <i>Dead Politician Society </i>if you haven’t come across it yet; it’s an excellent read.<span> </span>You can find her here at </span><a href="http://www.robinspano.com/"><span>www.robinspano.com</span></a><span>.) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Right, then, chalk that up on my to-do list when I get home.<span> </span>Somewhere in the innumerable pages I’ve written this year has to be something worth polishing, that could finally get my name on bookstore shelves.<span> </span>(You will all, of course, be buying copies when that day finally comes; I’ll give you plenty of warning!)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>It doesn’t actually really matter, though.<span> </span>Enjoying it is reason enough to keep doing it, and I feel happier and more fulfilled at the end of a day in which I’ve written something (even if it never sees the light of day).<span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>So whether or not the rest of the world ever recognizes my genius, I’ll just keep on writing.<span> </span></span></span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-48223688158558215142011-03-20T08:36:00.002-04:002011-03-23T14:47:49.935-04:00Living at the Edge of the Sea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">(Written in Mandrem, March 16<sup>th</sup>. You will note I'm a few days behind, but I'm trying to spread out my posts instead of adding them all at once -- I didn't have internet access for a couple of days so am playing catch up.)</span></i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Wow, I’ve gone 25 kilometres up the coast and I’ve landed in a completely different world. Anjuna, even this late in the season, was still relatively full of people by comparison; here, in Mandrem, I sit on the porch of my tiny little bamboo hut and stare out at the dark sand. No lights, except the moon. No people. No sounds except the waves and a barking dog somewhere in the distance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">I left Anjuna Beach this morning, after breakfast overlooking the sea (food always tastes better that way). I set out to get a rickshaw, having decided (for no logical reason) that I would pay 200 rupees for my taxi ride to Mandrem. It isn’t well-served by public buses — getting there would involve a bus from Anjuna to Mapusa (inland), up to Arambol, and a final hop down to Mandrem — so I decided a taxi was worth the money to save myself the all-day journey. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, it seems that the taxi drivers had other ideas. The first guy I approached wanted 500 rupees to make the trip, citing the ridiculously high price of fuel and the horrendously long distance. (Did I mention it was 25 kilometres? Hardly the other side of the world.) I declined graciously, and — as inevitably happens when I start to walk away — he was prepared to negotiate. I couldn’t get him to budge below 450, though, so I thought I’d carry on and see if I could do better.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">As I went further down the beach and onto the road leading inland, the prices started to drop. I never did manage to get away with 200 rupees — but then, I didn’t really have any good reason to expect to — but I did catch a ride for 300, or about $6.50. We wove through some lush green countryside and a few chaotic and colourful villages on the way, reaching Mandrem about 45 minutes later.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDJ6JW-Z2vmfRjIIiUel-1AIyM6hoUO-97pfKtzavdjDPeV1ny98NrnmHjcsOETFbEO_q57oXnpgCXcEt6xTFZ9NpRBpscB0e1AGwXncH0PAXGHdjkotFVj9zlMrFr98Hgo7LUomiwQ4c/s1600/Mar+16-11+Mandrem%252C+India+%252310+-+sunset+view+from+my+front+porch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDJ6JW-Z2vmfRjIIiUel-1AIyM6hoUO-97pfKtzavdjDPeV1ny98NrnmHjcsOETFbEO_q57oXnpgCXcEt6xTFZ9NpRBpscB0e1AGwXncH0PAXGHdjkotFVj9zlMrFr98Hgo7LUomiwQ4c/s200/Mar+16-11+Mandrem%252C+India+%252310+-+sunset+view+from+my+front+porch.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset view from my front porch</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;">At least I think it’s Mandrem. There’s no actual village, just a scattering of huts and cafes, which sounds about right to be Mandrem Beach. But I wasn’t quite sure, as the driver dropped me at the side of the road and pointed out the path down to the beach, speeding off as soon as I’d closed the door behind me. (I was even more confused later in the day when I took an exploratory walk along the beach and found myself in Arambol after about half an hour’s walk. Either they’re much closer together than I’d realized, or I’m not where I think I am.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">It looked beautiful when I got out of the cab, anyway, wherever it was, so I was prepared to stay a while whether or not it turned out to be Mandrem. I wandered for half an hour or so from hut to hut, seeking one for 300 rupees a night or less. (Yes, I had another arbitrary price in my head. Well, maybe not quite so arbitrary as it was reasonable based on Anjuna prices.) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">It took a long and sweaty walk down the beach, but I finally landed in one costing only 300 rupees. It's not the nicest one I saw (that one was 1,500 rupees), and it’s probably the flimsiest structure I’ve ever seen — I think my camping tent would stand up to high winds better than this hut! But it’s got four walls, a door that locks, and a bathroom with running water; I have learned that these are all things you cannot take for granted in Goa cheap-hut beachland. (If you really want to live on the cheap, you can give up luxuries like a lock or a bathroom and sleep for about 150 rupees. I didn’t want to save money <i>quite</i> that badly.) It does not have a mozzie net, which I may live to regret by tomorrow morning, particularly since the sole window has no screen or shutter to keep the little monsters out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">But for now, it’s working for me. As I sit here on my tiny front porch, the Arabian Sea crashes into the shore about 20 metres away. There’s hardly a sound, except for the rhythmic pounding of the surf. There’s not a soul around; miraculously in this country of a billion people, I’m completely and utterly alone. Getting my fix of solitude, after the constant crowds and chaos of previous weeks, ought not to be a problem here.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">There’s nothing between me and the water except fine white sand, almost glowing in the clear soft moonlight. The sun set a couple of hours ago — it’s now about 9 pm — but a hint of radiance still lingers in the sky. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I think I’m going to like it here.</span></span></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-65590575803520059492011-03-20T03:20:00.003-04:002011-03-20T03:21:23.838-04:00Dance to the Music in Your Head<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span lang="EN-CA">(<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Written in Anjuna, March 15<sup>th</sup>)</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">Goa’s had a rep for about 400 years. Way back when, Portuguese sailors used to call into Goan ports to live it up in drunken debauchery after months at sea coming around Cape Horn. It’s maintained that, in successive centuries. As recently as the mid-20<sup>th</sup> century, Calengute was a favourite watering hole of the Portuguese elite, arriving each year in May. In subsequent decades, it was hippie heaven in the 1960’s and 70’s, centred in and around Anjuna, giving way to the pounding trance beat of ravers in the 80’s and 90’s who took over Anjuna and Vagator.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">How times have changed. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">There are still parties to be had in Goa — Calengute and Baga are non-stop, party-central till the wee hours of the morning, with mainly European package-holiday tourists hell-bent on having a good time in their two weeks in India. (The Portuguese aristocrats of 50 years ago must be turning over in their graves, to see what`s happened to their favourite holiday spot.) But the rest of the beaches have quieted; locals, concerned about the effects of Western hedonism on the morals of their youth, pressured the police to put a stop to the scene. Now, there`s a crackdown and sound is turned off early; you can still find the music for a short while, but your rave will be over by 10 pm, when it would just be getting started in other parts of the world.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">I took a day trip to Vagator today, just up the coast from Anjuna, on a little local bus that cost me 10 rupees (20-odd cents) for a return trip. Vagator was the home of monster raves in earlier decades, from the stories I’ve heard, and you can still see the evidence on the beach. There’s a huge depression in the sand, about midway up Vagator Beach, surround by large red and orange feather-shaped banners; when I asked about it, I was told this was “Disco Valley”, where enormous outdoor parties are held. (Well, till 10 pm anyway.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">The police turn a blind eye (or a deaf ear) to parties over the Christmas and New Year season so the music can carry on later, and Baga, for some reason, has escaped the ban year-round. I’m guessing it’s got something to do with large amounts of <i>baksheesh</i> changing hands.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">But this time of year, Vagator and Anjuna are pretty quiet. You can still hear a trance beat pumping out of some of the shops in the towns, or coming out of the windows of passing cars. But your chances of finding anywhere to dance till the wee hours of the morning are pretty slim. You’ll be going to bed early whether you like it or not, when the speakers shut off well before midnight.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">Further south, though, they’ve come up with a way around the noise ban. Starting in Palolem and gradually spreading to other beaches, “silent parties” sprang up. You can dance, till all hours of the night and into the next day, without anyone getting upset about the music. That’s because you don pair of wireless headphones, pick one of the channels of music on offer, crank it up as loud as you like and party the night away. In outer silence, but inner bliss, as you dance to the music that only you can hear.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">What a brilliant idea. I asked around about such a thing in Anjuna or Vagator, but there’s nothing going on here yet. So maybe I’ll have my own private party: crank up my iPod, and dance like a madwoman, down there on the beach. Dance, to the music in my head.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">P.S. No one will think I’m crazy, will they?</span></span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-50415058017639798312011-03-18T05:41:00.002-04:002011-03-18T05:41:51.000-04:00Return of the Yogi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowComments/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">(Written in Anjuna, March 14<sup>th</sup>)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>I’m starting to really like this yoga thing.<span> </span>I know it’s all very trendy, and probably very pretentious to come to India and take up yoga, but hey, it’s fun.<span> </span>And it’s on offer everywhere, and usually pretty cheap, so what the hell.<span> </span>I’ve done it sporadically at home, but it’s a lot more fun on a shady outdoor platform in Indian sunshine than in the back corner of some gym somewhere.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>I walked to the Brahmani Yoga Centre yesterday, just outside Anjuna.<span> </span>As the class started at 2 pm, I was walking in the hottest part of the day; that 45 minutes felt a lot longer. <span> </span>(Maybe this is why no one seems to walk in Anjuna; everyone bums around on scooters or motorcycle taxis.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>But it was worth it, in the end.<span> </span>The pleasant Swiss-French instructor Sondra is a bit of a nomad; she spends “the season” teaching in Goa (October to March, or thereabouts), and spends the rest of the year working variously in Sri Lanka, Thailand and Indonesia.<span> </span>From the sounds of it, she hasn’t lived in Europe in years, preferring to spend her time wandering Asia and teaching yoga.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>This class was a three-hour “Yoga for Women”, designed to give women yoga routines to help them cope with common physical ailments.<span> </span>Migraine, for example, or fatigue and insomnia, or painful menstruation.<span> </span>(Boys, I swear, that’s all I’m going to mention about that last one, so you don’t need to get grossed out.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>Whether or not any of it actually works, I don’t know.<span> </span>But I’ll have to give the routines a shot the next time I have a migraine, or when it’s “that time of the month” and the cramps are so terrible that I’d prefer to actually die.<span> </span>(It has gotten better with age; when I was much younger, I used to have nausea and vomiting along with the cramps.<span> </span>At least there’s some benefits to getting old!)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>I think I have to keep this up when I get home.<span> </span>I really enjoyed my beginner yoga course in Varkala, and the occasional classes I’ve done since (most of them not hours-long like this workshop!).<span> </span>I haven’t yet managed to put my ankles behind my ears, or hold a headstand unassisted by the support of the instructor or a wall, but I’m ever so slightly closer.<span> </span>And I can usually get the crow posture now (rest your knees on your elbows and balance yourself on your hands only), and can occasionally even get my heels to the floor during downward dog.<span> </span>Baby steps.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>This could be the perfect complement to running, actually.<span> </span>I hate to stretch, normally, so I give it the shortest possible attention after finishing a run, really just enough to make sure I can still walk the next day.<span> </span>But not stretching enough has really hindered my flexibility; I was never able to do the splits, but I never used to be quite so embarrassingly stiff as I am now.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>I’d like to change that.<span> </span>So if I run, and then do yoga, that could be perfect.<span> </span>I probably won’t join a gym again immediately after I get home; finances will dictate otherwise for a while.<span> </span>But I can run for free, as long as I have the gear, and since I’ve already told people I’m going to do the Toronto marathon in the fall I’d really better get on that.<span> </span>And there are yoga courses all over the city, from the expensive trendy places on Queen West to the free sessions at Lululemon stores.<span> </span>So I’m sure I can find something that works.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>So, new plan, after my yoga reality check ... by this time NEXT year, I’ll be the chick who can put her ankles behind her head.</span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-66188177400560589622011-03-18T05:14:00.001-04:002011-04-21T23:37:06.937-04:00Come Look My Shop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
