Perth Crazy: The things I’m REALLY looking forward to

With only one more week to go in India I’m letting myself think about all the things in Australia I can’t wait to get back to. Of course, there are things in Bangalore that I will definitely miss as well, some of which are our wonderful yoga classes and our even more wonderful yoga teachers, the beautiful temples and shrines that just emanate peaceful happiness and can be found just about everywhere in the city, and, of course,  the delicious Indian food that is so different from anything I’ve tasted in other countries and is filled  with tasty and unique spices. But there also so many things waiting in Australia that I can’t wait to see and experience again after more than four months in India. Here are just a few of the main ones.

1. The beach. There are some things in life that you just take for granted, such as air, water or food. For me, the beach was one of those things. We grew up in small town in Ireland called Tramore, which was nestled snugly right by the coast. Whether it was munching greasy French fries on the stone pier next to the shore, hunting for crabs in the slimy rock-pools while throwing sticks into the foaming waves for our dog, Chomska, to fetch, or braving the Irish rain and cold to take a dip in the frigid water, the sea was always part of our daily lives. After moving to Australia the beach took on a greater meaning for us when we realised that in Melbourne it was actually warm enough to swim, with actual swimming, instead of just dipping your toes into the water and watching them turn blue while the howling wind and the blinding rain tries to throw you off your feet. But Perth, the place we moved to after Melbourne and now our home, definitely gets to claim credit for the most spectacular beaches. With the pristine white sand, crystal clear, sapphire blue water, and the 1000 camera-weilding tourists and locals, it’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to paradise. So the fact that in Bangalore the closest I can get to the sea is in the bathtub is completely new and totally heartbreaking for me. So you can probably imagine my joy when I discovered that during our two week holiday down in the south of India we would be stopping at a seaside holiday resort. The moment we arrived at the hotel I ignored the stifling, possibly fatal, heat and waded through the insanely humid air until I found what I was looking for: the beach. Sure, it wasn’t exactly pretty with the gritty grey sand, army of crabs and wickedly sharp rocks that loomed menacingly above the sea. But at least it had all the basic components of a beach: sand, water, jellyfish. I was in heaven. Well, at least I was until we started noticing an oily yellow substance swirling sluggishly in water about ten minutes after we had entered. That combined with the fact that there was a huge, open-air fish market a few kilometres down-shore and all their waste had to go somewhere, was enough to send us all scurrying off to the burning hot, crowded swimming pool with our tails between our legs.

The beach in Perth

Beach in Bangalore

Yep, even though it’s going to be in the dead of winter when we get back, I’m still looking forward to just walking along the beach, feeling the glorious, salty sea breeze on my skin and splashing happily in fish gut- free water.

2. The cold. As I already mentioned, when we arrive in Australia it will be frozen in the depths of an icy winter. This means there’s going to be lots of wet, rainy, cloudy, stormy, bone-chilling coldness. For some people this would a rather unappealing prospect to fly back to, but I can’t wait for that glorious rush of shivers when we finally arrive. My skin is aching for some numbing coldness, my burnt body longs for some cold to chase away the lingering heat, and my feet are itching for a thoroughly idiot, insanely immature and unbelievably fun rain dance. All this is because, due to some exceptionally annoying timing, we have been experiencing a nine month long summer. After enjoying Australia’s brain-roasting summer, we promptly caught the plane to India, where a another muscle-marinating summer was in full swing. And let me tell you, after more than half a year of sweat, heat and sunburn, a roaring fire and a hot cup of tea is starting to look pretty good.

