As I scribble this most recent of delicate edicts, I am in an internet cafe in Goa, beside the beach with the sun setting, really v beautiful. I made it from Kovalam, up to Allepey where I stayed on a boat on the Keralan backwaters there before heading up the mountains to Perriyar and Kumali, finally to Kochi and train to Goa where I now find myself. But like I was saying, as I scribble this most recent of delicate edictsI turn to the people of India, for the little over 7 days that I have known them they've had quite an impact on me. I always think the best representation of a country is through its people, that's why at one stage Ireland was known as the country of a thousand welcomes due to their often amourous approach to dealing out the pints and randomly chatting to any stranger who wandered into their local, "ar ya forrin are ya... ye look it!". Now, with the world knowing Ireland for the fact it has rendered itself in the mother of all economic mires, not to mention the gormless edjit that is Cowen throwing his big car crash head and making shapes on every telly broadcast we're known for an altogether different reason. You may not think I'm going anywhere with this ut I am, I promise. To get the negative out of the way first I begin with the issue of tipping, begging and rip off scams.
I cannot think of a single town, village or city that I have visited so far in this heluva massive country in which I have not be pulled, dragged, heckled or otherwise attemptedly drawn to try and buy some overpriced piece of tack from some stall vender, be is the latest greatest newest and more improved llungi (type of scarf), to eat at every restaurant with every concievable food type and name on the menu (always curried though) or, well basically just anything that is going to add further weight to my 17kg bag.
They're one thing, and boy are they one thing, one big thing with your big western head on ye and your supposed loadsa money (I now refer to the above para containing reference to the finiancal sh1thole the emerald isle now finds itself it with Captain Calamity and his band of merry pirates at the helm), the people of India should know, if they bothered watching the news, when they ask where I'm from, "Ireland", they should probably be doing the apologising on my behalf and splitting their hard begged or scammed ruppees with me for all that I've got to head back to.
You get hawked at everywhere you go, day 1 Mumbai, I went to buy an Indian SIM card and only for the fact I'd had the forsight to ask at the hotel how much one should cost, the cheeky b'tard say 399rps... they cost 66rps, and after much conflaberation and a threat to walk out of the shop he sold me one at 100rps with the 34rps credited to my pay as you go account. But one of many such tales, the taxi/ tuk-tuk drivers are the best though, at least their seminally good humoured about the fact they're trying to rip you off and when you tell them to "get away with yourself" in the broadest Cavan accent I can muster, they generally succumb and split their initial asking price in half. I have no idea why I'm paying for it in the first class, they're cramped, uncomfortable, they honk every 5 seconds as if there is going to be a curfew on honking and they're looking to meet a quota and, well these little mechanised traffic clogging bullets of death and back to my earlier point that they should again split the price difference even further if they're planning on making me wet my pants by shooting into open traffic with big grinny heads on them as I'm pinned to the seat, white knuckled with what can only be described as a grimmace.
And that brings me nicely to traffic, of which in India, driving is pretty much like Fight Club. 'First rule of driving in India... there are no rules. Second rule of driving in India... don't speak about rules of the road. Third rule of driving in India... there are no rules!', pretty much like that!
I have nearly being knocked down on pretty much every single day of this journey and the trip up to the mountains, on which I had dedicated driver was, well, to put it simply, the single most terrifying experience of my entire short lived life. Not only were the roads packed... with people walking on them, and even an elephant at one stage, but back to the people, some of whom were walking at least 180km to a temple in some far flung corner of the south for a bless yourself and an Our Father before heading back again, but the road surfaces themselves, well... in some places there just plain wasnt any. 'Money', my driver, I sound like such a pompuous colonial when I say that, but yeah, Money (is actual name, if that was a sign of things to come) drove this car like his life depended on it, and not in a good way, like a Sandra Bullock Speed kinda way, Great Escape over the fence, Tom Cruise Days of Thunder kinda way! on these dirt tracks, I soon learned that two Panadol and the sick travel bands my sis gave me were the perfect accompaniment to every journey.