(Written in Anjuna, March 13<sup>th</sup>) <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">I’m curious, after so long in India, just how much of their economy derives from the spending of tourists. I’m guessing it has to be a sizeable amount; judging by the amount of shops, the variety of goods for sale, and the sheer numbers of foreigners buying all kinds of rubbish. The flea market here in Anjuna is immense, catering to this insatiable foreign appetite for <i>stuff.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">Everywhere I’ve been, there are a plethora of shops all geared to tourists. It gets a little bewildering, after a while, trying to differentiate one from the other, as they all seem to sell variations on the same things. Shopkeepers expect that tourists will buy stuff; I heard one guy in Kochi yelling after some tourists in frustration, “Why did you come to India, if you don’t like to shop?” So as soon as they spot you, oh white-skinned rich foreign tourist, you’re marked as prey.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">You probably know I’m not much of a shopper. Other than shoe stores and bookstores, I don’t generally go into stores just to browse or buy things on impulse. (Getting out of the World’s Biggest Bookstore or David’s Shoes without a few purchases, on the other hand, is an effort of will; it’s an even greater one just to walk on by without going in.) One of my shopaholic friends tells me that I shop like a man; I don’t think she meant it as a compliment. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">But Indian shop owners don’t know this. They see “tourist” and they want me in their shop. Every one I walk past, I get cajoled or bullied in an effort to get me inside. “Come look my shop,” they croon at me as I go by. “Very good price, madam, just for today.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">Sometimes they mix it up a little; in Thekkady/Kumily, the favourite line was “Come inside, looking is free”; in Kochi’s Jewtown, they would urge me inside, pointing with a beaming smile to the sign on the front proclaiming theirs a “hassle-free shop”. I assume they didn`t count the hassling they did outside trying to get you to come in.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">And if you do go inside .... well, brace yourself. If I shop at home, the salespeople will probably smile and ask me if I need help, but then just leave me alone to browse if I want. Here? You’ll be swarmed. A overwhelming array of goods will be thrust under your nose or into your arms, with constant entreaties to buy. You won’t physically be left alone from the moment you walk in to the moment you leave, and when you DO try to leave, you may find your arm grabbed or your path blocked in an effort to keep you there just a little bit longer and maybe make that elusive sale. Window-shopping is not a term that means anything here. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">I started out being very polite, and responding to shopkeepers’ entreaties with “No, thank you”, and answering the inevitable questions that would follow. (“Where are you from?”, “Your first time in India?”, “How long are you here for?” and so on.) But any answer led to yet more questions, and eventually to a discussion of why i didn’t want to buy anything. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i>“I don’t have any money”</i> meant they’d lower the price, or berate me for not realizing that it was a very-very good price and far better than I’d ever get at home. <i>“I don’t need that”</i> brought confused looks (I don’t think “need” enters into the equation of most tourist shopping), and more reminders about what a good deal it was. They’d ask me why I didn’t want to shop, didn’t I like India? Sometimes the manipulation would be more subtle: they’d seek to lay a guilt trip on me for not wanting to buy something for my mother, or my sister, or my best friend, or beseech me to buy since I was the very first customer and it would be bad luck for them if I didn’t buy anything. (Amazingly, I was the “first customer” a lot of places I went.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">I’ve learned, since starting out, that if I’m genuinely not interested to just keep walking and not respond. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">And then there’s the haggling. I can tolerate shopping when there’s a price tag clearly displayed, and I know what I’d have to pay and I can make up my mind from there if it’s worth it to me. But fixed prices don’t exist here; everything’s a negotiation. Some tourists seem to approach it with the mindset of screwing every possible rupee off the price and becoming gleeful if they think they’d put one over on the shopowner.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">I hate that. I’ll haggle if I have to, but I’m not out to screw them over. I figure if it’s worth it to me to pay that, then I’ve gotten an okay deal. Whether or not I could’ve squeeze another 50 rupees out of the Indian woman selling it to me doesn’t really matter. Sometimes, though, what I’d be willing to pay for something isn’t nearly what they have in mind, and my usual response is just to say no, thanks, and walk away. They’ll often chase after me, offering a lower price; sometimes they’ll rebuke me, as a rich tourist like me surely must be able to pay a more reasonable price. I’ll smile and shrug, and tell them to sell it to someone else who’s willing to pay more. (This got me my hippie dress in Goa, quite accidentally, as I walked out of the store the second time; the price immediately dropped to what I’d initially offered.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">I haven’t bought much, though, which makes me an anomaly among the tourist hordes. The sheer volume of <i>stuff</i> some people I’ve met have bought is mind-boggling; I’m sure they won’t look at most of it again once they get back home. Ali Baba pants, long mirrored cotton skirts, saris, spices, 5-kilogram silver elephant statues, rabbit-fur hats, statues of random gods and goddesses that they can’t even identify, pairs of identical tailor-made pants in a variety of colours, plant seeds (some of which definitely won’t grow in their home countries – papayas in Switzerland, anyone?) ... the list goes on. You name it, I’ve seen someone buy it. Most of them had much larger bags than I do and <i>still</i> managed to fill them beyond capacity; in one case, she even had a bag made just to carry all her extra purchases home. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">Not me, thanks. I’ve bought a couple of things, that I’m wearing while I’m travelling, and I’ll probably buy a couple of presents before I go home. But that’ll be it; I don’t feel the need to accumulate material things just because they`re there, or because they`re better deals than I’d get at home. For one thing, if I wouldn`t buy it at home, then I don`t actually need it and a cheaper price here is irrelevant; for another, I have a small apartment and don`t really want to crowd my space any more than it already is. (And I definitely don't want to become one of those people who has to rent a storage locker just for all the extra crap I`ve accumulated!)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">But it might be a good thing for the Indian tourism industry that not everyone is like me. The whole economy just might grind to a halt.</div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-35862340168257228172011-03-15T06:32:00.006-04:002011-03-15T06:40:48.973-04:00Hippie Days are Here Again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: small;">(Written in Anjuna – Mar 11<sup>th</sup>)</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anjuna Beach. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hippie capital of India, former home of the Goa Freaks and trancehead ravers, and scene of countless volumes of drugs inhaled, snorted, swallowed or injected; still living on the infamous but fading glory of decades gone by and drawing travellers like a magnet to what-used-to-be. My home for a few days, perhaps a week, as I further indulge my inner hippie (who, by the way, is never buried that far beneath the surface — my corporate-world self is only ever a veneer).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">This particular beach, somewhere in the middle of the northern beaches, has probably the most colourful past of any Goan destination. It was a mecca for young Westerners in the hippie heyday of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s — the “Goa Freaks” who lived on the beach and did a mind-altering amount of drugs on its long stretch of sand. A couple of decades on, raves took over the scene, with a different generation doing different kinds of drugs as they danced under the moon. (Right ... why didn’t I come here then, back in my rave days?)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now? Traces of its past exist, but they’re getting harder to find. The famous flea market still runs every Wednesday, sprawled over a vast spread of land at the south end of the beach, and you could spend an entire day there without managing to visit every stall. But these days, for the most part, all those hundreds of stalls sell a hundred varieties on the same tourist things; good if you’re looking for that, but not particularly hippie any more. There’s a little bar in the middle of the market, though, that clings to its hippie heritage; grey-haired pony-tailed musicians belt out an array of 1960’s tunes from its miniscule stage.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">The drugs are still here, I think; as I walked back from the market the day I arrived, people kept calling out to me, “Smoke? Smoke?”. And I’m pretty sure they didn’t mean cigarettes. A British guy I met today told me that you can still find stronger stuff than marijuana; he’d managed to procure some acid and was going in search of ecstasy tomorrow. I think I’ll pass; I have nothing against drugs in principle (and I think we might solve a lot of problems for ourselves by removing the criminal element from drugs, legalizing and standardizing their production). But I’m not here for that; I just want to chill out in peace (and, er, not run the risk of Indian jail time).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">My hotel, one of many on the shallow cliff overlooking the northern end of the beach, is very cheap at 250 rupees (about $5) a night. It’s nothing fancy — just four walls, a fan, a bed and a tiny bathroom without hot water — but it’s enough. And there’s a gorgeous common area overlooking the sea, with lounges to recline on as you gaze at the view, chat to the people on the next couch over, sip your Kingfisher, or whatever else strikes your fancy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Along the cliff and down the beach, there are cafes and restaurants and cheap hotels a-plenty, interspersed with shops selling the usual tourist wares of Indian cotton dresses, Kashmiri shawls, Tibetan jewellery, and other assorted “authentic Indian handicrafts”. The infamous Anjuna flea market is still running as it has since the 1960’s, every Wednesday over a vast area at the south end of the beach; these days, though, it sells more touristy souvenirs than anything else, with hundreds of shops offering variations on the same theme.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Away from the beach, dirt paths and twisting back roads lead to cooler haunts in among the trees, cafes where they’ll let you lounge all day for the price of a lemon soda; I’ve found a couple of perfect spots to camp out and write. Along the main road leading away from the beach, there are more restaurants and shops, with a few travel agencies if you’re into organized day tours instead of bumming around on a scooter. There are no ATMs, but there’s a few places that will exchange foreign cash for rupees, and one bank that will change travellers’ cheques in the most complicated way possible (more about that later). