Back in Blighty

I often wonder if I will ever feel settled. I quite fancy staying in London for a good three years now (my idea of ‘settled’) but I do catch myself thinking about living in Manhattan or in Italy again or somewhere new altogether – like Australia or Japan. No, I take that back, not Japan -- too foreign.

Even though I’m a little tired of being on an airplane every weekend, I’m already thinking of travel alternatives – I haven’t seen much of the English countryside. It’s lovely and accessible by train – and not flea-infested smelly ones (but the tea on board won’t be quite the same).

Now that I am back in blighty (a term derived funnily enough from the Hindi word vilayati, meaning ‘foreign’), I thought I’d wrap up with a couple anecdotes, ‘after mint’ to my time in India, if you will:

When I have a cold in the US, my friends make sure to keep their distance. In fact, I have a number of friends who won’t share a water bottle with me even when I’m perfectly healthy. Right after Jaipur, I was running a fever but work was hectic, so I worked through it, even fitting in a work dinner despite being close to delirium. At dinner, we were all served an unidentifiable thick green beverage (think wheatgrass shot but a little larger and reportedly made of mango). I took a tentative sip – it had a tart, acquired taste that I wasn’t up to acquiring that evening. Bani eyed my glass, and I warned her – don’t even think about it – I’m really sick. Two minutes later I noticed the glass had been drained of its offensive liquid. “Bani! Did you drink that? You’re mad. You’re going to get sick. In the US, I wouldn’t have even been invited to dinner in this state!”
“Well, in India,” Bani responds, “we believe that you need your friends to get even closer when you’re sick.” That made me smile. I’d found the silver lining on the cloud of a country that’s not the most hygiene-conscious.

In India, toilets tend to have a little tap, a bucket full of water sitting directly beneath the tap and a smaller receptacle with a handle (sort of like the one you’d use for netilat yada’im) bobbing in the bucket of water. In Cochin, Andrew and Eimer led me to believe that Indians use their bare hands to wipe, after which they wash their hands off in the bucket. Convenient explanation for [a] lack of toilet paper in all public loos and [b] Indians seeming never to wash their hands when they exit a toilet stall. A little hard to believe, but I shrugged my shoulders, thinking 'This is India’ and took their explanation for truth. I wanted to ask someone Indian about it but was too wary/embarrassed at the prospect of a confirmation – until I finally asked Bani when we went to Mussoorie. The real story: they scoop up some water in the smaller receptacle and chuck it at the sullied areas. If there’s toilet paper, they’ll wipe dry; if there isn’t, they won’t. They think it’s terribly unhygienic that Westerners don’t use water to clean their bums after they shit. I’m really pleased I got that story straight before leaving India. Check out this link for pics & useful explanatory diagrams: http://www.pbase.com/jtodhunter/indian_toilet

That’s it. Five months, two little anecdotes and no grand epiphanies. Although I have JUST left. The epiphanies may still be on their way. I do think, though, that I could have done much better in India than I did. Knowing what I know now, I could have achieved more at work, experienced more of what the country has to offer, made more friends and, through them, learned a lot more about India’s culture & people. Of course, when I first came out, I didn’t know what I know now. Such is life. The next time I go to India on a 6-month assignment, I’ll do much better. Promise.

Masala in Mussoorie

This last weekend in India was one of firsts. First train trip in India – and overnight at that! First visit to a hill station – I’ve been hearing about them since I arrived (Darjeeling, Ooty, Munnar), they’re just a little hard to get to and back from on a weekend. Most importantly, first weekend with an Indian friend! And most unfortunately, first weekend without my camera (Google Images to the rescue! Pics courtesy of: Images � Roman's Travel Website, http://www.hobotraveler.com)

Bound for the foothills of the Himalayas, Bani and I arrive at the train station in Delhi on Thursday night a good hour and a half earlier than is necessary. When I ask her why, she replies that hanging out at the train station is fun. With a chill in the air, stray dogs begging us for food we don’t have, more bugs than I’ve ever seen in one place at one time and nowhere clean to sit, I’m not exactly sure what she means by ‘fun,’ but I try to make do. I take to pacing back and forth so that the bugs don’t think it appropriate to land on me, though this only helps the situation marginally. I’ve already fished a teeny spider out of my eye and am pretty miserable. I’m very happy when we finally board, and when Bani implies that I’m high maintenance, I laugh because I think I’m doing pretty well under the circumstances.

I do feel that this is the real India, though. Air travel is the new trend, and it seems that every day there’s a new article in the Times of India about the desperate shortage of qualified pilots, but the masses still make their way across the vast subcontinent by rail. And once I’m on board, tucked into my top bunk, pretending not to see the stains all over my sheets and covering the equally dirty pillow with my pashmina, it’s not unpleasant. We glide rhythmically along the tracks and somewhere between Delhi and Hardiwar I fall asleep. We arrive in Dehra Dun early Friday morning and take an old-school ambassador up an hour of tight twists and turns until we arrive at The Queen of Hills – Mussoorie.