The people of India, bar the bad experiences I've had, really are amazing, so friendly. Genuinely interested in you and why you wanted to come to their country. From what I've seen, Indian's do their best to make themselves look as western as they can. I saw a guy in a pair of cowboy boots and 10 gallon hat in Mumbai... it was 30 degrees, and not one advertisement seems to show an Indian-y Indian if you catch my drift. They're all, well, white-ish. Which brings me to the next next point, which is white skin worship. I had my first experience of being asked to pose for a photo the other yesterday while waiting for the train to Goa (the trains I leave for another blog), yer man was then upset with the photo which he took on his phone, at which time an admiring crowd had gathered and I was preparing my poor self to vogue for him Madonna style, but he was unhappy, not at the fact that he'd just taken a pic of my puss mug, but because his phone wasn't good enough in the light of the eve, genuinely upset!
The station, which I will leave is another part of India which combines another element of their culture, the distinct lack of personal space. Me from the fields has coped particularly badly with this. Indians do not queue, obviously something the English forgot to tell them about, but queuing is a mere, well not a suggestion, more a figment of imagination. As I begged the enquiries desk at the station which I will go into more detail later, about 40 others clamours over me and my bags, putting their faces close to mine, the buses too. And they treat each other similarly, its nothing for two men to walk down the street hand in hand. Before I'm accused of gay-bashing here I'm alluding to nothing of the sort, but they hold hands and tickle each others fingers, fully grown men I'm talking about here... its just wierd alright!
But what I leave til last is their friendliness, kindness, compassion for one looking so rabbit caught in the headlights as I sometime and their willingness to help if they can. Match that with a decent hospitable nature and great cooking when the curry fever leaves me (just for breakfast, I can't hack it for breakfast!), all in all India really is a v special place to be.
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Kovalam... far from the maddening crowd but a bit of a Bundoran in India
Far from the maddening crowd... it was the best of times, it was the worst of times and any other belt at plagiarism I can muster... oh yeah, Heathcliff... Healthcliff etc etc
but back to me, arrived in Thrivandrum and immediately the difference was immense. Apart from the airport looking a bit like the Tesco's carpark in Cavan I exited the terminal and looked for a taxi to take me to Kovalam... at this stage I didn't care, I didn't particularly care for any more integration, yes- this is after only one day, all I wanted was to see another western face. The journey again, like I'm fairly prepared for with any car journey was just to understate it, a bit nuts! this driver very fond of the auld beep beep and when I chattered a little nervous laughter when he careered between and gas truck and an army of oncoming tuk-tuks, basically 3 gear motor tricycles with a makeshift shed perched on the back, he thought I was clearly enjoying my experience in his Ambassador car and drove ever more precariously and beeped all the more.
As I write this I have a little visitor, an albino gekko which has scuttled and nuzzled up against the computer for warmth.
On arrival in Kovalam, a beach resort, once v fashionable in the 60's and 70's as a hippie mecca, now a bit Bundoran-y if truth be told, if without the buzz and flash and ching of the slot machines. The taxiu driver had rang ahead to a friend obviously to tell him he had some thicko in the back with no place to stay, "grand" i said, "ill go see this place". I did, he said 1000 rupees and I balked, dodging away from "nice sir, kind sir, you name a price I look after you" (to be said in an Indian accent) and headed up the hill towards what is the junction. The hill is the main connecting street between Kovalam beach, at the bottom and Kovalam junction, at the top, and the first person I met was an "auld feller" named Frank... a westerner, my prayers were answered. I immediately asked him would he know of a nice place to stay and he replied "follow me". We ended up away a bit from the beach, down a bit of an alley, in between some trees and to Harri "tuk tuk" Kuhmars! I'm serious, Ive seen worse places in Ireland and away from Mumbai, this was heaven!
So I laid out my bags, Harri wasn't there, Frank had to chase up a wooden elephant carving he'd tried to post home 6 years previous and Frank's most gracious partner Meg took to showing me around. The rest of the day was just about settling, acclimatising, start to breath normally away from the terror of Mumbai and basically relax! Which I did, and then, after din that night with Frank and Meg I calfed out, til 1pm the next day, I didn't care, I just crashed. Earplugs in, for the place we're staying in is right beside a Bhuddist Temple and these lot like to get up at 7.30am and 6.30pm and chant and sing and ring this bells, mixing with it the squalk of what I can old describe as squirrels and chirp chirp of the grass hoppers and all other singing sorts of beastily insects.
The no more curry rule did go out the window though that night at dinner, having the single best curry of my short ill-lived life, fish malabari!, brekkers consisted of a Masala omllette, which is basically a really thin omllette with chillis... NO CURRY POWDER!