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">There’s even a grocery store — actually, two — which I haven’t seen anywhere else in India. They sell an interesting mix of goods from pasta to spices to sunscreen; my favourite item, perhaps, is the “Barbie India”, a dark-haired (but still pretty fair-skinned) version of the infamous doll clad in a vibrantly-coloured sari. There’s a mind-boggling array of alcohol on offer, from local beer and wine to more expensive imported stuff, some of it perplexing: I can’t imagine there’s a huge demand for the 5700-rupee bottle of Krug champagne on offer, but you never know. I tried Indian shiraz and cabernet sauvignon at a mere 240 rupees a half-bottle; quality was, well, about what you’d expect.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmvdZwP2QP36-ohg9mEoCHqOy05Mp_Yq58SzsZ8X5uG1EQEzQ5Ng4fAcuxRDJAGFfJETM5FqJOQoVG9f4rTr9HIAQgW4CpZjagSfasYwBoe5-btbRHEhkDz7lEUsa0wT6ARNV1ptMxfily/s1600/P1020987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmvdZwP2QP36-ohg9mEoCHqOy05Mp_Yq58SzsZ8X5uG1EQEzQ5Ng4fAcuxRDJAGFfJETM5FqJOQoVG9f4rTr9HIAQgW4CpZjagSfasYwBoe5-btbRHEhkDz7lEUsa0wT6ARNV1ptMxfily/s200/P1020987.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anjuna Beach - almost sunset</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">All over town, cows wander the streets freely, and wind their way in among the beach chairs as they plod slowly down the sand. Towards sunset, a group of them gather near the north end of the beach, laying down on the sand with their legs tucked neatly under their bodies. There’s a few goats around as well (although not nearly as many as in Kochi), and a veritable army of scooters and motorbikes weaving crazily down the backroads and dirt paths (usually with a sunburned tourist or two aboard). Walking down the street is a high-stakes obstacle course, as you attempt to evade the cows and goats while not getting mown down by the maniac drivers playing chicken with each other. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s near the end of the season here, so it isn’t as overrun with people as it likely would be in December or January. Most travellers are the solo backpacker kind, with a few package-holiday tourists wandering among them looking lost and bewildered by all the dreadlocks, piercings and tie-dye. Some travellers come for just a night or two, but most come and stay ... and stay ... and stay. For weeks, or months, or even years.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, even if its hippie days are largely a memory, and whatever it might be now ... Anjuna’s still got some magic.</span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-79136530294179362982011-03-14T05:06:00.001-04:002011-03-14T06:01:13.235-04:00Goa Freak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Written in Anjuna – Mar 9<sup>th</sup>. Internet access here is very sketchy, so you’re seeing this a few days late!)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">So I’ve arrived in Anjuna, in the northern half of the tiny state of Goa, stepping off the night train from Kochi in Margao/Madgaon further south and getting a prepaid taxi to the end of road by Anjuna Beach. 1100 rupees (about $25) and an hour and a half to travel the 60 kilometres from the train station, such is the state of Goan roads.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Goa is Portuguese India —as recently as 1961, it was still claimed by Portugal, and only ceded to India when the Indian army marched into the state. But the Portuguese had a pretty good run here, having first arrived at the tail end of the 15<sup>th</sup> century, and — by the way — hanging on to their Indian territory longer than the Brits did. There are still people living in the state who speak only Konkani (the local language) and Portuguese, with nary a word of Hindi or English (I’m guessing they don’t travel much in the rest of India). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">The cultural influence of the Portuguese is still apparent here, giving Goa a flavour that’s very different from the rest of the country. The food is much more meat-oriented, and the <i>chicken cafreal</i>, a local specialty, is mouth-wateringly good. Some of the drinks appearing on menus are things I haven’t seen since Brazil (<i>caipirinha</i>, anyone?) with a few local twists: <i>feni</i>, the Goan specialty, is fermented from coconuts or cashews, and packs a lethal punch. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Some of the architecture dates back to the Portuguese arrival, most noticeably so in the towns of Old Goa and Panaji (the capital). Away from the beach towns, crumbling heritage mansions still linger, reminders of the lost glory of the Portuguese empire.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here on the beach, however, it’s a different Goa yet again. And it depends very much which beach you’re on, which particular flavour of the Goan experience you’ll get. Head to Calengute and Baga (where I first went on my way down south), and it’s package-holiday central, overrun by European tourists on two- or three-week vacations and with the facilities to cater to these crowds. Oh, I had a good time there (a couple of very late nights out), but it could have been anywhere in the world; there wasn’t anything, particularly, to distinguish it as “India” instead of any other anonymous beach resort anywhere else.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the south half of Goa, there’s a few beaches like that, too, I hear; Palolem gets referred to dismissively as “Palaga”, a reference to the hordes of lager-swilling British tourists who invade each year (and to the resort town in the south of Spain that has the same experience). There’s some quieter beaches as well, where you can kick back and relax without the throngs of people; a Vancouverite I met in Kochi especially liked off-the-beaten-track Agonda (except for the sea-bound stream which doubled as a sewer and cut directly across the beach).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here, in the north half of Goa, it’s a mix; there are quiet beaches like Mandrem where travellers go to do a lot of yoga and gaze meditatively at the sea, and others (like Arambol or Vagator) that cater more to travellers seeking the non-stop party that used to be Goa. There’s a scattering of old Portuguese forts and churches in among the beach shacks, and a few high-end yoga resorts catering to moneyed people seeking enlightenment (or at least an improvement to their downward dog). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anjuna, somewhere in the middle of the northern stretch of beaches, has probably the most storied history in recent memory of all the Goan beaches. It was a major destination for hippie travellers in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, who became known as the “Goa Freaks” and did a mind-altering amount of drugs on the long stretch of sand. In later decades, it became famous for its raves, particularly around the full moon, with a new generation of travellers doing different kinds of drugs as they danced till dawn. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">That’s where I’ve landed for at least a few days. The season is winding down here, as it is in other Goan beaches, so it’s pretty quiet. There are hints of its hippie and raver pasts, but the present is a tamer, faded version of those. There are still tie-dye-wearing, dreadlocked travellers around, with a scattering of package-holiday tourists, and you could, if you wanted, still find drugs from hippie pot to raver ecstasy. Trance music still pumps out of some of the beach shacks (if I closed my eyes, I’d think I was back at a rave), and there’s a stage or two where you can hear musicians playing 1960’s rock.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">But it’s not what it was, I don’t think. I still like it, and I can see the odd glimmer of the hippie past that I find so fascinating. But there are more cafes, more restaurants, more hotels, more shops ... and more tourists, period, than would have ever existed in Anjuna’s hippie heyday. Everyone’s a wanna-be (including me); few remain of the original “Goa Freaks” (although I think I may have spotted a few).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">But I still like it, even if I can’t quite live out my hippie dream. I think it will be a good little home for a week or so. After that, though, I think I’ll head further north; I like what I’ve heard about Mandrem in particular, a quiet and peaceful little beach with a lot of simple huts to sleep in and an abundance of yoga classes to occupy your days. Last chance to soak up some serenity before heading back to the airport for my marathon journey to Delhi and then Toronto, and then the madness that is called the working world.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Real life. Huh. Not sure I remember what that is, but it seems to be starting to intrude. I had a message from my boss the other day, with information about a job opening he thought I might be interested in; I can’t even conceive yet of going back to work at all, never mind whether or not I’d want this particular one! So I might just have to think about it for a while.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">In the meantime, I think I’ll have another Kingfisher, and write some more of the Great Canadian Novel, while I listen to the sound of the waves.</span></span></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-88345099074032471102011-03-12T02:49:00.003-05:002011-03-14T05:08:24.614-04:00Midnight Train to Goa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">(Written in Anjuna – Mar 9<sup>th</sup>. Internet access here is very sketchy, so you’re seeing this a few days late!)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">I love travelling by train. I have been known, while in a foreign destination, to decide my next port of call solely based on the fact that the train goes there. I love the whole experience of trains, from the cheapest economy version to the most deluxe sleeper train, from the retro elegance of Via Rail to the humble and practical GO Train in Canada, from plush faster-than-a-speeding-bullet trains in northern Europe to the crowded cattle cars of the south. The only thing that begins to compare to train travel, for me, is riding a <i>cama</i> bus in Argentina; but even there, I’d take the train if it was an option (which it isn’t, except for suburban trains in BA).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">And then there’s Indian Railways. It’s an enormous system, covering most of the country; it employs something like 1.5 million people, and an estimated 20 million passengers ride the rails on average each day. Train journeys can take you pretty much anywhere and can cover vast distances in this huge country; going from the south to Kashmir in the very north will take you about 66 hours, if everything runs on time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">But running on time is definitely not guaranteed. I’ve waited in train stations and listened to announcements of trains delayed by 5, 10, 15 hours; a couple of backpackers I met in Kochi had taken a train to Goa from the north that was delayed by EIGHTEEN hours. It’s not something to be undertaken if you’re on a fixed schedule; to get back to Delhi for my flight back home, I’m opting to fly from Goa instead of taking the train (getting there a day after my flight had already left would be a real downer). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">But, despite the haphazard schedules, if you come to India, whatever else you choose to do you MUST take the train. Riding the rails in this country is fascinating; not only do you get to see something of the countryside, it also puts to up close and personal with Indian daily life in a way that is hard to find elsewhere (when you often just become a source of potential income, or — if you’re female — an object of pursuit).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">So I decided to take the train to Goa instead of flying; I hate flying and avoid it where possible, and there are no direct flights from Kochi to Goa anyway so it’s not particularly convenient. Far better, I think, to hop a night train; just be prepared to be flexible about when you leave and when you get there, as night trains often sell out well ahead of time and, as previously mentioned, may not run <i>exactly</i> on schedule.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">I got lucky with my train to Goa, though. I’d bought a ticket on the <i>Rajdhani Express</i>, a slightly more expensive train with only air-conditioned carriages and with breakfast included in the ticket price. It also has fewer stops en route to Goa so gets there in just under 12 hours instead of the 15 it takes other trains. And, at about 1,000 rupees for my ticket, it still didn’t cost much more than $20, far cheaper than flying and much more fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">I’m getting the hang of how trains work here, so I knew more or less what to expect. You have a choice of classes on Indian trains: day trains will usually offer second-class or AC chair cars, and night trains have the various options of sleeper, 3AC, 2AC and first-class AC. Second-class is basically a free-for-all, with no reserved seats and as many people squeezing into a carriage as it can physically hold; AC chair cars give you a reserved seat in a air-conditioned carriage.