Mussoorie’s lovely – sweeping views of hills and valleys, fresh mountain air, monkeys, walking trails, and a very rickety cable car to the hill station’s highest point. It’s rather refreshingly brisk out: I finally get use out of my ski jacket and Bani and I stop to sip on sweet steaming masala chai every hour or so. We pick up all sorts of other snacks along the way too – masala popcorn, warm peanuts dipped in masala, freshly squeezed orange juice with masala. Masala madness! As you’ve probably figured out, masala is a type of spice, but it’s also used metaphorically. If you want to say there weren’t any extra frills in a film, you say it just didn’t have any masala :)

Bani thinks I’m a bit of a pansy because I’m scared of the cable car (you would’ve been too). But that’s nothing compared to how scared I am on the way to Kempty Falls. The driver – clearly not having grasped the concept of human mortality – careens around the narrow mountain roads completely oblivious of the 6000 foot drop inches away from his treadless tires.

I am terrified, and I’m not the only one. There’s a baby on board who’s close to tears. There’s a woman who runs out of the jeep every time it stops and throws up. I’m appalled at this madman’s lack of regard for the wellbeing of the 10 people he’s carpooling down to see the waterfall, especially as there are ominous signs all the way down warning, SPEED THRILLS BUT KILLS. Perhaps he doesn’t read English. Why aren’t these signs in Hindi as well, I wonder?

Bani finally says something to the driver and my heart is able to beat again. We then proceed to enlist the driver’s undivided services for the afternoon (look who’s mad now). He seems to be in less of a rush though, and the trip to Danoulthy is well worth it. The misty, scenic drive takes us past bundled farmworkers and small villages, and an hour later, we are walking amidst wispy, rolling clouds and towering pine trees. Danoulthy is also where I have the warmest, loveliest most syrupy gulab jamun I have ever tasted.

The drive back is even more lovely now that the sun has started its descent into the mountains. The dusky pink sky, illuminated by a golden sun, is mesmerising. I miss the exact moment when pink turns to midnight blue, but it’s dark when we get out of the jeep in Mussoorie. We walk down the Mall Road one last time, looking out over the twinkling, light-studded valley.

We leave for Dehra Dun early the following morning, again – arriving at the train station FAR too early. I don’t know what it is about Bani and train stations!



The train trip back is fairly uneventful. Someone asks me how much I earn (my least favourite question in India) and Bani advises: just say something absurd – like 200,000 dollars. Great. Will do. Hope it comes true! Other than that, I plug in my headphones and stare out the window, trying to ignore the fidgety 8-yr old who wants to share my seat (son of the guy who asked me about my salary).

We arrive in Delhi seven hours later, and Bani’s mom is waiting for us with a batch of freshly made paranthas. Yum. And perfect to line the belly for yet another delayed flight at the Delhi airport.

Reflections on the Ganges

After travelling with company for so many months, I’d quite forgotten how simultaneously luxurious and daunting a solitary weekend in a foreign pocket of India can be. Of course, I leave on the usual flight – inhumane a.m. on a Saturday – and as I stumble down the pitch black flight of stairs and bang on the car window to wake the dozing driver, I am excited about 3 things:

1. going to Varanasi
2. going to Varanasi on my own with a good book
3. going to Varanasi on my penultimate weekend in India, which means that two Saturdays from now, I won’t be waking up at 4am. Hurrah!

I’ve been putting off going to Varanasi (or Benares) mostly because it’s a bit of a pain to get to from Hyderabad (5 hours in transit via Delhi), but now that I am finally on my way to India’s holiest city (with a good book), I’m not too fussed about the circuitous route.

This good book I keep referring to is actually not excellent, just reassuring in its familiarity and promising in its foreignness when compared to my own experience and understanding of the world. This good book is eat, pray, love by Elizabeth Gilbert, and fortuitously I have already finished ‘eat’ – staged in Italy, and my departure for Varanasi coincides with the start of ‘pray,’ which is all about solitude and self-reflection and becoming one with God in an ashram in India.

Varanasi is no ashram, but it certainly boasts its fair share of Yogic masters and sadhus (I’m about 70% sure that’s the Hindi word for holy men). Varanasi is all about a continuous communion with God. It’s where Indians who want to be released from the tiring cycle of reincarnation go to die. Those who have lived on the banks of the holy, if filthy, River Ganges since birth consider themselves very fortunate.



I find that I spend the majority of my time in Varanasi walking along the river, taking in the vibrant colour and activity of the ghats and staring at the serene stillness of the water, as well as fending off the self-appointed guides, underage merchants and bullish buffalo. I’ve been assured none of the three bites, but I’m not convinced.

Varanasi is teeming with contradictions. A mix of chaos and serenity, vile stench and transcendent ritual. I find it simultaneously energising and stifling. I am glad to have arrived and equally pleased to be departing within 28 hours.



I spend a long time watching the bodies burning on the riverbank. All Hindus who die in Varanasi (and some who die elsewhere as well) are cremated on the banks of the Ganges, at one of two ‘burning ghats.’ Owned, maintained and run by one very large extended family, the burning ghats are in operation around the clock, typically with 5 human bonfires at various stages of decomposition at any given time.