 3. The food. This has been a major topic of discussion in my household over the past few days. Once everyone fully swallowed and digested the fact that we would be returning to Australia in a few short weeks it was all anyone could talk about. Of course, we have all tasted many delicious new things here which we will surely miss, but there is also a significant amount of things it is almost impossible to purchase, things which we took for granted in Australia. The first of these things is bread. You will find an impressive array of naans, chapatis, rotis, dosas and parathas in any shop or restaurant, but it is exceptionally hard to get hold of a decent loaf of bread. In grocery stores bread is practically an extinct species, and all the local bakery offers is a motley assortment of sticky cream cakes, crunchy biscuits, strange pumpkin-like creations and triangle-shaped toast. So far the only places we have been able to buy some real bread are a European shopping centre, a Singapore bread shop and an insanely expensive but ridiculously delicious buffet at a fancy tourist hotel. This tragic loss has been amplified by the fact that in Perth we have a wonderful Czech bakery right across the road, where we could dash over to every morning and get freshly baked bread rolls and free cupcakes or Danish pastries. The helpless desire for bread has by now reached the point where my sister is dreaming about bread rolls at night and my brother has taken to talking about sausage rolls for hours on end. Another problem in the food category is that our cramped, sweaty kitchen does not possess an oven. It is also lacking a dishwasher or a food processor, but I think the absence of an oven is the main problem. While visiting some of my dad’s friends in their apartments we noticed that a lot of other people seem not to have ovens either, but then again, most Indians are used to cooking things such as rice, curries and sambar, all of which you make on a stove. We are not.

I want an oven! I WANT PAVLOVA!!!

Suddenly we found ourselves faced with a problem. My mum was no longer able to cook a large majority of the foods she made at home, foods we consumed almost every day. Gone were the freshly baked cookies dripping with melted chocolate and the home-made muffins bulging with berries. Gone were the nachos drowning in cheese and the pizzas piled high with meat and vegetables. Gone were the cakes, the pastries and the bakes. It was a crushing loss, not least of all for my mum, who adores cooking and plans on getting right to it when we get back. I could bore you all to death by continuing the endless list of foods we miss, just some of which are cheese, berries, and foods from our delicious deli across the road, but instead I’ll finish by stating we plan on fixing this problem as soon as we get back.

I could keep writing for hours by continuing to the describe all the things I miss, including our car, a real hole-free pavement, our garden and swimming pool, all my awesome friends, my books, and my own room, but I think I’ll end it here. That said, there are also countless things in India that I will greatly miss as well, including our amazing yoga teacher, with whom we had our last lesson with today. Anyway thank you all for reading my post and have a nice day!

 

Chinese Fishing Nets

We only stayed in the beach-side city of Cochin for one day, but what an action packed day it was! We visited an ancient Dutch palace, a Jewish synagogue, a wash house, where dozens of people were washing, hanging up and ironing mountains of clothes, and St Francis Church, the oldest Christian church in India. Then we strolled down a blissfully shady path, passing through a miniature market where several people tried to sell us everything from wall prints to jewellery to Indian hand puppets, and walked down a walled street until we reached the beach.

The beach was the exact opposite of the stretches of pristine white sand and clear sapphire-blue water you’d find in Australia. Tattered fishing nets, filthy, foul smelling fish crates and and warped wooden fishing boats littered the rough shoreline, while the rubbish infested, slate grey sea did not look very inviting for swimmers. The smell of rancid fish laced the air like a vile brand of perfume, most of it floating over from the direction of an open air fish market further down the beach. But the biggest difference presented itself in the form of several huge wooden constructions that towered above the water. They were the Chinese fishing nets.

One of the Chinese Fishing Nets

After examining these strange creations for a while I realised they really were fishing nets, however unlikely it looked. At the back end, raised above the beach by some precariously balanced stilts, was a narrow wooden platform with a small shelter to protect workers from the raging heat of the sun. Further on was an incredibly complex system of levers and pulleys. Then, hanging just above the water level, there was a giant net.

As I watched, several of the workers activated the levers and pulleys, lowering the net. When the net was completely submerged the workers retreated into the shade. After about five minutes the workers braved the sun once more to hoist up the net from the water. I leaned forward, expecting to see masses of squirming fish, but the net was completely empty. Looking up and down the shore, I realised that most of the other nets looked empty too.