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">On night trains, “sleeper” is the cheapest class, with berths arranged in groups of six perpendicular ot the train, and two berths across the aisle running parallel; there’s no air-condtioning, just pane-less windows with bars across them that let in the night air (and the mosquitoes, probably). The “AC” classes are in air-conditioned cars, and go upwards in price from 3AC to first-class. “3AC” berths are arranged similarly to sleeper-class carriages (berths in tiers of 3) but with sealed windows and air-conditioning in the cars. 2AC is a similar configuration, but with two-tier berths instead of 3, and first-class AC having just two berths per compartment (no upper bunks). You get a pillow, blanket and sheets in any of the AC classes, but nothing in sleeper.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">When buying a ticket, or getting on a train, I learned to forget every polite Canadian instinct that I have; if you don’t push your way to the front of the line or into a carriage you’ll never get anywhere. There’s no point at all waiting your turn; everyone else will just keep shoving ahead of you. And trains might only stop for a minute or two in a station, depending where you get on, so if you aren’t prepared to put your elbows to work in muscling your way onto the train you’re going to be left behind. If you’re buying an AC ticket, you get to jump the head of the queue; this felt very rude to me, but it’s normal and expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">I bought a 3AC ticket for my trip to Goa, reserving the upper bunk in a tier of 3. This, I reasoned, was safer as a solo woman; less likely that I would wake up (as happened to another sole female traveller I met) to find a strange man’s hands groping me. I got to the station in Kochi (in the Ernakulam district) in plenty of time for my 10:30 (pm) departure, but had to wait around a while before I could get the information I needed about where to board the train.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">Finally, after about an hour, someone wrote my train’s details on the whiteboard near the Information counter (the electronic signboard being broken); I’d be leaving from platform #1, and my train carriage would stop at position #9 on the platform. (Indian trains can be immensely long, and don’t necessarily give you much time to find your spot before they pull out again, so it’s a good idea to wait near where your carriage will stop so you can jump on board immediately.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">Train arrived just half an hour late — pretty much on time by Indian standards — and I got on without much difficulty (I have sharp elbows to shove my way on). I found my berth easily, at the top of a tier at one end of the carriage. I climbed awkwardly up to my bunk on what passed for a ladder (really, just a few tiny footholds) and hoisted up my bags; there was no room to put them under the bunks below as the other travellers in my compartment appeared to have several bags apiece. This made the bunk a little too short to stretch out comfortably, with my backpack wedged at one end, but at least I could go to sleep without worrying about it disappearing in the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">My bunk was comfortable enough, but location was a bit of an issue; located right at the end of the carriage, the door leading out to the washroom was right next door. So every time it opened, it would catch the curtain closing off my compartment and pull it open again, letting light spill in from the hallway directly into my eyes. One of my compartment-mates snored, too, so I don’t think I actually slept much all night.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">I did get breakfast on the train, though, with a choice of “veg” or “non-veg”; I asked for “veg”, but realized after I’d eaten my omelette and bread that I’d actually received the other. (For some reason, eggs aren’t considered “vegetarian” here. But butter and other dairy is, so go figure.) At least half a dozen train workers scuttled around the carriage, collecting breakfast trays and sheets and sweeping up litter; with that many people working on board and tickets still being very cheap, I can`t imagine they get paid very much.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">So I was prepared to tip, if that was appropriate, and it seemed to be as I looked around at other passengers. I refused to tip one guy, though, after he stuck his hand in my face and demanded a tip — not just asked, which would have been fine, but demanded, rudely and imperiously. He got my back up, in a big way; I resent the implication that just because I’m white and foreign that I therefore automatically owe everybody money. He got very incensed when I refused, and berated me vociferously, pointing out with gestures all the work he’d done collecting the sheets; an Indian man travelling with his wife finally intervened, telling him not to “compel” me to tip, as he received a wage for his job and the service was included in the price of the ticket. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">Fortunately we arrived at Madgaon station (my destination) shortly after that, and I could jump off and escape. The irony is that I’d have tipped him well enough, had he just been less rude in his demand; had he said politely that it was customary to tip, and did I want to contribute anything, I’d have handed something over happily enough. I’m sure he’s probably paid peanuts, so I wouldn’t have minded chipping in a bit. (Except for the surly attitude of entitlement.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-CA">At any rate, I got there in the end, and hopped in a prepaid taxi to Anjuna, where I am writing this now in a little cafe on one of the back roads. I’ll tell you all about the place in my next post. Till then, I think I’ll go lay on the beach for a while.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-51317106944126458922011-03-11T05:55:00.002-05:002011-03-11T06:01:03.941-05:00Masala Magic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">(Written in Kochi – Mar 8<sup>th</sup>)</span></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">Food is definitely one of my highlights of India. With only one or two exceptions, every meal I’ve had here has been very good, and eating out is quite ridiculously cheap: if you stick to the “Indian” menu (as opposed to the touristy “continental” fare), you can have dinner for under 200 rupees, or less than $5, including a Kingfisher if you want. Unlike previous travels, I eat out almost exclusively here; I’ve never stayed in a place with a kitchen, so I can’t cook for myself (as I usually do, while travelling), and restaurants are so cheap here anyway that it’s easy to eat out on a budget. I’ll buy fruit at markets, but that’s about the only “self-catering” I’ve done so far.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">Restaurant menus (at the more touristy places at least) are absurdly varied, offering everything from traditional Indian fare, to Italian pastas and pizza, to Thai curries, to Chinese cuisine. Beef shows up on the menu once in a while (well, in Goa, at least), and seafood takes pride of place in the south. I’ve eaten almost exclusively Indian food while I’ve been here — well, with the exception of all the chocolate cake here in Kochi — and I’m still not tired of it. It’s deliciously spicy and varied, and so easy to go vegetarian without even having to try very hard; the vegetables are just as tasty as the meat dishes, if not more so. (The only times I haven’t eaten well are those times I strayed from the Indian menu and sampled something “continental”. Indian restaurants don’t make good pizza, in case you’re wondering — save that for Italy.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">Finally, after eating my way from the north to the south of India, I decided that I had to learn how to make some of this. So I sought out a cooking class while in Kochi to begin my Indian culinary education; I won’t be able to use my new-found knowledge while I’m here, as I’m unlikely to ever have access to a kitchen. (There are no hostels where I’ve gone in India, so I’m staying at cheap hotels, which give you just four walls, a bed and — if you’re lucky — a toilet and shower. But never a kitchen.) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZUAgD5f9R1FfLDkpyWJTL2xcoIfu9D9z9YeoOupqBRMrahIxiC5zkBKnzpiQK5_eGjzXIGGOajPXIso4z9CkTJnelqSGxDHtnawhOiQ2TcmWGvCiZ-3DV0Ds1Fz8KJjOaYGwlX6SHRQFL/s1600/Mar+5-11+Kochi%252C+India+%25232+-+Carol+with+Miss+Leelu+%2528centre%2529+and+husband+after+cooking+class+%2528and+dinner%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZUAgD5f9R1FfLDkpyWJTL2xcoIfu9D9z9YeoOupqBRMrahIxiC5zkBKnzpiQK5_eGjzXIGGOajPXIso4z9CkTJnelqSGxDHtnawhOiQ2TcmWGvCiZ-3DV0Ds1Fz8KJjOaYGwlX6SHRQFL/s200/Mar+5-11+Kochi%252C+India+%25232+-+Carol+with+Miss+Leelu+%2528centre%2529+and+husband+after+cooking+class+%2528and+dinner%2529.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carol with Miss Leelu (centre)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">But I’ll cook up an Indian storm when I get home, now that I have learned a thing or two thanks to Miss Leelu at “Miss Leelu’s Cook’n’Eat”. Miss Leelu, a warm, pleasant Indian woman (at a guess, slightly younger than my mother), holds classes in her home (which also doubles as a guesthouse) once or twice a day, depending on demand from tourists. For 550 rupees, you get to learn the ins and outs of 5 delicious Keralan dishes, and — here’s the best part — sit down with her and her husband to eat them afterwards.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">There were 6 of us in class — me, an older German woman and a 30-something Austrian couple on holiday for a few weeks, and a young English (her)/Irish (him) couple at the start of a year-long round-the-world backpacking trip. The husband of the German woman joined us after class, solely to eat as he flatly refused to learn anything about cooking (if I were his wife, I’d have given him a very serious talking-to). Flavours were intense and unexpected; I’d never before thought, for example, of using yoghurt in a savoury dish (with cooked vegetables), or that combining coconut and spices with it would actually render cabbage tasty. I even liked the fish curry, and I’m never much of a fish person.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">That’s the magic of masala — you can make anything can taste good. “Masala”, I’ve learned, just means “spice mix”; it can refer to any combination of spices depending on the dish you’re making. “Garam masala”, which you’ll sometimes see on menus, means a hot version of the same. “Fish masala” will be different that “chicken masala” or “vegetable masala”, and none of those will resemble the masala in “chai masala”, a sweet and milky Indian tea which I’ve grown to adore (“chai” simply means “tea”). </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">(Despite all the vegetables, though, don’t make the mistake of thinking of this as “health food”, as there was also an astonishing amount of butter/<i>ghee </i>and oil involved. Maybe that’s why it all tasted so damn good.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">Not only was the food delightful, it was an interesting little glimpse into Indian home life. Miss Leelu chatted constantly as she took us through the recipes, telling us all about her family and how she got started with the cooking classes. She told us, among other things, that she was training a new assistant, a young lad from the north of India who only spoke Hindi and not much English; she herself speaks Malayalam and English, but only a few words of Hindi, so communication is a bit of a challenge. Despite that, though, she said that she prefers to hire North Indians as they are harder workers, willing to work long hours at as many as 3 jobs in order to send money home to their families. South Indians, she says, have gotten lazy, particularly Keralans. (I can understand that, actually, it’s too darn hot to work very hard here.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">She’d had an assistant previously, who had just passed away the week before after 24 years with her; he’d started out as a servant when she lived in Dubai and came back with her to India. He’d gotten ill (some kind of stomach complaint), and she’d tried to get him medical help; the doctors and hospitals she took him too didn’t want to treat him, as he was “just a servant”. She had him rushed to the hospital after one particularly severe attack, with a thick wad of cash to pay his medical bills, but he died on the way. She was clearly still incensed, and saddened, by the callous disregard shown to him.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">But she still cooked like a dream, and I don’t think I’ve eaten better in India than I did that night. I had to roll myself away from the table and down the street to my hotel, I was so very full. I didn’t think I’d have room to eat again for a day or two, but, somehow, managed to find room for a farewell piece of Death by Chocolate cake from the Teapot Cafe before I left Kochi. It’s seriously good. (Wonder if Miss Leelu knows how to make that, too? I should have asked her to show me.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">I catch the train tomorrow, northward to Goa. I’m heading to Anjuna Beach first, that old hippie stalwart in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, and home of legendary raves in the ‘80’s and ‘90’s; I don’t think there are many traces of either remaining, but I’m going to go see what I can find. But the season’s winding down now, halfway through March, so it’ll likely be pretty quiet; perfect, actually, as a place to chill out before I head home.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">Gulp. I just realized I’m down to about 12 days. Tomorrow doesn’t count, since I’ll spend much of it just getting to Anjuna, finding a place to stay and, apparently, calling my boss because he wants to talk to me. And the 22<sup>nd</sup> of March doesn’t count, because I have to leave for the Goan airport about noon to make my connecting flight to Delhi, and meet my middle-of-the-night departure for Toronto in the wee hours of March 23<sup>rd</sup>.