By this stage I'm starting to develop a travellers hum, despite my washing and all that goes with it I can't seem to shake the sweet mix of slightly sweaty, DEET mosquito repellent and suntan lotion.
The beaches here are beautiful though, though at the same time covered in damn hawkers trying to sell their wares, everything from blankes to llungi scarves, sunglasses to little wooden toys, and then there are the hundreds of wild dogs, though they dont bother you, they're still there!
Hearing so much about the whole Ayeurvedic massage lark, I went for one, following the suggestion of a German couple who enviously viewed my room as it has two windows, they showed me to this old fella with a beard who apparently is v good. Auyeurvedic is a 5 prong approach to self healing, partly through massage, oils, diet etc and if I was a pencil drawing this fella would have rubbed me out he was going so hard.
Pushing me this way and twisting me that, chucking the oil on me, so much I thought I'd slip off the bed it was as if this Auyeurvedic massage thing was going out of fashion and he just wanted to cash in. Lying there, slipping and sliding all over the shop, his hands as rough as sandpaper I started to accept my circumstance and went with it... massage after all is suppose to be relaxing... it was... that is until he touched ball....one ball but ball nonetheless, and whether he did it on purpose, which I doubt he did, it made me terribly aware of my tremendously vulnerable position.
But grand, it was grand... all part of the experience (repeat 3 times)
Booked next part of my journey too, from here to Allepey, another beach area, then to Perriyar up the mountains to a Tiger reserve and then to Kochi to catch the train to Goa.
Day 5 I woke up with a dose of the sh1ts, my first since arrival so I just pilled up, had some brekkers, Phutto, a wheat porridge type effort served dry and in a roll with coconut along with some hot milk, honey and banana, really enough stodge to block a drain and I slept til the eve- woke up grand! sorted and happy out.Phutto has been the most western thing I've ate since arriving, bar the three ginger nut biscuits I smuggled through customs from England which I devoured in my time of need between Mumbai and Thrivandrum.
My last day in Kovalam was pretty uneventful, in fairness to India the south is doing all it can to make me feel at home, raining every day just like fair olde Ireland.
I didn't adventure beyond my now familiar confines of Kovalam too much, its nice here, I don't regret not tripping about too much and am getting my feet settled somewhat ready for the next leg of journey.
but back to me, arrived in Thrivandrum and immediately the difference was immense. Apart from the airport looking a bit like the Tesco's carpark in Cavan I exited the terminal and looked for a taxi to take me to Kovalam... at this stage I didn't care, I didn't particularly care for any more integration, yes- this is after only one day, all I wanted was to see another western face. The journey again, like I'm fairly prepared for with any car journey was just to understate it, a bit nuts! this driver very fond of the auld beep beep and when I chattered a little nervous laughter when he careered between and gas truck and an army of oncoming tuk-tuks, basically 3 gear motor tricycles with a makeshift shed perched on the back, he thought I was clearly enjoying my experience in his Ambassador car and drove ever more precariously and beeped all the more.
As I write this I have a little visitor, an albino gekko which has scuttled and nuzzled up against the computer for warmth.
On arrival in Kovalam, a beach resort, once v fashionable in the 60's and 70's as a hippie mecca, now a bit Bundoran-y if truth be told, if without the buzz and flash and ching of the slot machines. The taxiu driver had rang ahead to a friend obviously to tell him he had some thicko in the back with no place to stay, "grand" i said, "ill go see this place". I did, he said 1000 rupees and I balked, dodging away from "nice sir, kind sir, you name a price I look after you" (to be said in an Indian accent) and headed up the hill towards what is the junction. The hill is the main connecting street between Kovalam beach, at the bottom and Kovalam junction, at the top, and the first person I met was an "auld feller" named Frank... a westerner, my prayers were answered. I immediately asked him would he know of a nice place to stay and he replied "follow me". We ended up away a bit from the beach, down a bit of an alley, in between some trees and to Harri "tuk tuk" Kuhmars! I'm serious, Ive seen worse places in Ireland and away from Mumbai, this was heaven!