Our tour guide explained that the Chinese had introduced this style of fishing when they came to India in the 1350s, and it had become vastly popular. The Chinese fishing nets flourished up and down the coast of Cochin, bringing in truckloads of fish every day. They stayed successful for many years until, eventually times changed, and the fishing nets did not change with them. Hi-tech boats rocketed across the waves, entering the open ocean and catching fish before they had a chance make it to the shore. A huge tsunami several years back destroyed several of the fishing nets, and severely damaged others. Nowadays the Chinese fishing nets remain as an ancient relic, a gem from the past, there to show foreigners and tourists what it was like on the beaches of Cochin hundreds of years ago.

 

Elephant Party

This post is about one of our adventures in Periyar, just one of our many stops in our two week holiday around Kerala. After a long drive down from Munnar, a mountain town specialising in the production of tea, and a quick stop at our hotel for lunch and a quick dip in the pool, we bundled ourselves back into our private minibus for our afternoon adventures. We picked up our tour guide for the day and visited a spice plantation, where we saw dozens of spices including pepper, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and cloves and tasted some freshly picked cardamom, before setting off once more to have some real fun… at an elephant park.

Our first near death experience occurred just outside the elephant park. Two huge buses were parked mere millimetres away from each other, leaving a minuscule crack that an insect would have had difficulty squeezing through. Our driver drove fearlessly towards this tiny gap, ignoring the fact that even light was having difficulty in forcing itself through the virtually non-existent path. My blood ran cold as we inched further and further towards the tiny gap and certain death. Seconds before entering the passage of doom our desperate tour guide managed to convince the courage driver that we would be fine to walk the last few metres. What would have been our last drive was halted just centimetres from the death-trap. Whew!

After walking up a winding gravel road into the forest we came to a large clearing. There were people everywhere, sitting around on long wooden benches, talking loudly to each other, wandering around looking confused. Most of the commotion was situated at a step of rickety steps leading up to an unstable looking platform. Both the steps and the platform were packed with people gesturing wildly and stamping their feet like a stampede of buffalo. Children dashed around in mad circles, seemingly uninterested in the confusing chatter of the adults. My eyes allowed me only a second to take in this scene of chaos before latching onto the excited group of Chinese tourists at the edge of the platform. They were laughing giddily as they scrambled onto a… onto a… At this point my brain went into a fast freeze, refusing to process the image of the huge elephant waiting patiently for the Chinese tourists to climb on. I knew it had said ‘elephant ride’ on our day plan but I hadn’t expected, well, this. I mean, the biggest animal I’d ever been on was one of those tiny ponies they have at circuses, the ones with the size and speed of a dead snail. This would be a colossal step forward in terms of my animal riding experiences. Literally.

We watched the elephant with the Chinese tourists lumber slowly down a lumpy dirt path until it disappeared behind the trees. Then we found ourselves one of the many gnarled wooden benches and sat down to wait our turn. By sat down I mean that my brother and my sister immediately ran off to explore with Olympic sprinter enthusiasm and I busied myself with planning strategies for not falling from the elephant and dying a grisly death. After a little while an exhausted looking worker hurried over and hastily told us that it would be a maximum fifteen minutes wait until it was our turn. About thirty minutes later he hustled back and told us, looking extremely tired and stressed, that it was now our turn. Heart pounding with a a mixture of fear and anticipation, I followed him and the others towards the platform.

We scrambled up the wooden steps, which were as unstable as they looked, and onto the platform. Here the worker had a brief but intense argument with one unhappy family who had been waiting far longer than us (being a white foreigner has its privileges) which ended with my dad, brother and sister being bundled onto the waiting elephant before it could turn into a full scale war. I watched their elephant lurch into the distance as my mum struggled to take some pictures before they disappeared, not sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

We waited on the ominously creaking platform for about another fifteen minutes before the next elephant trundled slowly into view. My heart started pounding faster again. The thought ‘I am definitely going to fall off’ had taken up permanent residence in my head. After a torturous wait of what felt like hours, the elephant finally reached the side of the platform. Just as I was about to launch into panic attack mode, the unhappy family, who had morphed into the extremely angry family, charged into the picture. The poor worker didn’t stand a chance. Mere seconds later, the now cheerful family climbed triumphantly onto the elephant and disappeared in a cloud of dust. The wait began once more.