I’ve never seen a dead body before and this is quite the initiation. The bodies start off wrapped up in cloth and gold foil, but as the flames get to work, the burning limbs, dripping fat, become visible. It’s deeply disturbing, especially when caretakers shove severed limbs back into the heart of the fire with long poles. I find myself thinking, it’s ok, the person’s already dead. It’s spiritual, not barbaric.

A member of the family who owns the ghats tells me “burning is learning” and proceeds to explain that burning purifies and releases the soul. Those who die with a pure soul need not be burned (pure souls inhabit the bodies of people who have died before the age of 10/with child/by snake-bite/afflicted by leprosy/two other cases I don’t recall). In these cases, it’s not ashes that get thrown in the river, but the whole dead body! (Same river in which people bathe, brush their teeth, do their laundry, wash their buffalo. Although the buffalo may defecate in the river, rest assured the people don’t – I see a grown man taking a hearty dump directly beside the river.)

I do a lot of thinking in Varanasi – it’s one of those unavoidable by-products of travelling on one’s own. I think about why I wanted to come to India in the first place, why I’m so ready to leave (a month ahead of schedule) and what I want my life in London to be like when I return.

Of the people who thought spending 6 months in India was a cool idea, the majority still thought I was mad to go through with it. But not once did I think I was doing something crazy or outlandish. I was apprehensive about being effective in my job, but that’s a constant irrespective of location. My apprehension wasn’t remotely related to cultural differences, which to be frank, was a stupid oversight resulting from a mix of naiveté, hubris and literary romanticism. I joke around that all my knowledge of the world comes from novels, but it’s true. I like the literary masterpieces of Salman Rushdie and Arundhati Roy, of course I’ll like living in India. I lived in Italy for 15 months, of course I can live in India for 6. I love Indian food, Bollywood and the bright colours and sounds of Indian weddings – of course India will feel like a second home.



That said, my genuine desire to live in India, however naively founded, was more a function of heart than mind. Inexplicably drawn to the subcontinent, I really had to stop and ask myself why. I now know it was the subtle work of a decade of classes, films, books, speakers, meals and museums. From the homemade paranthas my friend Sanskruti shared with me from her packed lunch in 7th grade to the Sunday afternoon I spent engrossed in the South East Asian art wing of the Met at the age of 14 to the Bollywood class I almost took in college – every contact, however mild, served to kindle the fascination. If I really put my mind to it, I can come up with countless seemingly insignificant instances that, all piled together, year on year, interest on interest, could lead to nothing but a person wanting to live in India for 6 months.

Andrew came to India because it will, along with China, rule the world one day. I came to India because I unwittingly fell in love with it.

In Kerala, I remembered that when I was looking for au pair jobs in Italy, I would check the ones available in India too. In Varanasi, I remember that during the same period of ‘gap year job hunting’ I sent in an application to be an American language trainer at an Indian BPO. I didn’t even know what a BPO was! Nor the cultural significance of the Indian call centre. I just had a thing for India.

I am in Varanasi, in a boat on the Ganges, at 6am on a Sunday morning because in 10th grade, in my South East Asian class, I watched a documentary of which the opening (or perhaps the closing) shot was a pan of the Ganges in Varanasi at dawn. There were silhouettes of spindly men on small fishing boats and the sky was all pink, from horizon to heavens, a deep orangey, mystical pink. Years later, I don’t remember that I’ve ever heard of Varanasi – but when I read in Lonely Planet about the spectacular lighting at dawn by the Ganges in this holy city, I already know exactly what it looks like. I’ve seen it before -- on a small TV screen in 10th grade, which clearly left a lasting impression on some synapse in my brain. This is the way I love India, in snippets of forgotten memories of disjointed experiences, the half of which I’m sure still lie hidden in the recesses of my mind, waiting to be jogged to life by some as yet unknown trigger.

Working in India has been difficult; the cultural divide poses a veritable grand canyon of difference that I feel I will never successfully bridge. Travelling in India is a joy, but it’s not easy either. Wonder is always tempered by heartbreaking poverty and foul smells and terrible filth. In many ways, I feel like a voyeur, taking a fleeting interest in India and her masses but always maintaining a safe distance, not really connecting with anyone or anything.

This is no way for someone who is in love with a place to behave, but that’s love for you. Inexplicable, unpredictable and not always strong enough to overcome the doubts, apprehensions and prejudices of the mind.

I have mixed feelings about India, just as I have mixed feelings about what goes on in Varanasi. Part of the ability to enjoy and appreciate where I am is the knowledge that I’m able to leave, that it’s not really my reality.

I fully expected to find a place in India. It’s always difficult to adjust to living in a foreign country, but I expected to integrate, to figure out my way around the culture, to leave 6 months later and be in two minds about leaving.

Instead, I feel like I’ve survived India.

But I’ll take survival. Even my Indian friend Bani thinks I’ve done well to live in India for 5 months. To spend a weekend sitting on the banks of the Ganges in Varanasi on one’s own is no small feat, she assures me.