So I laid out my bags, Harri wasn't there, Frank had to chase up a wooden elephant carving he'd tried to post home 6 years previous and Frank's most gracious partner Meg took to showing me around. The rest of the day was just about settling, acclimatising, start to breath normally away from the terror of Mumbai and basically relax! Which I did, and then, after din that night with Frank and Meg I calfed out, til 1pm the next day, I didn't care, I just crashed. Earplugs in, for the place we're staying in is right beside a Bhuddist Temple and these lot like to get up at 7.30am and 6.30pm and chant and sing and ring this bells, mixing with it the squalk of what I can old describe as squirrels and chirp chirp of the grass hoppers and all other singing sorts of beastily insects.
The no more curry rule did go out the window though that night at dinner, having the single best curry of my short ill-lived life, fish malabari!, brekkers consisted of a Masala omllette, which is basically a really thin omllette with chillis... NO CURRY POWDER!
By this stage I'm starting to develop a travellers hum, despite my washing and all that goes with it I can't seem to shake the sweet mix of slightly sweaty, DEET mosquito repellent and suntan lotion.
The beaches here are beautiful though, though at the same time covered in damn hawkers trying to sell their wares, everything from blankes to llungi scarves, sunglasses to little wooden toys, and then there are the hundreds of wild dogs, though they dont bother you, they're still there!
Hearing so much about the whole Ayeurvedic massage lark, I went for one, following the suggestion of a German couple who enviously viewed my room as it has two windows, they showed me to this old fella with a beard who apparently is v good. Auyeurvedic is a 5 prong approach to self healing, partly through massage, oils, diet etc and if I was a pencil drawing this fella would have rubbed me out he was going so hard.
Pushing me this way and twisting me that, chucking the oil on me, so much I thought I'd slip off the bed it was as if this Auyeurvedic massage thing was going out of fashion and he just wanted to cash in. Lying there, slipping and sliding all over the shop, his hands as rough as sandpaper I started to accept my circumstance and went with it... massage after all is suppose to be relaxing... it was... that is until he touched ball....one ball but ball nonetheless, and whether he did it on purpose, which I doubt he did, it made me terribly aware of my tremendously vulnerable position.
But grand, it was grand... all part of the experience (repeat 3 times)
Booked next part of my journey too, from here to Allepey, another beach area, then to Perriyar up the mountains to a Tiger reserve and then to Kochi to catch the train to Goa.
Day 5 I woke up with a dose of the sh1ts, my first since arrival so I just pilled up, had some brekkers, Phutto, a wheat porridge type effort served dry and in a roll with coconut along with some hot milk, honey and banana, really enough stodge to block a drain and I slept til the eve- woke up grand! sorted and happy out.Phutto has been the most western thing I've ate since arriving, bar the three ginger nut biscuits I smuggled through customs from England which I devoured in my time of need between Mumbai and Thrivandrum.
My last day in Kovalam was pretty uneventful, in fairness to India the south is doing all it can to make me feel at home, raining every day just like fair olde Ireland.
I didn't adventure beyond my now familiar confines of Kovalam too much, its nice here, I don't regret not tripping about too much and am getting my feet settled somewhat ready for the next leg of journey.
Friday, 3 December 2010
made the plane, made Mumbai... does a person actually live in that box under that bridge and... even the chips are curried!
hola folks, well the next leg of my journey, from the couch in Crouch End to the plane was unexpectedly eventful, a dare say sign, good or bad of things to come. Arrived at Paddington Station, dropped there by sis boyfriend Gary and herself, both of us taking the Heathrow Express to the airport... which was fine. Fine until, well we thought well-on-time until I tried to check in at the desk only to be told I couldn't because bloody British Airways had overbooked the flight and until the check in desk was closed I'd "have to wait and see" if there was a seat for me. So, armed with two complimentary vouchers for the nearby Costa Coffee or whatever chain cafe was there in the brand spanking new Terminal 5, Nu and I sipped our tea and plotted the stalking and downfall of BA... that is, if they didn't put me on the plane.
Eventually, they did. And I was upgraded, Economy Plus, exactly like the cattle grid down the back except with a bit more leg room, I could live with that. However, what they didn't bother to tell me was that with the gate closing sign half going epileptic flashing on the screen saying 'all were boarding', the flight gate was 15 minutes and a train ride away from where I went through security. So with my main bag stowed underneath, I was left to hockey my small rucksack and sleeping bag Linford Christie style through a myriad of sparkly new hallways, avoiding the urge to stop and splash the cash, pre-rupees that is, in the duty free on booze and made it as one of the last on the damn plane.... all part of the experience all part of the experience all part of the experience all part of the experience I keep telling myself. By my own admission I am horrendously gullible though.