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">So twelve days. Huh. Oddly, though, I think I’m okay with that; I feel very much in end-of-trip mode, just winding down and taking stock of things, as I contemplate what it’s going to be back to regular life. If I survive the transition, back in Toronto, I’ll look y’all up. Drinks at Hair of the Dog, anyone?</span></span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-40631880081703910002011-03-11T05:52:00.002-05:002011-03-11T06:06:50.902-05:00Kochi, Cochin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">(Being uploaded in Anjuna, on a rare day with functional internet! Blog posts will be added randomly while I'm here -- access is slow at best and completely unreliable at worst.)</span></span></i><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA"><u>Written in Kochi – Mar 8<sup>th</sup></u> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">So I’m leaving Kochi tonight. It’s about 6 o’clock now, and I’m killing time till I head to the train station, to catch my night train to Goa; I get there about 10 a.m. tomorrow. Well, to Margao train station, that is, which is at least two hours by taxi from where I actually <i>want</i> to be, so it’ll be a long trip still even after I get off the train.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">I didn’t really mean to stay in Kochi this long; it’s been 6 nights and that’s probably more than you need here. It’s a very pleasant city with some interesting sights, but you really only need 2 or 3 days. But I was hampered by night train availability trying to get to Goa, so leaving today was my earliest option. I’m travelling once again in “3AC” class, in the topmost bunk of the tier of 3; with luck none of the other 5 people in the compartment will be snorers. Assuming it’s on time (a big assumption for Indian rail), I’ll get to Goa just after 10 in the morning.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">So ... Kochi. By Indian standards, this isn’t a big city; this is the country that has something like 49 cities with more than a million people. Kochi’s just over a million, so in Canadian terms it’s a metropolis. It’s got a fascinating history, and the residue of the past is littered all around the historical neighbourhoods of Fort Cochin, Mattancherry and Jewtown; Portuguese architecture half a millennium old shares space with a 400-year-old synagogue, centuries-old giant fishing nets from China, and a smattering of Dutch and British influence. Ernakulam, on the mainland, is the commercial centre of the city, and Fort Cochin (where I stayed) is on an island and mostly caters to tourists; goats wander the streets freely and rickshaw drivers abound, eager to take you on a 20-rupee tour of the city (which will, inevitably, include a lot of shops where they’ll get commissions). </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">It’s been hot as blazes here, and so humid it’s been like swimming through the air when I’ve tried walking around. By about 2 pm each day, I can’t take it anymore and have to retreat either to a cafe for a yummy slice of cake, or to my hotel room for a nap under the ceiling fan. Mornings and evenings are all right (still hot, but manageably so); it’s just the afternoons that are unbearable.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">So I didn’t do some things I’d planned on doing here, like renting a bicycle to tour around the city and maybe one of the islands, or trekking out to the beach on Vypeen Island. It was too damn hot to do anything so strenuous. I did manage some long walks, but only when I set off early in the morning so it was still cool enough to cope. I did check out the sights, from the 16<sup>th</sup> century Portuguese cathedral and churches, to the old Jewish synagogue and overgrown cemetery in “Jewtown” and the crumbling colonial buildings of the Mattancherry neighbourhood. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKobyW0eEN_wAWGdtJ9TFcMHOOHwKaQ4qqJ0jDSY50jh3452-fJ7dOTKMbiSiNLIhnv2blRdvUSNUYg_AjH2FNGyLSz793cJqQdE20St_m8r1aOGXyw8Za76HcBBEiS8h4k-LZznxU-nye/s1600/Mar+3-11+Kochi%252C+India+%25237+-+yummy+choc+cream+pie+at+Kashi+Art+Cafe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKobyW0eEN_wAWGdtJ9TFcMHOOHwKaQ4qqJ0jDSY50jh3452-fJ7dOTKMbiSiNLIhnv2blRdvUSNUYg_AjH2FNGyLSz793cJqQdE20St_m8r1aOGXyw8Za76HcBBEiS8h4k-LZznxU-nye/s200/Mar+3-11+Kochi%252C+India+%25237+-+yummy+choc+cream+pie+at+Kashi+Art+Cafe.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dessert at the Kashi Art Cafe, Kochi</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">But mostly, I think, I ate cake; it’s not a bad way to spend your time, actually (and the Teapot Cafe in the Fort Cochin neighbourhood does a sinfully delicious one called Death By Chocolate). And watched some movies on those hot afternoons when I couldn’t take any more of the outside air; I splurged on a slightly more expensive hotel room here, so had the luxury of TV (not air-conditioning, unfortunately, but the ceiling fan and wide-open windows did wonders).</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">The town gets pretty quiet after 10 pm, so there isn’t much by way of night life. There didn’t appear to be many places serving alcohol at all, never mind opening late; there was only one I saw where that was actually licensed (where I tried Indian wine for the first time — a bad decision), and a few more that would serve discreet “special teapots” with beer inside. Despite the early shut-down, though, it proved to be a great place to meet other travellers; I’d meet other solo backpackers of varying ages and nationalities just about every time I headed to a cafe in the afternoon. (One is my new personal hero, as she is travelling around India alone at the age of 75. I hope to be like her in 35 years!) My favourite night, I think, was the night of my cooking class at “Miss Leelu’s Cook’n’Eat” (I’ll tell you about that in another post). </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">Today, I’ve sworn off the cake (all the chocolate was getting to be a bit much), eaten sensibly and taken care of useful things like going to the post office. I elected, finally, to send home some of the heavy stuff I no longer need, as I was getting tired of hoisting my backpack at its previous weight; even though I don’t have many stops left before I get home, I’ll still like having a lighter load. And I got to experience the Indian postal system; I’d sort of figured it would stay true to Indian form and operate in the least efficient way possible, and I wasn’t disappointed. But I got my parcel mailed after a mere two hours of effort and about six forms filled in (none of which, as far as I could see, served any useful purpose, except to keep the dozens of people in the post office occupied).</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">On my way out, I was further delayed by a group of school children coming in; one of them, very daring, marched up to me to shake my hand, introduce himself and ask my name. Giggling furiously (boys and girls alike), the rest of them had to follow suit, so I didn’t manage to escape until I’d shaken about 25 hands. Apparently I’m a celebrity in Kochi, too.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-CA">I’m done, now, and have eaten and bought a bottle of water, so am all set for my night train adventure. I think I even get breakfast on the train tomorrow (which, I hope, includes <i>chai</i>). Then, at last, I will set foot again in Goa, there to while away my remaining days in India.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-35207014828566712712011-03-08T01:24:00.000-05:002011-03-08T01:24:28.278-05:00I am Woman, Hear Me Roar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowComments/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">(IN HONOUR OF INTERNATIONAL WOMEN`S DAY)</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Nowhere else I’ve ever travelled have I been so conscious of being “female” as here in India.<span> </span>In many places in the world, I think it’s a different experience travelling as a woman than it would be for a man, whether it’s the incessant flirting of Italian men, the macho strutting of Argentinos, or the casual sexism towards “sheilas” in the Aussie Outback.<span> </span></span></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>It can be challenging, too, travelling as a solo woman.<span> </span>North Africa was definitely an experience — but I’m not sure whether the incessant attention was a result of me being female, or being specifically a <i>Canadian</i> female (they all want to move to Canada, so I got lots of marriage proposals).<span> </span>I imagine it’s infinitely more difficult, probably impossible in parts, to travel as a solo woman in much of the Middle East; that’s the major reason it’s not top of my list of places to travel.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>But, that aside, most places I’ve been I haven’t found it actually <i>harder</i> for women, except that we have to be more careful about personal safety — but then that’s true even when I’m back home in Toronto.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Here in India, though, It is harder, I think.<span> </span>It doesn’t stop women from coming here — most of the solo travellers I’ve met have been women, mostly around my age — but their opinions are nearly universal that it’s a tougher slog for us than for our solo male brethren.<span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>For one thing, there’s the non-stop, 24/7 attention.<span> </span>(You may have read about my experience with this in my “Rock Star” post.)<span> </span>Women walking alone down the street get stared at, followed, hailed by all and sundry, engaged in conversations, flattered and otherwise demonstrably <i>noticed</i> to a degree I haven’t seen anywhere else.<span> Worse, </span>they might get touched and grabbed and groped (hasn’t happened to me, though).<span> </span>I’ve seen obviously-foreign men walking down the street, alone, with barely a glance from passers-by.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>And sometimes, this constant attention makes it hard to judge when that line of personal safety needs to be drawn.<span> </span>You get so used to attention, to people being overtly and actively friendly, that you take it for granted, and respond in kind.<span> </span>Often, though — particularly with Indian men — this friendliness on your part gets misinterpreted; I’ve felt like telling a few of the pushier guys I’ve encountered that no, just because I said “hello” and smiled, doesn’t mean I actually want to have sex with you.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>It’s not dangerous, generally, and I haven’t ever felt threatened here.<span> </span>But I have talked to women who have been groped on night buses, who have been “accidentally” brushed against on crowded city trains, who have been surrounded by groups of men on the beach and had to get physical to break out; this goes beyond mere “friendliness” or curiosity about foreigners, and becomes downright harassment.<span> </span>It’s called “Eve-teasing” here (sexual harassment, I mean), which might tell you volumes about how seriously it’s taken.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I try to be forgiving when yet another man makes assumptions about me; I think maybe they’re often confused by foreign women.<span> </span>Indian women don’t travel alone; they don’t wear T-shirts and form-fitting pants; they don’t respond to conversational overtures from strange men; and they don’t have physical relationships before marriage (if they’re traditional, anyway).<span> </span>Foreign women do, sometimes, and they don’t know what to make of this freedom.<span> </span>What’s more, we have that tantalizing “Western” allure fed through Hollywood movies and other popular culture, that tells Indian men that a white woman they meet has probably had boyfriends before, even lovers, and if he plays his cards right he just might get to<span> </span>be one of them.<span> </span>So they try.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>It gets old, fast.<span> </span>So I’ve stopped being friendly to guys who try to strike up conversations with me on the street; I hate to miss out on the chance to meet local people, but the often-ensuing hassle just isn’t worth it.<span> </span>At least, being female, I can talk to local women freely, which your average foreign guy can’t do without incurring extreme displeasure from local men.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I think it’s harder dealing with the day-to-day practicalities of travel here, too.<span> </span>I get quoted prices that are invariably higher than those of the guys I’ve compared notes with, I get told about the more expensive alternatives but never about the cheaper options (unless I am very persistent in continuing to ask), and on occasion the hotel manager or ticket agent or shop-keeper will ignore what I’ve actually asked for and instead try to foist upon me what HE thinks I need instead, whether that’s the room with air-conditioning, the larger bottle of water, or the rickshaw ride that includes stops at a dozen shops on the way to my hotel.<span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Service in restaurants is different, too.<span> </span>I wrote a separate post about my experiences of customer service here, so I won’t repeat it all.