I spend Sunday afternoon poking around Varanasi’s expansive university. At the university temple, students sit studying on balconies and windowsills – does it give them an extra edge, I wonder, studying in a house of God? I’m a bit of a novelty, which is odd, as there are reportedly 2000+ foreigners studying at BHU (Benares Hindu University). One 20-year-old guy tells me, “Speak to you, I am very happy.” I, detached as ever and somewhat embarrassed by the inexplicable pleasure he has derived from saying hello to me, smile and nod and shuffle off – I’ve got a flight to catch, sorry, bye, happy Sunday.

Several cancelled and delayed flights later, I arrive in Hyderabad at the wee hours of Monday morning, re-indoctrinated in the art of travelling, being and thinking alone.

Pretty in Pink City

Most visiting India on holiday will spend a fair amount of time in Rajasthan, but as I am based in the south, this north Indian state – known for its sweeping deserts, majestic architecture and colourful, chaotic bazaars – has somehow eluded me.

With four weeks left in India, I’ve finally got plans to see a bit of Rajasthan. I arrive in Hyderabad from Thailand at 11pm on Friday night, and at 6am on Saturday I am on a flight to the 3rd stop on India’s golden triangle (Delhi – Agra – Jaipur).

Jaipur is known as the pink city, our taxi driver explains. Our guidebooks have conflicting stories – a Maharaja ordered the city painted pink for the arrival of Prince Albert [v. 1] or King Edward [v. 2]. Either way, it’s not exactly pink…more of a deep rose, dusty maroon colour, but the lovely pastel pink of the City Palace makes up for this little fib.

As we weave through the standard Indian traffic of cars, trucks, people, bicycles, autorickshaws, hand-pulled carts, dogs, cows (+ hogs & camels in Jaipur), our taxi driver concedes that you need three things to be able to drive in India:
1. a good horn
2. a good set of brakes
3. and good luck!

Andrew and I couldn’t agree more.

As Jaipur is home to maharajas and ornate palaces, we decide to invest in a little upgrade and stay at the Samode Haveli, a 156 yr old Rajasthani palace converted into a heritage hotel. It’s hard not to feel like royalty staying in a place like this, and every inch of our room – dubbed the ‘Sheesh Mahal’ – is covered in shimmery little mirrors!



After a quick nap in our princely room, we rick into the heart of Jaipur’s old city. I get more than my fair share of stares – perhaps because I’ve given up on my Indian garb – but I reckon people would stare even more if I glided through the streets of Jaipur sari-clad. (This pic’s from traditional Indian day at work).



As we wade through the street traffic, a cheeky little monkey of a girl pinches my arm (hard) and I am suddenly thankful that all I usually get is a stare! I want to pinch her back, but a camel catches my attention and before I know it, I am swept up in the vibrant colours and pungent smells of the bazaars.



We scale a minaret and find Jaipur sweeping far beyond the confines of the old city. And at the City Palace, the Indian princes give new meaning to the phrase 'the long tail'!



On the way back to the hotel, our rickshaw driver speaks an unparalleled English. He says he learned it from Anita Bose, an American art collector who bought him his first rick when she first visited Jaipur. According to Wikipedia, Anita Bose is the daughter of an Indian freedom fighter. Her mother is Austrian, and Anita teaches economics at the University of Augsburg. No American art collector in that – good story though.

The late afternoon is all about the swimming pool. I finish reading ‘One Night @ the Call Centre’ by Chetan Bhagat, which turns out to be quite an eye-opener given all the India call centre bashing that goes on in the US and the UK. Let’s just say the guys who man the call centres out here aren’t too thrilled about having to speak to Americans all night either.



My new favourite hobby is going to really posh hotels (a grand+/night) to have a good drink and a little nose around. So after a dinner of traditional Rajasthani fare, we go to the Rambagh Palace – breathtaking (and with every breath the smell of freshly cut flowers). I have no doubt this will quickly stop being my new favourite hobby as soon as I am back in Europe and not allowed into hotels of this calibre in jeans and a T-shirt.



We spend Sunday morning by the pool and head off to Amber Fort in the afternoon before catching our outbound flight. The fort is certainly majestic, if not palatial, and here more than elsewhere, I appreciate the contrast between the bright colours of the Indian women’s clothing and the mute tones of the desert. It’s a festival day, and many Indians are walking the 10km from Jaipur to the fort, where they pay their respects to Kali (goddess of power).



I am most excited by the fact that at Amber Fort, I finally teach myself how to drink like an Indian: head back, bottle hoisted above my mouth and not touching my lips, pouring water steadily and swallow, swallow, swallow. An extended Indian family has a good laugh at my efforts, but I am well pleased with this newfound skill. Now all I need to do is learn how to put on a sari (and how to speak Hindi), and I’ll be set.