Well I made it to Mumbai, stiflingly hot, the entire journey over the guy I sat beside and a girl who also nearly missed the flight because of BA's overbooking kept telling me, they say "assuring me", that Mumbai would be a hell of an experience. As a precursor to the whole India thing BA even served curry on the flight. That was 12.30am at night and I can't rem the last time I did that, prob student days and I was already getting that sinking feeling.
Arrival in Mumbai, well....its 'all part of the experience'.
Immediately, after going through, and I counted, 7 different security checks, from getting what I can only describe as a raffle ticket you'd buy going into a community centre back home only to hand it back to another guy for steps later, spending more than 30 min in their convoluted security area being bashed and bobbed all over the shop I got some of what they call money over here, every note has a Ghandi face on it, I exited the terminus. I was instead, with my happy and dare say stunned big western head on me jostled by all manner of people vying for my attention. I had booked a pre-paid taxi on the advice of many and a guy came up to me telling me "ah, taxi for 2345... whatever it was", I bring you. Not like Floods or Cavan Cabs back home I followed him to the car, he took my bag of me, put it in the car, opened the door for me, I sat in....he was not the driver, just some hanger on looking to prey on stupid foreigners who proceeded to stick his had out expecting money from me... I gave him 10 rupees, about 20c and the cheeky b'tard told me not enough. Seriously, I know the minimum wage is to get worse in Ireland but these bleedin Indians take the piss.
Taxi out of the airport and journey to hotel equally eventful, kid rapping at the windows begging, big skyscrapers built alongside tiny shanty villages... I looked out the window in awe asking myself, "is a person actually going to sleep in that cardboard box inside that burned out car under that bridge tonight", the answer scarily enough was prob yes, and they'd be sharing it with their family and probably 10 others.
We passed the Domestic airport which is separate from the International as we travelled to the hotel, chosen for its closeness to said Dom airport as well as free transfer. If Michael O'Leary could only feckin see it he'd quit his giving out about the new one in Dublin and thank his lucky feckin stars, it looked like a birds nest with the odd metallic bird popping its head out and jetting off somewhere or other.
The trip to the hotel also marked my first experience of road travel in India.... OH SWEET JESUS! it doesn't matter what side of the road the Inidan's drive on they don't give a sh1t, left and right, in and out, honking and beeping their way through the onslaught of other vehicles, buses, trucks, motorbikes, peddle bikes, rickshaws and tuk-tuks, absolute insanity. But I arrived and in fairness the hotel was ok, I laid out my 4 tog sleeping bag despite the fact that I was in 30 degree heat and upped my mosquito net. I tottered downstairs, starving at this stage but thanks to my meal on the plane 'curry fever' had set in. I know, I was warned, "curry morning, noon and night" but I still wasn't prepared, for it, the sights, the sounds, the deluge of people on the roads, foothpaths, hanging out of makeshift "shops", I say with inverted commas. I've said it to some and say it here to, like shopping in Penny's but if Penny's was on a seriously bad acid bender.
After stomaching some rise crap, of course curried, I crashed for most of the day. I have never experienced jet lag in my life and can only liken it to the worst of cider hangovers, my head thumped, joints ached and my feet were still fat from the flight.
Around 7ish however, while I was watching a repeat of the Barca 5-0 drubbing of Real Madrid for a second time, so a re-repeat, the phone rang to startle the sh1te out of me. At this stage, and I admit it, I was petrified and desperate to find any excuse not to leave the room at all... it was the mother! Ann Enright herself, if ever there was a sounder woman I could just imagine her big mammy head on the other end of the line. Typically, she was giving out to me, telling me to cop myself on and see about me, which I duly did.
In the north of the city and beside a major road and bridge junction which divides north and south of the city and walked up and down the road for a bit. I also gained yet another useful insight into the Indian business mentality when I tried to buy a sim card for my phone, "299 rupees sir, you like, you buy", luckily I'd asked at the hotel who told me to pay no more than 60 rps at most. At this stage I was starving so I went into busiest roadside cafe there was, ordered a beer and pulled out my book. Also ordered a plate of 'finger chips' saying to myself, no more curry, oh god please no more curry.... what did I get? curry f'n chips, and not even as good as you'd get at home, lot to be said for the auld packet sauce alright!