Far too soon another elephant parked itself next to the platform. Two adults and numerous tiny children slithered off, looking faintly sick but happy. Their smiling faces did nothing to calm my raging nerves. Before I had a chance to protest I was hastily hustled onto the broad back of the elephant, where I immediately focused all my attention on not falling off. I hunted desperately for a seatbelt, a safety harness or, well, anything while my mum clambered on behind me, but there was nothing. The only thing protecting me from falling to my death was a tiny pair of wooden handles that you were supposed to hold onto. I gripped them tightly enough to make my knuckles turn white, and had time for one deep, steadying breath before we were off.

The first step was even worse than I’d feared. I felt like I was trapped in the middle of an earthquake. I was bounced about twenty metres above the elephant (okay, so maybe it was more like twenty millimetres but the effect was just as scary) and my stomach turned several somersaults in rapid succession. I dug my  fingers into the handles and gritted my teeth. Just as I was managing to regain my fragile grip on calmness, the elephant took another step forward and my position atop the coarse blanket slipped just the tiniest fraction. Holding my breath, I sank as far back into the blanket as I could and dug my feet into the stirrup-like things that dangled over the elephant’s sides. Trying not to panic, I braced myself for the next step.

The step was bad, but not as bad as the first. Instead of being a gigantic lurch it was more of a mixture of lurching and swaying. I allowed myself to loosen my death grip on the handles, and even managed to direct a chunk of my mind away from thoughts of falling and towards the view. At that moment our elephant was plodding out of the noisy clearing and down a gentle slope into the cool, quiet, depths of the forest. I felt my body become accustomed to the movements of the elephant as I watched the leaves rustle lazily in the trees and a pheasant streak across the forest like a brightly coloured dream. Eventually I even mustered up the courage to let go of one of the handles and stroke the elephant’s neck, which was warm and covered with thick, brittle hairs.

I soon realised that our elephant was new to the job as she had to be led along by one of the staff, unlike the elephants in front and behind us, who just trundled peacefully along without any guidance whatsoever. At first I worried that this would mean she would lose control and go on a wild rampage through the forest, but when time passed and nothing happened I eventually relaxed. However, about halfway through the ride, the elephant suddenly stopped. ‘Oh no,’ I thought, ‘She’s about to go on a rampage.’ I peered over the elephant’s shoulder and saw a flash of green streak across my vision. Huh? Looking closer, I saw that the elephant was holding a large, leafy branch in her trunk. With a contented sigh she opened her mouth wide and took a huge bite. I had to laugh as I watched the worker who had been leading the elephant try in vain to make her move, commanding her to go in a brisk voice, loudly repeating her name, and even rapping her lightly on the leg with a stick. But the elephant refused to budge until she had completely finished her highly nutritious, afternoon snack. 🙂

Sadly, it was now time to return to where we had started. We had just reached the edge of the clearing, and I was saying a silent goodbye to the peaceful forest and the wonderful elephant who had carried us, when the elephant leader asked if we wanted any pictures. My mum cautiously extracted the camera from her shoulder bag and gingerly passed it down to him. He only managed to snap one or two hasty pictures before my dad, whose elephant ride had already ended, rushed up for his turn with the camera.