I Heart Thailand (again)

There’s just something about the toilets in Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi’s airport that make me breathe a deep sigh of relief. Spotless floors, plenty of loo roll, hooks on the door for your handbag, rubbish bins in every stall, sensor-activated taps. I reckon I could eat straight off the floor and not get sick. In short, pure hygienic bliss.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg! But before I get into the heart of Chiang Mai, a quick note on the Friday night red-eye from Hyderabad: I am lucky enough to be sitting amidst a group of rowdy Indian men who are keeping the sweet Thai air hostess on her toes by ordering two whiskey sodas each, every 5 minutes. (No wonder alcohol is banned on Indian carriers!) My first hunch is destination bachelor party, but these guys are way past marrying age. More likely a destination collective mid-life crisis. Bangkok does love its kinky side.

As you can imagine, I arrive in Chiang Mai a little short on sleep but otherwise pretty excited about the prospect of spending (almost) a full week in one place – and such a lovely one at that. Laura’s choice of guest house could not suit me more. The River View Lodge, sat beside the river - a little ways back from the main road, is charming and serene, with crisp white sheets and a ground-floor balcony looking out onto a lovely garden.



I fall into a deep sleep waiting for Laura to arrive and when she does we get right down to business: pad thai, pedicures and Thai massages. I am definitely on holiday.

Although I don’t develop strong feelings for the city of Chiang Mai (2nd biggest city in Thailand after Bangkok), I fall head over heels for the treasures tucked away in the lush hills that surround it. My first priority is riding an elephant – a prospect I find simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. Given that I screamed blue murder for the full 15 minutes of an up-hill donkey-ride in Santorini, Greece exactly a year ago, I’m not quite sure how I’ll take to the ellies, but I’ve been into the big lumbering fellows for ages.

An hour outside Chiang Mai we pull up to Maetaman Elephant Camp. I’m a little weirded out that upon entering the camp, the first thing we see are about 15-20 elephants chained up. The pang of sadness is fleeting, as we are quickly ushered to an elephant show (tricks galore) and then onto the back of a 30 yr old female named Layya for an hour long rainy trek through the scenic hills.



The pang returns but not that day. I have a grand time riding Layya through the mist and drizzle, rewarding her eager trunk with bananas and sugar cane and conquering my fear of straddling her bare back.



A famous hilltop temple, royal gardens, a tribal village, rafting, waterfalls, a monkey show, some night market shopping and a couple dinners later, Laura and I head back in the direction of the Maetaman Camp, but this time our destination is the Elephant Nature Park, a haven where abused elephants are free to roam the land as they please and are not forced into one of the 3 professions domesticated elephants in Thailand typically take on to earn their keep: illegal logging, street begging (city streets are a very stressful habitat) or trekking (with tourists on a back that has not been designed to carry such weight).



I figured watching elephants in their natural habitat would be cool but I didn’t begin to realise just how thrilling – not to mention relaxing – it would feel to be in such close proximity to so many of the animals. Feeding and bathing them fills me with awe, but more than anything, I love sitting in the gazebo and watching them interact with each other off in the distance. They hang out in their family units – being playful and affectionate – and sometimes walk off for some ‘alone time’ or to chill with a friend from another fam.



The day’s not all fun and whimsy, though, and I am deeply distressed when I find out how elephants across Asia are ‘domesticated’ and how mistreated they tend to be throughout their lives. Domestic elephants have no rights in Thailand – legally, they are the equivalent of livestock. Between the ages of 2 and 4, they all undergo a ritual ‘spirit-breaking,’ called phaajaan, during which they are tortured into a life of submission. Kept in an enclosure only slightly bigger than themselves, they are deprived of food, water and sleep and hit, poked & jabbed with nail-adorned bamboo sticks until they are injured, bleeding and indisputably obedient to their human masters. This practice has been going on for thousands of years and continues today with every domesticated elephant in Asia – it’s the industry standard – a reality of elephant training that those who rely on elephants for their own livelihood hardly consider torture.



All but two of the 30+ pachyderms at the elephant sanctuary went through this ‘training’ as babies. The founder of the park, Lek, aims to prove that elephants can be tamed just as well with respect, love and positive reinforcement. So she’s really a behavioural scientist with a 100+ year experiment on her hands – Hope, a juvenile male elephant of about 7 or 8, never went into the ‘training crush,’ and he’s going to be the one to show the world that training does not have to be a mission in soul destruction.

The national geographic video we watch about elephants in Thailand and the phaajaan is very graphic and brings our spirits down, but the knowledge gained is invaluable. It is a relief that we are here, where the elephants cavort and frolic to their hearts’ content, though I do feel awful about having had so much fun at Layya’s expense. The afternoon ends with a tea-time snack of banana balls (for the ellies not us!), a 5 o’clock bath in the river and then bedtime. The elephants all tucked in, I leave the park knowing that this experience is going to stay with me forever. I’d like to come back some day with kids in tow.



If Wednesday is all about the elephants, then Thursday is all about us. We decide to end our trip on an uber indulgent note and hit up the Spa at the Four Seasons Chiang Mai. Beautifully landscaped with rice paddies, tropical flowers, winding paths and palm trees, and surrounded by misty Chiang Mai mountains, the resort is indisputably magical. We follow three blissful hours in the penthouse suite at the spa with an equally long wine-drenched lunch on a terrace restaurant. Shielded from monsoon rains by an opportune roof, we thoroughly enjoy being inches away from the downpour as all around us, its energetic sheets pummel and quench the resort’s lush grounds.