<span> </span>Suffice to say, the odds of you getting your order taken, delivered correctly and your bill presented to you promptly afterwards are significantly higher if you have XY chromosomes instead of XX.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Travelling with a guy can solve some of these problems, I think, but creates others.<span> </span>I’ve met a few women here who are travelling with husbands or boyfriends, or who have met a fellow countrymen on the road and travelled with him for a while.<span> </span>They say it is easier, in some respects; if you’re demonstrably “with” a man, you’re deemed to belong to him and other men leave you alone, unwilling to try their luck with another man’s property.<span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>But, they say, you also become invisible, largely; shopkeepers and rickshaw drivers and ticket agents at train stations talk to HIM, look to HIM for the decisions, even if you’re the one who negotiating to buy the clothes or purchase the train tickets.<span> </span>Surely a <i>woman</i> can’t have the last say; better to check with the man who really counts.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>For local women in India — as in some other parts of the world — I know that their lives are more circumscribed, generally, than their male counterparts.<span> </span>Biology truly is destiny, sometimes, if you’re born female in the wrong country; your opportunities in life are more limited, you’re less likely to be educated, you have lesser access to health care, and you’re more likely to die young.<span> </span>Even in Western nations, depending where you live and where you work, you might find your options more limited than your brother’s; this is why it irks me so much when intelligent women my own age refuse to identify themselves as feminist, treating it as a dirty word.<span> </span>(We’re not done yet, people!)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>But, of course, Canada is pretty good, and I’m glad to be a woman living in such a place.<span> </span>And one of my maxims of foreign travel is holding up, yet again:<span> </span>the more I travel, and the more places I go, the more I appreciate Canadian men.<span> </span>So thanks, guys ... it turns out that you’re pretty good, after all.</span></span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-62560099500467339482011-03-07T05:10:00.001-05:002011-03-07T05:12:16.006-05:00The Mother Tongue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.43577048708165356" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’ve gotten so spoiled in India, language-wise. I haven’t really had to try to master any of the local lingo, since everyone I meet seems to speak English — with varying degrees of success, but still recognizably English. More recognizably English, sometimes, than other parts of the world I’ve been to this past year; I can understand an Indian speaking English a lot more easily than I can understand a Glaswegian! (I’m still half-convinced that’s not actually English, it’s another language altogether.) By some reckonings, India has more speakers of English than any other country (although here, it’s usually a second or third or fourth language, never the mother tongue).</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s a good thing, too, that I can get by with English, because there’s an enormous variety of local languages depending on what part of the country you’re in. They’re not all related to each other, either, so picking up some of one doesn’t mean anything will sound familiar the next state over, where they speak something else. We think it’s hard enough in Canada, balancing two national languages; here, in India, they have twenty-two — yes, really! — enshrined in the constitution. And that’s not including all the other local languages and dialects that didn’t make the Constitutional cut; there’s something like 1600 of those.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Yikes. Thank God for English, or I’d be hopelessly lost, reduced to miming and pointing at things, and talking to myself just to have a conversation with someone.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Even though Hindi (which, before coming here, I thought of as the “Indian” language) has official-language status (along with English), not everyone in the country speaks it; there’s about 200 million native speakers (out of a population of 1.2 billion), along with more who speak it as a second or third (or more) language. I’ve learned a few words in Hindi: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">namaste</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> (which everyone knows from yoga classes, meaning hello or goodbye depending on context); </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">dhanyavad </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">(thank you); various food terms that allow me to understand what I’m ordering in a restaurant; and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">achaa</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">, a useful all-purpose sort of word that can mean pretty much whatever you want it to mean (but is usually used as “I see” or “really”). </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">English has even received some words from this language; did you know that “pyjama” and “veranda”, “bungalow” and “jungle” started life as Hindi words? Even “Blighty”, as a term for England, comes from Hindi (from the word for “foreign”).</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Here, in the far south, though, Hindi won’t actually get you far. The predominant local language in Kerala is Malayalam, which I stand even less chance of mastering; when I listen to Hindi I can at least pick out separate words even if I don’t understand what they mean. Malayalam, on the other hand, sounds like a continuous blur of sound; quite musical and pleasant to the ear, but sounding nothing like words or phrases or anything I could ever translate into a meaningful idea.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So English it is, usually. But even there, Indians bring their own twists to the language, with pronunciations and intonations and phrases heavily influenced by local languages. Some people do still sound as properly British as anyone could have aspired to during the days of the British Raj, but there’s a vast number of people more who speak an entirely new version of the language. This “chutneyification” of English, as it’s referred to, has resulted in an entertaining new dialect.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The pronunciation is different, with regional variations (depending on the local language that influences it) that are mostly musical, sing-song and lilting to the ear. The way verbs are used is very different; instead of just saying “I have two books to read”, you’d say “I am having two books to read”, if you wanted to say it in Indian English. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Words get jumbled from their usual order, into a uniquely Indian fashion of expression: instead of being asked by a waiter “What would you like to eat?”, I’ll usually hear something like “What you would like to eat?” Sometimes they’re rhymed; “car” might become “car-var” and “walking” turn into “walking-shalking”. And other times, they get doubled up for emphasis; if something is exceptionally good, it might be “extra-extra” or “really-really” tasty, or you might have been out “walking-walking” for a very long time.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And there’s often a tag at the end of sentences (think of the stereotypical Canadian “eh” or the Irish “like”). Instead of just asking me, “So you like travelling in India?”, people will query, “So you like to be travelling in India, right?” or “...no?” The most common one, though, is the very illogical “... isn’t it?”: this is tacked on in ways that don’t ever have to agree with the rest of the sentence. So you’ll hear things like “You have a job in Canada, isn’t it?” or “She is very beautiful, isn’t it?”. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Reading newspapers can be especially entertaining, as the English appearing in articles frequently includes terms that have fallen out of everyday use in the rest of the English-speaking word. Reading about the police “doing the needful” to catch the “miscreants” guilty of “dastardly deeds” and “reckless tomfoolery”, as I did one day, makes run-of-the-mill crime reporting a much more enjoyable read.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Some of language is non-verbal, too; from head nodding to clicking of the tongue to slapping the cheeks to blinks and shrugs and wild hand gestures, much of Indian English is accompanied by an array of physical communication as colourful as the spoken language. Most characteristic, everywhere, seems to be the “head wobble”; sort of a wibble-wobble from side to side, it seems to mean anything from “I’m listening to you” to “I agree” to “I have no idea”.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s endlessly fascinating, anyway. I can spend hours just listening to conversations around me and watching people talk. But you really have to come here and see/hear it for yourself to get the full flavour. Once you do ... well, I think you will be loving Indian English, isn’t it?</span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-39139696948569119352011-03-06T06:06:00.001-05:002011-03-06T06:12:16.476-05:00Life on the Edge in India<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
Damn, sometimes I'm just not as organized as I'd like. I wrote brilliant blog posts last night (one about my adventures at a Kochi cooking class), which were brilliant, pithy and insightful ... but which you'll have to wait to read until I actually remember to copy them to my USB drive to I can upload them at an internet cafe.<br />
<br />
Instead (since I'm trying to be disciplined about this writing thing and do some every day), I offer a random selection of life-in-India moments -- some of these you may have caught already on Twitter, if you follow me there.<br />
<br />
India's a crazy, chaotic, colourful world -- completely surreal in many ways, larger than life and over the top and sure to inspire either total devotion or utter hatred. There's no being indifferent to this place!<br />
<br />
Some thoughts, if you want to try living on the edge here ...<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;"><li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Ride on the back of a Royal Enfield motorcycle that a crazy Italian is driving. In Jaipur traffic.</span></span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-CA">Take </span><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">a local bus for 8 hours, on the worst road, ever.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Drink bottled water without checking that the bottle was actually sealed before you opened it.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Have a trippy camel ride back to Pushkar in the dark, after consuming at least 3 (very strong) Indian rum and cokes around the campfire. Sing random Joni Mitchell songs on the way.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Shout back at the screen at a Bollywood movie along with everyone else, even though you have no idea what the characters are actually saying.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Get your Bollywood on at a nightclub in Jaipur, forcing the DJ to keep playing the music even though he keeps wanting to switch to hip-hop.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Stand your ground on the street and expecting the cow to go around YOU for a change.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Pile six people (and assorted backpacks) in the back of a diesel-fuelled auto-rickshaw. Hope it doesn’t tip over.</span></span><span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Go to a “sheesha” bar for a hookah. Make it an apple-flavoured one.</span></span><span lang="EN-CA"> </span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">E</span></span></span><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">nter a souvenir shop in Pushkar just to get the cold beer (which is theoretically illegal there).</span></span><span lang="EN-CA"> </span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-CA">Say </span><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">“oh, that smells good” and trying some street food in Udaipur. (And living to tell the tale.)</span></span><span lang="EN-CA"> </span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Repeat phrases in Hindi that you learned from a guide, trusting they actually mean what he says. (Startled looks suggest they don’t. What did I say?)</span></span><span lang="EN-CA"> </span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Don't watch where your feet are going on the street (the downside: stepping in a huge steaming pile of camel dung. While wearing sandals.)</span></span><span lang="EN-CA"> </span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Ride a bicycle around Udaipur and out to the countryside, dodging auto-rickshaws, motorbikes and livestock as you go.</span></span><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA"> Learn AFTER you get to the top of the hill (when you're too tired to run) that there are leopards in them there woods.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Smoke (never mind what) on the hotel’s roof terrace while breaking out the Bollywood dance moves and refusing to act your age.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Stagger home from a Baga nightclub at 4 a.m., having lost count of Kingfisher consumption, and get up the next day to hit the Goa beach just after sunrise.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Attempt to sing along to songs in Malayalam while floating down the Keralan backwaters in a tippy canoe.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Listen to guide's casual, offhand advice about what to do if charged by wild elephants in a wildlife reserve in the Western Ghats. Having it immediately flee from your mind when wild elephants actually spotted.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Battle with killer mosquitoes in a bamboo hut in Varkala. Learn to sleep despite the incessant chirping of geckos, because geckos are good: they eat mosquitoes.</span></span></li>