My dad was just snapping the fourth or fifth picture (after all, it never hurts to have spares) when my brother dashed over to us, proudly yelling that his elephant’s name was Usha. Upon hearing this I resolved to ask about our elephant’s name, so that I would have something more concrete than an image to remember her by, but my brother beat me to it, marching right up to the elephant leader and boldly asking his question. But what he got wasn’t certainly wasn’t what he expected! Instead of answering his question the elephant leader wrapped an arm around his waist and promptly hoisted him onto the elephant!!! My brother was too astonished to formulate a proper protest. Luckily he managed to grab my mum’s hand before he fell straight back onto the ground. 😉

My brother… the impostor

Elephant Ride 🙂

Shortly afterwards, I found myself sliding clumsily off the elephant’s back, the ride was over. I gave her a last farewell rub on the neck and waved her goodbye as I wobbled my way off the platform and down the wooden stairs. I half expected that to be the end, but the fun wasn’t over yet. Now we were going to… wash an elephant!

We followed our tour guide and one of the staff up a gentle slope back into the forest. I’d only walked a few steps when I had the unearthly feeling of being watched. Spinning around, I saw not a ghost, but a female elephant with peaceful brown eyes and the most adorable splatter of freckle-like spots around her trunk. Greatly relieved that I wasn’t being haunted, I grinned at her and continued up the slope.

After a few more minutes we reached a small path that forked off the larger one and led to a shallow stone basin.  The water in the basin was a suspicious murky brown and the stench rising from the basin made my eyes water unpleasantly. Leaves floated lazily about…  and suddenly started swirling frantically as the elephant shuffled past me and calmly stepped into the water. The two men who had led her up kicked off their shoes and leaped in after her. I watched as the two men shouted a command and the elephant obediently crouched, a position I imagine would be seriously hard to contort your body into when your legs are as thick as tree trunks. Then, with a world-weary sigh that seemed to say, ‘Just get it over with’ she lowered herself even further down until she was lying flat on the floor of the basin.

Our tour guide watched me expectantly until I cautiously clambered into the basin after my brother and sister, holding my breath against the stink that wafted up from the water like an evil serpent. The two men, who were both already wielding huge brushes, motioned for us to come closer as they began their elephant washing demonstration. First they started scrubbing viciously at the elephant’s hide, before splashing cascades of filthy water in all directions. Then, with the demonstration over, they grinned happily and continued with their work.I waded through the water to the edge where a my own brush was waiting for me. It was even more colossal up close,  like a brush fit for a… well, an elephant. With the brush sitting securely in my hand I shuffled carefully back to the elephant, trying not to tread in whatever it was that made the water smell so foul. I started at the elephant’s leg, giving it a few tentative strokes at first, then rubbing harder once I realised the elephant probably wouldn’t feel anything through her thick, leathery skin. I started to feel sorry for the elephant, who had to lie there in muddy (and God knows what else) water with her legs splayed out in an almost painfully uncomfortable position. I decided to make it up to her by making her as tidy and clean as I possibly could.

Mission Elephant Wash

Me, my brother and my sister soon fell into the soothing rhythm of washing the elephant by rubbing, scrubbing and washing. My brother seemed to enjoy the last part the most, splashing so vigorously that most of the water hit me even when I was on the other side of the elephant! Me and my sister worked on the elephant’s right side, while my brother worked on the left. The two professional elephant washers took care of the elephant’s head, thoroughly scrubbing the trunk and face.

Eventually my brother and my sister abandoned the murky basin but I stayed, far too busy with the state of the elephant’s toenails to leave. The state of these toenails all but broke my heart. The were brown, stained, muddy, filthy, chipped and cracked. I scrubbed desperately at them, lovingly rubbing at the worn edges and forcing the brittle hairs of my brush into even the tiniest grooves. I was just wondering how I could start a charity to raise money for the care of elephant toenails, when our tour guide announced that it was time for an elephant shower. I wasn’t sure exactly what this was, but it sounded fun, so I volunteered to go first.