All in all, the week flies by and I find myself falling head over heels in love with Thailand all over again. I love: dragon fruit, green papaya salad, pad se ew, Thai massages, elephants, orchids, good friends, funky clothing, Singha beer, Thai iced tea, the almost fluorescent green of a rice paddy, flavourful peanuts, misty mountains, tuk tuks, golden buddhas, spirit houses, friendly people and clean bathrooms!



I think I’m in love. And not really looking forward to going back. Especially when I put on the bikini I wore to the beach in Goa – only to discover that it still smells of fermented coconut oil…

Bikinis, Booze & Bollywood

I leave sunny Mumbai, where I celebrated Rosh Hashanah with the B’nai Israel Jewish Indian community, on a Friday afternoon and land in rainy, cloudy Goa one hour later. The weather’s somewhat disconcerting, as Goa is all about palm trees & beaches, but either way – I am looking forward to a quiet couple of days.



In the car on the way to Anjuna, the driver reassures me that we’re in for a sunny weekend, but it seems he’s just saying as much so as not to disappoint. The Indians don’t like to see you unhappy – as a rule, they’d rather say yes than no, even if the answer really is no. This is ok enough in the context of weather prediction, but you can imagine what a headache this approach can cause at work, or when booking flights, etc. End result: I continue to ask questions but never trust the answers I receive. Perfect, if simplistic example: I ask the driver if it’s supposed to rain tomorrow, he says no, and I don’t believe him. Not particularly productive, but second-guessing seems to be an indispensable survival mechanism out here.

When we arrive in Anjuna an hour and a half later, it seems quiet and deserted – hardly the beach rave town I’d read about. From the friendly folk at Villa Anjuna, we find out that the place is a little quieter in the off-season (of course), but that Saturday night at Club Tito’s is where it’s at.



So we decide to take it easy Friday night and set off to the ‘REALLY nice place’ that the guys at Villa Anjuna recommend for dinner. In the two minutes between our ‘hotel’ and the restaurant (which turns out to be a very casual, outdoor restaurant, with sand floors and a thatch roof), we are caught in monsoon downpour. Our umbrellas do little to shield us from the continuous sheets of rain, and there appear to be loads of little frogs skidding across the road in all directions. I try not to step on them, but Andrew says he doesn’t see them at all – so most likely just another malaria-pill hallucinatory side-effect!

Dripping wet, we sit down and get the evening started with a round of vodka shots. I’m a little disappointed that Anjuna has such a tangibly ‘off’ off-season, but I’m not going to let that stand in the way of my party :)

Saturday is the quintessential lazy beach day. Turns out the driver wasn’t lying after all – the sun in out in full force and I, covered from head to toe in factor 40, can’t wait to hit the beach. Predictably, it’s nothing like Thailand’s pristine shores. As much as Goa is famous for its beautiful beaches, it’s still very much India. The beach is practically deserted (off-season), but it’s strewn with litter, and as we walk down in search of a pleasant spot, we are approached by girl after girl, all beckoning us to look at their wares – ‘just look, you don’t have to buy.’ The girls all have great English, as well as Anglo-Saxon pseudonyms (also a BPO call centre trick), and their sales pitches are well rehearsed. One impresses me with a few Hebrew phrases (gotta love Israeli wanderlust). Not surprisingly, her repertoire includes ‘Lechi mi po’ (Go away)!

Unable to draw us to their stalls, the girls reappear later with choice items wrapped in big bundles of plastic. Nothing quite like being surrounded by sari-clad hawkers when you’re lying out in your bikini, just falling asleep to the pleasant crash of waves. I try to be a good sport and start chatting to one girl, whose Anglo name is tattooed on her arm (Alixandra) – just in case she forgets.

Andrew’s having one of those famous ‘beach massages,’ I am paging through a copy of the New Yorker (little outdated – July 23) and Alexandra is looking intently at all the pictures (all the interest a prelude to selling us junk, mind you). She asks loads of questions about the cartoons, and soon enough, I’m giving her a proper education: strip clubs, g-strings, styrofoam, and stretch marks! And people accuse the New Yorker of being high brow...

I too have a massage, leaving Andrew to fend off the ladies, who only take their leave once we’ve bought a token trinket from each one of them (we are SUCH suckers). As the afternoon wanes, we find ourselves starting to smell like Indians – the coconut oil from the massages seems to be fermenting into that indisputably ‘Indian’ bodily aroma. The bad news – we smell kinda funky. But in terms of silver linings, at least we know it’s not a lack of hygiene that gives Indians their distinct odor!