Before bed another call from home, this time Nuala from London, happy out, but as we're 5 and half hours ahead, she was talking to me at 7.30pm her time and my watch in India was ticking on 1am. My wakeup call was at 5am and my flight to Thrivandrum in Kerala in the south at 7am... I was hanging, and that takes me up post.... slan
Eventually, they did. And I was upgraded, Economy Plus, exactly like the cattle grid down the back except with a bit more leg room, I could live with that. However, what they didn't bother to tell me was that with the gate closing sign half going epileptic flashing on the screen saying 'all were boarding', the flight gate was 15 minutes and a train ride away from where I went through security. So with my main bag stowed underneath, I was left to hockey my small rucksack and sleeping bag Linford Christie style through a myriad of sparkly new hallways, avoiding the urge to stop and splash the cash, pre-rupees that is, in the duty free on booze and made it as one of the last on the damn plane.... all part of the experience all part of the experience all part of the experience all part of the experience I keep telling myself. By my own admission I am horrendously gullible though.
Well I made it to Mumbai, stiflingly hot, the entire journey over the guy I sat beside and a girl who also nearly missed the flight because of BA's overbooking kept telling me, they say "assuring me", that Mumbai would be a hell of an experience. As a precursor to the whole India thing BA even served curry on the flight. That was 12.30am at night and I can't rem the last time I did that, prob student days and I was already getting that sinking feeling.
Arrival in Mumbai, well....its 'all part of the experience'.
Immediately, after going through, and I counted, 7 different security checks, from getting what I can only describe as a raffle ticket you'd buy going into a community centre back home only to hand it back to another guy for steps later, spending more than 30 min in their convoluted security area being bashed and bobbed all over the shop I got some of what they call money over here, every note has a Ghandi face on it, I exited the terminus. I was instead, with my happy and dare say stunned big western head on me jostled by all manner of people vying for my attention. I had booked a pre-paid taxi on the advice of many and a guy came up to me telling me "ah, taxi for 2345... whatever it was", I bring you. Not like Floods or Cavan Cabs back home I followed him to the car, he took my bag of me, put it in the car, opened the door for me, I sat in....he was not the driver, just some hanger on looking to prey on stupid foreigners who proceeded to stick his had out expecting money from me... I gave him 10 rupees, about 20c and the cheeky b'tard told me not enough. Seriously, I know the minimum wage is to get worse in Ireland but these bleedin Indians take the piss.
Taxi out of the airport and journey to hotel equally eventful, kid rapping at the windows begging, big skyscrapers built alongside tiny shanty villages... I looked out the window in awe asking myself, "is a person actually going to sleep in that cardboard box inside that burned out car under that bridge tonight", the answer scarily enough was prob yes, and they'd be sharing it with their family and probably 10 others.
We passed the Domestic airport which is separate from the International as we travelled to the hotel, chosen for its closeness to said Dom airport as well as free transfer. If Michael O'Leary could only feckin see it he'd quit his giving out about the new one in Dublin and thank his lucky feckin stars, it looked like a birds nest with the odd metallic bird popping its head out and jetting off somewhere or other.
The trip to the hotel also marked my first experience of road travel in India.... OH SWEET JESUS! it doesn't matter what side of the road the Inidan's drive on they don't give a sh1t, left and right, in and out, honking and beeping their way through the onslaught of other vehicles, buses, trucks, motorbikes, peddle bikes, rickshaws and tuk-tuks, absolute insanity. But I arrived and in fairness the hotel was ok, I laid out my 4 tog sleeping bag despite the fact that I was in 30 degree heat and upped my mosquito net. I tottered downstairs, starving at this stage but thanks to my meal on the plane 'curry fever' had set in. I know, I was warned, "curry morning, noon and night" but I still wasn't prepared, for it, the sights, the sounds, the deluge of people on the roads, foothpaths, hanging out of makeshift "shops", I say with inverted commas. I've said it to some and say it here to, like shopping in Penny's but if Penny's was on a seriously bad acid bender.
After stomaching some rise crap, of course curried, I crashed for most of the day. I have never experienced jet lag in my life and can only liken it to the worst of cider hangovers, my head thumped, joints ached and my feet were still fat from the flight.