Almost as soon as I’d spoken, one of the elephant washers wrapped his hands around my waist and lifted me onto the now clean elephant, which had risen into a kneeling position. I sat there, motionless, feeling dumb and confused. How was I supposed to have a shower here? I watched as some of the staff moved a bucket of clean water onto the ledge and the elephant dipped her trunk into it, feeling more baffled than ever. Maybe the elephant wanted to have a drink and then I was meant to have shower a – ARRRGH WATER EXPLOSION!!!!!!!!!! Water from the elephant’s trunk cascaded around me in a freezing waterfall. At last the barrage ended, leaving me drenched and shivering. Blinking water out of my eyes, I looked down at my brother, sister, mum and dad, who were giving me open-mouthed goldfish gapes. I grinned proudly down at them. This was awe – OH NO WATER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I shortly discovered that, as well as having a Round 2, the elephant shower also had a Round 3, 4 ,5 ,6 and 7. By the time I slithered unsteadily from the elephant’s back I was freezing cold and soaked to the bone. My drenched  shorts clung to me like a second skin, my T-shirt held enough liquid to fill a swimming pool and my dripping hair was giving me its own shower. I stumbled out of the pool, my teeth chattering, where someone was kind enough to hand me a towel. It was a scary but fun experience!

ELEPHANT SHOWER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Morals of this true story:

1. Elephant rides are not as scary as they look.
2. Elephant toenails are an endangered species. We must save them while we can.
3. ELEPHANT SHOWERS ARE AWESOME!!!

 

 

Poverty

Poverty is something that walks hand in hand with Bangalore city. There are signs of it everywhere.

A skeletal beggar dressed in filthy, tattered rags, a hopeless expression on his face and a tiny metal bowl clutched in his withered hands. Two children playing in the dirt and rubble of a crumbling ruin, abandoned by all except for those who have nowhere else to go. A crooked shack, crudely fashioned out of tin panels and weathered wooden boards. A mud-streaked child, naked except for the frayed cord around his waist, being washed by his exhausted mother at the side of the road.

These heartbreaking images sneak up on me every day, grabbing me by the throat and making me think, “How could it have come to this? How could there be so much pain and suffering in the world? And how could it be stopped?”

 

Bangalore Poem

Clash and clatter
Bang and rattle
Feet that patter
Hordes of cattle

The heart breakingly poor
Eyes staring sadly
Some at death’s door
Others injured badly

Dogs roam the streets
Here to stay
Begging for treats
Being chased away

A little holy shrine
Half hidden by the gloom
Gods in a line
All sharing a room

It’s a never resting place
Half buried in the past
But holding the secrets of an ancient race
And moving forward fast

 

Pavement Peril

Here is a list of the severe dangers of pavements.

1 Gigantic holes – In some parts of Bangalore the treacherous pavement is practically nonexistent due to these gaping and virtually bottomless monstrosities. Sometimes a hulking pile of rubble will herald their demonic presence and sometimes their is nothing to warn you of the danger lurking mere centimeters from your feet. Most of these hellish creations drill into the earth for several meters, and many don’t even have a safety hatch or a metal grate to protect you from their gaping maw. The bottom is usually marked by a bubbling pool of some unpleasant liquid or a pile of festering rubbish. In short, these little windows into hell are best left alone, and God help the unfortunate soul that becomes trapped in their putrid depths.

2 Piles of rubbish – No pavement in Bangalore is complete without one of these stink-infused mountains. They tower ominously above you, their smell winding its malicious way to your nose long before they come into sight. Their contsant, brutal attack to the senses is something I could certainly live without.

3 Motorbikes – These sinister beasts of steel are common visitors to the pavements of Bangalore. Sometimes they will warn you of their ominous presence with a blistering roar and sometimes their is nothing but the screech of wheels to alert you to your nearness to death. Of course, in countries like Australia there would be at least a dozen rules outlawing this dangerous, if not fatal, performance, but in Bangalore it seems like a normal and everyday performance. However, this fact does not stop me from screaming and diving for cover every time one of the death machines nears me.

4 Electricity wires – If you are lucky enough to live in a tranquil, relaxed country like Ireland or Australia, you will probably think of electricity wires as tame little animals, trotting obediently along at the edge of your vision, never coming close enough to frighten or harm you. But in Bangalore these tame little creations have gone wild, and been allowed to wander with disturbing freedom. They dangle like venomous snakes from trees and posts, form complicated, criss-crossing patterns above your  head and spew out their dangerous innards at random intervals. Walking along the pavement is like playing an endless game of limbo and skipping combined, constantly having to duck, dodge, and hop over the dangling wires. It’s exhausting.