We’ve reserved Saturday night to ascertain if the Goa party scene really is all that and a bag of chips. As Anjuna’s pretty sleepy until October, we head to Club Tito’s in nearby Calangute. Our taxi driver stops for petrol on the way, purchasing a plastic water bottle full from a street-side vendor and pouring it into his engine! We have serious doubts about [a] getting to Calangute and [b] getting to anywhere that’s less lethargic than Anjuna (judging by the narrow dark roads the driver seems to have a predilection for). But he doesn’t let us down – in 20 minutes we are upon North Goa’s off-season party street (2 club, 3 restaurants). We stake out a dinner table close to Club Tito’s entrance – prime location for calculating the ratio of people going in to people going out. It’s not looking good, so I ‘white girl charm’ my way into the club for free to check it out. Prognosis: not heaving, but respectable.



The bar’s dodge and the vodka shots are quite possibly the worst I’ve EVER had, but the party’s hopping. There’s an especially rowdy group of army boys who are totally breaking out the Bollywood moves. Having spent the former half of the evening watching all the latest Bollywood music videos on Video Patrol (Indian MTV), I am all about getting jiggy with them. I pretend that in a previous life I was a Bollywood heroine.



At about 2am, the club clears out cause the army boys break into a fight. So lame.

Sunday morning is all about the lie-in, followed by a quick dip in the hotel pool. Bit of shopping, bit of shooting (pics, obvi). Andrew gives a cute 6 yr old a ten rupee note, and then all of a sudden 5 kids run after us, clamouring, ‘Give me money’ ‘Give me money.’ That’s my cue to hit the road.





I’m booked on an Air Deccan flight home. Three months in, and I’m finally braving the most ‘no frills’ of the budget airlines in India (also, the only one offering direct service from Goa to Hyderabad). Air Deccan boasts so few frills that the details on my boarding card are hand-written! So while Andrew heads off to Bangalore on 1st class (white skin upgrade), I am stuck behind a whiny baby on a refrigerator of a propeller plane. But I get to Hyderabad in one piece (despite Deccan’s rep) and stop to pick up a Domino’s pizza on the way home from the airport (this is becoming somewhat of a weekend-end tradition).

It’s been a good couple of days: booze, buzz, beach, boys and Bollywood. Can’t complain.

I Heart Thailand

Bangkok may be easier to get to from Hyderabad than many an Indian city, but that’s only after you’ve made it into Hyderabad’s international departure terminal. With our flight due to leave at midnight, Eimer and I arrive at the airport at ten and quickly realise that getting inside is going to be a challenge. The place is heaving with people and after rolling our cases over countless of their toes, back and forth, trying to ascertain how to get IN through the dense crowd, it dawns on us that the unruly, disorganised mass of bodies and bags is actually a queue. Because I’ve no idea where it begins or ends, I simply attach myself to the its side and push with the best of them. I tell someone off for repeatedly shoving his trolley stacked high with mammoth cases into my ass, and he is genuinely apologetic. Does he not realise that there’s a good reason his luggage isn’t gliding along every time he gives it another shove?

Eimer points out that Indians do not travel light. Mom on her own with three young children? No less than 6 king-size suitcases – though probably for a 6-month visit to the cousins in the US.

Once inside, we are rewarded for our efforts with an unsolicited upgrade to first class. Score! Of course, I pick the absolute SLOWEST line at passport control, though on the back end of our trip we find that a slow check isn’t necessarily a thorough one…



Just past security, we run into Bret, who’s on his way to Mountain View for a week. He seems to be drinking his way to California and is a little upset we’re not willing to join him in a swig of whiskey.

I sleep through my upgrade – including the cheese & fruit platter (sniff) – but it’s been a long week of visits to college campuses in Delhi, and I’m well in need of the 3-hour power nap.

Getting to Ko Samet (i.e. Samet Island) turns out to be quite the mission: bus from the airport to the bus terminal, from the bus terminal to Pattaya, from Pattaya to Rayong, from Rayong to Ban Phe (in an open-back truck), where, 5 hours and 4 buses later, we (finally!) get on a boat to the island. Besides the boat, the best part of the trip is walking up and down the aisles of the 7-Eleven at the bus terminal in Bangkok: shiny floors, well-stocked shelves, goodies from home and then some, and all the usual toiletries. I am all smiles even though it is only 6am.

As the speedboat approaches Ao Prow, a tractor reverses a makeshift dock into the water, and once our luggage, Eimer and I are safely on the mobile platform, the tractor deposits us on the shore.



Our room isn’t ready for another hour, so we lunch on the beachfront terrace, drinking to two blissful days in island paradise. Although the afternoon is overcast, the clouds can hardly mar my mellow mood – I’m intent on putting the 1,000 page Shantaram to rest and really enjoy digging into a complimentary basket of fruit I’ve never seen before and need a Google images search to name (rambutan, longan, and my new fave: dragon fruit).



We greet the evening with a round of cocktails that are as heavenly as our island and then head off to the east coast, where the kids go to boogie. The entire island is a nature preserve and our taxi - a lime green pick-up truck with open-air benches in the back - bumps us slowly along the packed earth road that connects the two sides of the island.



The east side is HAPPENING (well, as happening as a tropical island’s going to get): candlelit dinner on the beach and fire throwers for entertainment, with hookah pipes, pitchers of Singha and live music to follow. Eimer makes a friend – another 30-yr old with braces (!) and we have a wild time playing connect four and dancing it UP.