<li><span dir="LTR"><span lang="EN-CA">Work your way through the various forms of chocolate cake on offer in Kochi cafes. Dodging the random street goats as you attempt to stagger back to your hotel in the midday heat.</span></span></li>
</ol></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-12846737709787547612011-03-05T03:03:00.003-05:002011-06-17T15:57:05.549-04:00Battle of the Mozzies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There is a deadly foe in southern India. It's the only thing that I dislike about this part of the world. It's sly, it's cunning, it's insidious and it's relentless ... and it can drive you out of your mind if you don't find a way to fight it.<br />
<br />
I'm talking about the mosquito. A tiny little speck of a creature, it is nearly impossible to defeat. Long after humans have driven themselves into extinction, mosquitoes will continue to rule the world.<br />
<br />
There may be some of you out there whom mosquitoes don't like. Unfortunately, I seem to be tasty mozzie fodder and, if I do nothing, by the end of a night here I will be covered in itchy red welts and driven crazy by the incessant buzz. Not much non-chemical intervention seems to work: not vitamins and garlic (which one friend told me to try), not wearing light colours (instead of dark, which is supposed to attract them more), not covering up in long sleeves and pants (they'll find a way in through the smallest of openings), not avoiding flowery shampoos and lotions.<br />
<br />
My mozzie spray does work, but you know what? It's got DEET, and DEET scares the life out of me. I accidentally spilled some on the floor of my hut in Varkala, and it ate the varnish right off the floor in about two seconds flat. Really, this is something that's safe to put on your skin? I'm just not convinced of that; you are warned, when using, not to spray on irritated skin or under clothing, not to use on small children, and to wash off immediately after leaving the mosquito-infested area. And here's what high enough concentrations of DEET (which, by the way, is a neurotoxin) can cause: headache, tremors, weakness, paralysis, slurred speech, emotional / behavior changes, seizures and death. <br />
<br />
Yeah. I think I'd rather just get a few mosquito bites. But, while that's just an irritation in the Canadian wilderness (well, other than West Nile virus), it's a health hazard here and in many other parts of the world. Among other things, mozzies can be carriers of any of these: malaria (fever, chills, anemia, jaundice, muscle pain, vomiting, possible liver/kidney/respiratory failure, possible meningitis, possible internal hemorrhage from a ruptured spleen); dengue fever (rash, high fever, muscle and joint pain, nausea/vomiting, dehydration, possible convulsions); yellow fever (heart arrhythmia, bleeding/hemorrhage, delirium, fever, jaundice, vomiting blood, liver/renal failure); and encephalitis (swelling of the brain, confusion/disorientation, body stiffness, paralysis, seizures, severe headache, sudden unconsciousness).<br />
<br />
Yeah. I don't know about you, but any one of those would really put a damper in my holiday. And some of them (dengue fever, for example) aren't even treatable. All you can do is try not to get bitten in the first place.<br />
<br />
So I used my evil DEET spray anyway, when I got desperate enough, as I couldn't find any "natural" alternatives in Toronto in the dead of winter before I left. It got used up pretty quickly and I'm down to my back-up bottle of "kiddie" bug spray (still with DEET, but a much lower concentration so not quite as horrifying. <br />
<br />
I burned mosquito coils too, as I'd inherited some leftovers from a British girl I'd met who was heading home. More chemicals: they work if you're in range of the smoke, but I really didn't like to think about what I might be breathing in. I think we've created enough of a toxic soup with all the chemicals in our world, I don't need to add any more.<br />
<br />
My mozzie net (an attractive shade of pink) over my bed worked pretty well ... at least after I'd found the big hole one morning and patched it with duct tape (the traveller's all-purpose friend). But it's hotter sleeping under one of those, even with a fan churning away furiously.<br />
<br />
I got to like the little geckos who invaded my Varkala hut each night, as their diet consists mainly of mosquitoes. I even forgave them for their incessant chirping (they're noisy little creatures) and learned to block it out well enough to go to sleep.<br />
<br />
But, aside from gecko food, what other useful purpose do mosquitoes serve? Why on earth did such a creature ever evolve? They don't pollinate, like bees, or create useful soil, like worms, so I can't see what particular ecological contribution they make. Surely the geckos and the purple martins and whatever else preys on mosquitoes could learn to live on something else, and the ecosystem could carry on just fine without that annoying, incessant, insanity-producing drone of the mosquito.<br />
<br />
Until that day comes, I'll be huddling under my mosquito net.</div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-57377471735034547872011-03-03T02:26:00.000-05:002011-03-03T02:26:24.099-05:00Leaving Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's funny how quickly you can get attached to a place. I spent about 2 1/2 weeks in Varkala (one week in the with other people from my group, the rest on my own) and it got to feel surprisingly like home -- familiar, comfortable, easy. <br />
<br />
My living arrangements were substantially more, er, basic than I'd have at home, though. Instead of a relatively nice apartment in downtown Toronto, with all mod cons and a wine store conveniently located outside my front door, I had a hut. One room, bathroom cubicle, thin bamboo walls and a thatched roof. No A/C, just a fan in the ceiling. Pink mozzie net over the bed to keep away the nasty biting critters, but lots of other things could wiggle their way in through the many cracks and vents; geckos were a common visitor and I learned (eventually) to block out the sound of their chirping so I oculd finally fall asleep. I like geckos, since they eat mosquitoes (anything that does that is aces in my book); I wasn't so found of the grey furry thing I saw scuttle across the floor one night. (A rat, I think, but I didn't venture a close look. Anyway, it kept well away from me so it didn't bother me too much.)<br />
<br />
The location was superb: just a short walk down an alleyway and I was on the clifftop overlooking the beach, with a vast array of shops and restaurants and cafes at my service. (Or not, as the case may be -- did you read my post about customer service here?) The broad stretch of beach at the base of the cliff, reached by means of some very steep sets of stairs (none with handrails), was a lovely place to hang out in early morning; it got too hot and crowded later in the day, and by late afternoon the waves were ferocious. (As I'm not a fantastic swimmer, I kept fairly close to shore -- I could easily have gotten into big trouble if I'd been swept off my feet!)<br />
<br />
I got to know a few of the cafes and their regulars quite well, as I went back a lot, and it didn't take long before I got to know some of the shopkeepers by name, too. They learned pretty early on that I'm not a shopper, but that didn't appear to matter; they were just happy to chat and pass the time of day. It's a friendly wee town, this Varkala.<br />
<br />
But I've left, now, as I made my way north on the train yesterday to Kochi. Train arrived late, but not dramatically so by Indian standards (only an hour or so), and I eventually got to my hotel after some confusion on the part of my rickshaw driver. I was getting very snippy with him when he didn't appear to be listening to me trying to explain with my map how to find it; I realized afterward that he might not've actually spoken much English. I've gotten so used to everyone being able to here (with varying degrees of expertise) that I've just started assuming I can communicate in my own language; how easy it is to fall into that arrogant-foreign-tourist trap!<br />
<br />
Another rickshaw driver eventually rescued us, and led the way to my hotel with a minimum of fuss. He appears to have become my best friend now, as I found him waiting outside my hotel with his rickshaw this morning, wanting to take me on a tour of the city. I declined as politely as I could, saying I was heading out for a walk; he popped up a couple of other times along the way and kept lowering his price for the tour. Either he really likes my face, or he's really hard up for business, as he says he'll come by tomorrow morning as well to see if I'm ready for that tour yet. (Maybe I'll plan to be gone early.)<br />
<br />
It's steaming hot in Kochi as well, so I'm heading off now to find a cool, shady cafe to have a cold drink. I have a few days here, so I'm not rushing around madly; I have lots of time to see the sights before I catch my night train to Goa.<br />
<br />
So think of me, sitting in the sun and drinking some lemon soda (or possibly something stronger), as you wade through the snowdrifts of Europe and North America. I'll soak up some sun for you, too.</div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-40430015962797169152011-03-01T05:33:00.004-05:002011-03-01T08:55:30.053-05:00Kill or Cure: Adventures in Ayurveda<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I tried out my first ayurveda treatment today. I balked at doing it for a long time, although it’s been on offer everywhere I’ve been in Kerala; at upwards of 1,000 rupees it seemed too expensive for my budget. Then I thought about it more today, my last day in Varkala (I leave tomorrow morning on the train to Kochi), and realized that 1,000 rupees is only about $25, and I’d never be able to get an hour-and-a-half massage that cheap at home.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So what the heck: ayurvedic massage it was. I am blissed-out now, all the stress and strain and tension drained out of my body as I was pampered with hot oils and rubbed down from top to toe. (Not that I had a lot of stress and strain to begin with — it’s not exactly a demanding life, here on the beach. But what little I did have is all gone.) My massage therapist was a wee little woman at least half a foot shorter than my little sister (who's not exactly the Jolly Green Giant herself); tiny but mighty, though, as she dug into all the knots and tight muscles all over my body. At one point, she even climbed up on the table to get a better angle, such was her dedication.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s not like a Western spa experience; this isn’t just for pampering. Ayurveda is the ancient Indian system of medicine; according to Wikipedia, the name comes from the Sanskrit words "ayus" (meaning <i>longevity</i>) and "veda" (meaning <i>science </i>or <i>knowledge</i>). It is all about keeping three elements in balance; massages are a common ayurvedic treatment that are all about healing the body, not just relaxation. And it's not for those crippled by coy Western-style modesty; you strip down to your birthday suit and let it all hang out as they go to work on nearly every bit of you.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It is meant to cure back pain, joint pain, muscle pain, strengthen your entire physiology, and promote deep relaxation in order to allow your body to heal itself of its ailments. One of my Varkala buddies (now back home in the U.S.) had a course of treatment to help with a particular physical ailment, which she said helped enormously; I don’t think I’ve got any specific medical issues, but it still felt damn good. Oh, and it’s supposed to help with weight/obesity, too, so maybe I can finally shed that remaining 10 pounds before I get home.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There are other ayurvedic treatments that don’t sound like such a walk in the park or — more appropriately for Varkala — a day at the beach. The most hard-core regime I’ve read about has to be </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">panchakarma</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">: literally meaning “five actions”, its purpose is to rid the body of built-up toxins.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And it`s not for the faint of heart or the uncommitted, let me tell you. Try these “five actions” on for size and see if you’d be willing to go to these lengths:</span></div><ul style="font-family: inherit;"><li style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Vaman</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> – therapeutic vomiting, induced using herbal concoctions</span></li>
<li style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Virechan</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> – purgation – diarrhea provoked using natural laxatives</span></li>
<li style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Vasti – </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">enemas using herbs</span></li>
<li style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Nasya – </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">elimination of toxins through the nose, by flushing the nasal passages with oil</span></li>