5 Cow dung – I have sighted large amounts of this foul substance at several spots along the pavements of doom. In my opinion there is absolutely nothing to like about this vile ingredient of nature, and an awful lot to hate. Here is a list. (a) the horrible, disgusting smell, (b) the way hordes of tiny black flies gather around its slimy surface, (c) the horrible, disgusting smell, (d) the way it oozes across the ground like an overweight snail, (e) the horrible disgusting smell… well you get the picture.

As you can see, the pavements of Bangalore are indeed a dangerous place but when you compare them to the roads… well let’s just say that monstrous holes and endless mountains of cow dung are the least of my worries…

 

Food: It’s SPICY!!!!!!!

Before we start let us all be clear on one thing: I love the food here. It’s absolutely delectable and could easily be the best thing I’ve experienced in Bangalore. Then there’s the added bonus of everything being so cheap here, due to the economy in general being lower, so we can dine in at posh, first class restaurants whenever we want. So yes, I’m being quite serious when I say I absolutely love it. But, I’m also being serious when I say eating here is a matter of life and death. No exaggeration. Well, maybe a little bit 🙂

One thing I’ve noticed, and often tasted at my own risk, is that Indians really like their food spicy. There’s spicy bread, spicy tea, even spicy instant noodles! And then there’s the food in the restaurants. You should usually be ok equipped with a large glass of water, unless you order something with the word “chilly” in the title. Then you’re in for a world of trouble. An example of this is the unfortunately true story of “me versus chilly” which I will now recount.

We had decided to visit Magnolia, one of my favourite posh restaurants, for dinner and I was just recovering from a particularly venomous blast of the fiery chilly chicken when I noticed something small, green and bean-shaped  poking its head out innocently from my pile of spicy vegetables. A chilly. My heart roared out a fierce battle cry and I knew what I had to do. Taking a deep, calming breath to settle my nerves, I scooped up the chilly and popped it daintily into my mouth. I chewed and then tried to recoil from myself, finally realising what I had done. But nothing happened. I was alive! The patient chilly gave me one more moment to congratulate myself and then it struck its deadly blow. Molten lava roared up my throat, dragon fire all but seared off my tongue. Water was nothing against this inferno. Steamed rice only fuelled the fire. I was in agony. And in the rapidly burning house that was my brain I decided this must be what it felt like to be in hell.

Well that’s my post about food all wrapped up and done. Thanks for reading…and be warned…

 

The River Styx

Bangalore is a city of exotic food, intriguing secrets, a mysterious history, and most of all…rubbish. One example of the city’s tendency towards all things rubbish-infused is the great River Styx, wait I mean the River Stink, oh but that isn’t right either, is it? Lets just call it the Sewer. Some words I would associate with the Sewer are putrid, festering, and slightly less mature…stinky. By the way, I’m calling it the sewer because that’s really what it is, a sewer; the slightest trickle of suspiciously brown water mixed with several pinches of a rotting, slimy ingredient and several mountains of rubbish.That said, although I firmly disapprove of Bangalore’s “rubbishy” side I really enjoy the food. So spicy 🙂

 

Traffic Laws (they still haven’t arrived)

Dear readers, today it’s time to settle back and grab some popcorn as I treat you all to a first class rant about the virtually non-existent laws of traffic in Bangalore. I could write a book about all the life threatening things that happen on the perilous roads of this city, but for today I’m just going to focus on the treacherous auto rickshaws and their even more treacherous drivers. So fasten your seatbelts (but wait there aren’t any!) and join me on the journey of a lifetime (and it might be the last one in a your lifetime if you’re not careful!).