Around 7ish however, while I was watching a repeat of the Barca 5-0 drubbing of Real Madrid for a second time, so a re-repeat, the phone rang to startle the sh1te out of me. At this stage, and I admit it, I was petrified and desperate to find any excuse not to leave the room at all... it was the mother! Ann Enright herself, if ever there was a sounder woman I could just imagine her big mammy head on the other end of the line. Typically, she was giving out to me, telling me to cop myself on and see about me, which I duly did.
In the north of the city and beside a major road and bridge junction which divides north and south of the city and walked up and down the road for a bit. I also gained yet another useful insight into the Indian business mentality when I tried to buy a sim card for my phone, "299 rupees sir, you like, you buy", luckily I'd asked at the hotel who told me to pay no more than 60 rps at most. At this stage I was starving so I went into busiest roadside cafe there was, ordered a beer and pulled out my book. Also ordered a plate of 'finger chips' saying to myself, no more curry, oh god please no more curry.... what did I get? curry f'n chips, and not even as good as you'd get at home, lot to be said for the auld packet sauce alright!
Before bed another call from home, this time Nuala from London, happy out, but as we're 5 and half hours ahead, she was talking to me at 7.30pm her time and my watch in India was ticking on 1am. My wakeup call was at 5am and my flight to Thrivandrum in Kerala in the south at 7am... I was hanging, and that takes me up post.... slan
Monday, 29 November 2010
The day before the day I land in India
Location; London- Sitting on couch watching Deep Space 9 in Nuala's house
Status; third... maybe forth cup of tea but mouths still gasping dry and about tenth After Eight.... nervous, breathing heavy, face tightening, eyes constantly flicking towards clock on wall, tick tick tick (there’s a tock in there somewhere), every second my adrenal gland pumping ever harder still as it attempts to compensate for the near heart attack I feel coming on.... four, five hours away from flight start to Mumbai and the next 10 months of my life, away from home, away from family, friends and familiar faces!
This Blog lark is but yet another attempt for me to infiltrate and capitalise on the serious wonders of connectivity granted by the world of social networking. This will not be a magnum opus or an optimus prime for that matter, a mere flitter of information which I intend to bestow to all who know me as I wander, dander and most likely stumble blindly though a myriad of countries, a kaleidoscopic mish mash of cultures, languages and peoples as well as, I hope, the auspicious meeting of many, many friendly, similarly lost and foot weary buddies along the way.
This trip will take me from today, November 29 to India, to mountainous Nepal, the orient of South East Asia Thai, Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos as well as a wee spin to Hong Kong and South China. Elsewhere the trail will take me to OZ, NZ and Figi and finally to South America where I’ll trek in Chile, Peru, Bolivia and party in Brazil and Argentina before home again sometime towards the end of August next year.
What I hope to find out there I don’t know, what I expect to find out there… again, I don’t know, what will happen… we’ll it wouldn’t be an adventure if I knew every single minutae of detailality.
For now, as I sign of on the first of several, Slan and Happy Out,
Seamus
Status; third... maybe forth cup of tea but mouths still gasping dry and about tenth After Eight.... nervous, breathing heavy, face tightening, eyes constantly flicking towards clock on wall, tick tick tick (there’s a tock in there somewhere), every second my adrenal gland pumping ever harder still as it attempts to compensate for the near heart attack I feel coming on.... four, five hours away from flight start to Mumbai and the next 10 months of my life, away from home, away from family, friends and familiar faces!
This Blog lark is but yet another attempt for me to infiltrate and capitalise on the serious wonders of connectivity granted by the world of social networking. This will not be a magnum opus or an optimus prime for that matter, a mere flitter of information which I intend to bestow to all who know me as I wander, dander and most likely stumble blindly though a myriad of countries, a kaleidoscopic mish mash of cultures, languages and peoples as well as, I hope, the auspicious meeting of many, many friendly, similarly lost and foot weary buddies along the way.
This trip will take me from today, November 29 to India, to mountainous Nepal, the orient of South East Asia Thai, Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos as well as a wee spin to Hong Kong and South China. Elsewhere the trail will take me to OZ, NZ and Figi and finally to South America where I’ll trek in Chile, Peru, Bolivia and party in Brazil and Argentina before home again sometime towards the end of August next year.
What I hope to find out there I don’t know, what I expect to find out there… again, I don’t know, what will happen… we’ll it wouldn’t be an adventure if I knew every single minutae of detailality.
For now, as I sign of on the first of several, Slan and Happy Out,
Seamus
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