<li style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; list-style-type: disc; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Raktamaksha – </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">detoxification of the blood, through blood-letting (cutting or the use of leeches)</span></li>
</ul><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Before you have any of that done, your body is prepared over the course of several days using herbal steam-baths, a special diet and oil massages. Then you may receive any or all of these actions, depending on how "toxic" you are and the specific course of treatment outlined by your ayurvedic doctor, over the next 15 or 21 days. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Yikes. I’m sure I — like most other people in the Western world — have some toxins in my system thanks to the air I breathe, the food I eat and the chemicals in everything we use. But I’m not anywhere near worried enough about them to go through all of that!</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So ... ummmmm, no. I’ll stick to my massage, thanks. I might just have to have another one in Kochi. And maybe again in Goa, when I get there. And then back at the Elmwood Spa in Toronto, when I’m home — anyone want to join me?</span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-61002186664255844312011-02-27T05:22:00.002-05:002011-02-27T05:22:25.440-05:00The Simple Bare Necessities<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowComments/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<span>There are some things in life you take for granted, aren`t there?<span> </span>You need to eat; you need to sleep; you need to clean yourself and use some kind of toilet facility in some fashion.<span> </span>I thought I’d run into all the possible permutations of the last one, but India has added a few new twists.</span> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>You’ll be familiar with “Western-style” toilets, of course.<span> </span>You know, the things you have to clean (my least favourite housekeeping task, ever), usually in a room also containing a sink, shower and/or bathtub.<span> </span>The room that you fight over with your roommate or spouse or siblings when you’re trying to get ready in the morning.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>You might also be familiar with Western-style toilets in some parts of world where everything works as you’re used to, but where you can’t actually flush toilet paper.<span> </span>(Central America, for example.)<span> </span>There’s a bin usually helpfully provided, next to the toilet, where your waste paper is dumped if sewage treatment facilities in that particular part of the world can’t handle it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>You’ve probably heard of — even if not actually seen — squat toilets.<span> </span>These are essentially holes in the ground, with a platform for your feet, that require strong thigh muscles and some dexterity in keeping clothing out of the way while you’re going about your business.<span> </span>Toilet paper is not usually supplied, but there is generally a water tap to clean yourself off.<span> </span>These types of facilities can be found in many corners of the world, and locals will use them in preference to Western-style toilets (which they consider unhygienic, what with all those different bottoms taking a seat there).<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>If you’re a camper, you’ll be familiar with the outhouses (huts with a rudimentary seat built over a hole in the ground) to be found in many campgrounds.<span> </span>If you’re an adventurous backwoods type, you’ll be well used to squatting behind the nearest bush or tree to take care of business, and to bathing in the nearest lake or stream.<span> </span>If you’ve travelled in remote parts of developed countries — the Australian Outback, for example — you’ll also have gotten comfortable with the idea of just finding a shady spot to the side of the bus.<span> </span>Boys to the left, girls to the right, please …</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>So I thought I’d seen it all.<span> </span>But there’s still a few things in India that perplex me, plumbing-wise.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>There are Western-style toilets, but almost never any toilet paper (and you can’t usually find it for sale in shops, so I’m not sure what I’m going to do when my supply runs out).<span> </span>Where there are squat toilets, there is always a water tap with a small bucket helpfully nearby; I’ve worked out that you’re mean to use the bucket and water to clean yourself (in lieu of toilet paper), but how on earth are you supposed to get dry again?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>On trains, you usually get the choice of either squat or Western-style toilets.<span> </span>Given the state of cleanliness of the latter, these pretty much become “squat” too (you just don’t have to squat as low); trying to use either while balancing on a swaying train and watching the track go by through the hole beneath you is a challenging task.<span> </span>Going “first class” by train doesn’t guarantee a Western toilet; I waited in the “upper class” waiting room for my Delhi-Agra train, and struggled to block the smell from the squat toilets at the back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>In hotel bathrooms, there’s often a hose-type thing with a nozzle attachment located next to the toilet; I worked out (finally) that this is meant to be a hand-held bidet, sort of, to rinse yourself off after you’ve finished your business.<span> </span>(I’d thought at first that it was just for cleaning the floor, and it works quite well for this purpose, too.<span> </span>Sometimes there’s a squeegee-type thing provided to help you get the floor dry again.)<span> </span>But the question remains:<span> </span>how do you get dry again?<span> </span>There’s never a helpful little handheld blowdryer nearby.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>When it comes to other matters of personal hygiene, my dilemma continues.<span> </span>I’ve usually had my own bathroom where I’ve stayed, which is a nice step up over your average hostel, and there’s often even a Western toilet.<span> </span>There’s never a bathtub, but as it’s mostly to hot to think about baths anyway, this isn’t a problem.<span> </span>There’s a shower nozzle, usually planted in the middle of the room (never in a separate shower stall); how you’re meant to shower without drenching the entire room and everything therein I haven’t been able to figure out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>I can’t work out the buckets, either.<span> </span>There’s always a large bucket, with a smaller scoop-type bucket inside it; I’m guessing that you’re supposed to fill the larger bucket up with water and then use the little one to pour water over yourself.<span> </span>Why you’d want to do this instead of just standing under the showerhead, though, I don’t understand.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>Given that there may not be a drain in the bathroom, anyway (my current hut just has a hole in the wall for the water to run out — which also happens to let the geckos in), pretty much everything is destined to get wet, and you’ll be standing in an inch or two of water by the time you’re done whichever way you choose to work it.<span> </span>So it probably doesn’t matter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span>All I know is, the first thing I’m doing when I get home is spending an hour or two in a really hot bath.<span> </span>With not a gecko in sight.</span></div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4266457929432543227.post-60233845253897526982011-02-26T04:07:00.005-05:002011-03-01T08:57:21.810-05:00What's in a Name?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">Most places are content with one name. It makes life easy; you know THIS name refers to THAT place, everyone understands what you’re talking about and it’s clear where you’re going or where you are.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">But India, inevitably, has other ideas. (I’m starting to think this country deliberately sets out to do everything as differently as possible from the rest of the world, just for the hell of it.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">Most places have at least two names, and in some cases more. You`ll know some of these pairs of names — Mumbai/Bombay, Delhi/New Delhi — and, even if you didn’t, it would be easy enough to figure out what place the alternate name referred to as they sound kind of similar. Calcutta/Kolkata … … Pondicherry/Puducherry … Bangalore/Bengaluru … you get the idea. Sometimes, the name of a place has been reinvented as a nearly-identical English word; “cashmere”, for example, comes from the name “Kashmir”, the northernmost region of India (and the source of all that soft goat’s wool that makes up the product we know and love).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">There`s not a lot of consistency as to which name is used, either. For India’s largest city, for example, most people will refer to it by the “new” name of Mumbai (new, although it’s actually an older name than the “old” British name of Bombay), but it may show up on train and bus schedules as Bombay, 60-odd years after Indian independence. Some people adamantly refuse to use the name Mumbai, clinging stubbornly to all traces of things British (these are usually the same people who speak the Queen’s English better than Elizabeth herself). But it’s still easy enough to sort yourself out, given the similarity of names.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">But there are other cases where the alternate names bear no resemblance to each other, so you could get really confused waiting for a bus or train, if it showed up under the “other” name that you didn’t know. Would you guess, without prior knowledge, that Chennai and Madras were the same place? Varanasi and Banaras? Thekkady and Kumily and Periyar? (That place is really special, it has three names instead of the usual two.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">And sometimes the names <i>sound</i> alike, but don’t refer to exactly the same place. The “new” name for the largest city in Kerala — Kochi — encompasses a number of smaller areas with individual names. The “old” name of Cochin (or Fort Cochin) refers to one of the neighbourhoods within Kochi, not the entire urban area; to make it even more confusing, your train from Kochi will depart from Ernakalum, which is another of those neighbourhoods within Kochi. The name of the city itself probably won`t show up on a train schedule, so good luck figuring out how to get there if you don`t know what to look for.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">There are “new” names that haven’t stuck, for whatever reason; the cities show up on signs and on schedules under the new name but are informally referred to by the old. Sometimes the reason why is obvious: given a choice between the “old” Trivandrum and trying to get your tongue around the the “new” Thiruvananthapuram, wouldn’t you use the old name, too?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoFooter">Apparently the names have all been changing over the last couple of decades for a few different reasons: to “de-anglicise” the name or the spelling thereof, and make it more consistent with the local language; to revert back to a pre-colonial name; or to get rid of European or Persian or Arabic or other influences and establish Indian names for places. Not everyone wants to go along with these changes, and some haven’t happened yet; for example, the proposed name change from “Ahmedabad” to “Karnavati” (to de-Arabicize the name) is proving controversial.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">Varkala — my current home on a cliff overlooking the Arabian Sea — adds another twist to the confusing world of Indian nomenclature. The name “Varkala” is always used, but it refers to more than one place: it might mean the beach itself, down at the bottom of the cliff; it might mean the tourist strip of hotels and restaurants and shops strung out along the cliff top; or it might mean the town where local Indian folk go about their daily business, and where useful things like train stations and ATMs are. So mostly, here, “Varkala” doesn’t show up on road signs around the area: they’ll refer simply to “Town” or “Cliff” or “Beach”.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">India can even have a different name, once in a long while; try “Hindustan” on for size. (One of the English-language newspapers here is called the “Hindustan Times”.) I have long been saying I wanted to visit the “ ‘Stans” (Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Kryrgystan, Kazakhstan, and so on), but I didn’t know I’d be doing that here. It isn’t commonly used; while Hindus might make up 80% of the population, there are a plethora of other religious groups that might feel excluded.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">Mind-boggling, really. I’m getting to the point where I’m never quite sure where I am or where I’m going. If this naming confusion keeps up, I might have trouble remembering what my own name is — or perhaps I’ll come up with my own, alternate Indian name.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">Hmmm … I’ll work on that. In the meantime, this is the traveller formerly known as Carol signing off, from Varkala Cliff. </div></div>CarolMachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05748667882827661719noreply@blogger.com0