As with most things, when you don’t need one there’s always a bucket-load of the vehicles cruising around like hopeful vultures, and when you’re stranded in the middle of the city in all its roaring, sweltering, chaotic glory there are none to be seen. So you walk, walk and walk some more, dodging rabid motorcycles and salivating cows, until finally one wheezes up to you like a stray dog with bronchitis. The driver peeps out hopefully and you bellow out your address like a person possessed. The driver thinks for a while and then nods rather uncertainly, making it clear that he has no idea what you’re talking about. But by now you’re so desperate that you don’t care and you simply haul yourself inside. Now it’s time to confront the dangerous problem of payment. You can ask the driver to switch on the meter, a small device that records how many kilometres the rickshaw has travelled and converts it into rupees (the Indian currency), and if he is one of the few honest men of his trade   he will probably agree. But most do not use it as it’s the only thing that provides a reasonable fare and prefer instead to haggle for a ‘fair’ price. Once you have overcome this strenuous ordeal it’s time to hold on tight and prepare for the inevitable blast-off.

I will now give you a list of the dangers of travelling in an auto rickshaw, and since it’s little more than a motorbike with a frame attached and no doors or windows, there are quite a few.

1. Smashing into a cow: In India all cows are holy, and are therefore allowed to wander wherever they wish, including the road. Unfortunately, even though they’re holy, nobody cares for the poor creatures, the cold-hearted neglect turning the cows into rubbish-guzzling zombies who could definitely use a shower or ten. They shamble morosely along the side walk, stepping onto or crossing the road at random intervals, much to the terror of us unfortunate auto-rickshaw passengers.

2. Crashing into a car/motorbike/auto rickshaw/bicycle/truck/other vehicle of destruction: As you’ve probably already grasped, traffic laws in India are, and this is putting it lightly, rather lax. This means that every object that has the ability to move is automatically given a free pass to every lane on the road and a large chunk of the pavement, and is allowed to happily treat the road as the scene for (a) an extreme car stunts movie or (b) a movie set in hell. When I say happily I mean that some people might actually enjoy this apocalyptic activity, while others (ME!!!) sit curled up in a dark corner, shivering and sweating with brain-freezing horror.

3. Falling out of the auto rickshaw: I don’t think this is improbable in the slightest, especially considering the lack of doors, windows, seatbelts, seats, or any other safety equipment and the speed at which auto rickshaws move when they’re not stuck in a steady sludge of unmoving vehicles. The worst part is when they careen around a corner and you’re promptly thrown into (a) the side of the auto rickshaw or (b) another person in the auto rickshaw or most unluckily (c) out of the auto rickshaw itself. Fortunately I have not yet become acquainted with option (c) although (a) and (b) are not unfamiliar to me.

4. Puking out your guts: I firmly believe that this unsavoury option is unfortunately inevitable, and I know exactly what to point the finger of blame at: speed ramps. I don’t know who’s idea this was but to me it seems more inmeanious than ingenious. The reason is…nobody pays the slightest attention to them. Least of all the auto rickshaws drivers. So I get to enjoy the blissful sensation of my last meal rising back up my stomach about every 2 minutes. Heavenly.

Well now that your journey is over you can climb unsteadily out and have nice cool drink and a sit down as a reward for making it through. Congratulations! You’re alive! And now you know how I feel almost every single day. Maybe you even want to send over a few spare limbs, if you have any. Just in case…

 

The Park of Pigs

Today, the 29th of March, is a very important day in the history of my life. It is the day that I first saw, in all its natural glory, the park of…pigs! Well, if you can call a dismal strip of putrid land, dotted with gnarled and stunted trees and piled with mountains of festering rubbish a park. It certainly wasn’t a pretty site to look at. But the pigs seemed perfectly content with their slightly less than humble home. They waddled up and down the rotting mountains of their kingdom and snuffled their happily through three-course meals of rubbish, rubbish and just a bit more rubbish for dessert. It was certainly an interesting, if rather unsavoury, sight.

Pigs in heaven 🙂