I’ve dusted off my denim miniskirt for the occasion – it feels good to be in a place where I’m not made to feel naked for not covering up my knees and elbows. Having been in India for almost 3 months, I can’t help comparing: Thailand seems to be streets ahead and India, well, India seems hopelessly backwards: depressively conservative, dangerously unhygienic and happy to settle for mediocrity. It’s not the best way to think, and I reprimand these thoughts, but they creep back: “Why can’t they just pull their socks up?” If the rest of the Asian world can do it, why not India?



I also start to wonder what Indians think of the state of their own country when they travel to places like Thailand. It’s a perspective I can’t fathom.

The following morning is a lovely, sunny one – all lounging on the beach and frolicking in the turquoise water. Eimer and I discover that Indian sunscreen is a different kettle of fish as we both get burnt, despite slopping on the factor 30.



Lunch is grand – ocean views, fresh green papaya salad and one very fine Italian man within eye’s reach – yum.


At 5 o’clock we reluctantly take the last boat to Ban Phe, where we catch a (direct!) bus to Bangkok. Monsoon hits Thailand Sunday evening, and the bus journey is painfully slow, especially for Eimer, whose singed skin makes her shiver uncontrollably. I plug in my ipod and nodding in and out of sleep, I watch the rain splatter the bus windows and wonder what it will be like to return to London.

The sky’s been wrung pretty much dry by the time we hit Bangkok, and both Eimer and I stare with wide eyes and open jaws at the modernity of everything around us: lights, buildings, designer brands, massive McDonalds…even Starbucks (I’d developed a terrible fondness for tall skim lattes in London.)

We take a taxi from the Ekumai bus terminal to Khao San Road – tourist CENTRAL – but a good base for less than 24 hours in Bangkok. About 5 minutes into the 45-minute drive, I realise our driver’s got a disconcerting full-body nervous tick. Every time he jerks, I cringe, thinking we’re about to veer into a tuk tuk or an overladen scooter. To make matters worse, the driver decides one piece of gum isn’t sufficient and proceeds to shove about 4 pieces in his mouth, chewing louder than a bloody cow on speed. The intermittent jerking is not too funny on its own, but coupled with the wide-open mouth gum smacking, and I spend the rest of the ride trying (rather unsuccessfully) to stifle my laughter. Eimer and I almost piss ourselves laughing when back in Hyderabad, we try to convey to Andrew just how idiosyncratic Bangkok drivers can be.

Although a world apart from island bliss, Bangkok has its own magic. For one, the street food is not only edible, but also damn good. The food you get in restaurants is damn good too. I love the iridescent pink taxis, the golden Buddhas that sparkle in the hot hot sun, the jewel-encrusted temples, the stylish outfits of the petite Thai girls, and of course, the shopping!



I have cause to think of London yet again as in one of the many temples we step into on our whirlwind tuk tuk tour of Bangkok’s Buddhas, I meet Andy, originally from Malaysia, but lives and works in London Victoria. What does he do in London? He’s a chef. Where? At the Mango Tree – the Thai restaurant just around the corner from the London office, which I love. Small world.





On a high from how much we love Thailand, it’s a long way down when the Thai Airways agent who’s checking us in wants to know how Eimer intends to get BACK into India on her single entry visa. Crap. An honest oversight – she had understood ‘SINGLE’ to mean her marital status. It’s touch and go for a while; the agent fully expects Eimer to stay in Thailand, pay a trip to the Indian embassy in Bangkok, get another visa and only then go back to India. Given my own experience with the Indian embassy in London, I estimate that would take a good week or two to sort.

Fortunately, though, Eimer’s flight back to Dublin is due to leave about 30 hours after our plane’s scheduled arrival in Hyderabad. We convince the agent she’s not going to leave the airport – she’s not really going back into India, you see. A lot of reading of the rules later, he explains that any layover greater than 24 hours requires a valid entry visa. Eimer’s damn lucky Thai people are so nice – he considers it, converses in hushed tones with his manager…and issues our boarding passes.

We are relieved but not in the clear – we have no idea what will happen at Indian immigration – especially as we learn that two terrorist bombs went off in Hyderabad on Saturday – dozens are dead and security is tight. It’s a tense flight – I think on the one hand that the officials in India are renowned for being very bribe-able but at the other extreme – is this a jail-able offense? Eimer and I say very little to each other on the way back to Hyderabad – I do try to reassure her, though: “Worst case scenario, they don’t let you leave the airport. I take your keys, pack your stuff, bring it back to the airport tomorrow night, and you’re home free.” Of course, I keep thoughts of Indian prisons to myself.

At immigration, Eimer studies the counters before picking a line – who’s got the friendlier face? We get in one queue but then she changes her mind. I stay put while she goes to another line – when I see where she’s settled, I think, fuck, she’s screwed. She’s gone and chosen the same slow guy who scrutinised our passports on the way out! I’m through ages before of her, and I wait, trying not to keep track of where she is in the queue because it’s making me anxious. A good twenty minutes later, I see her at the desk, out of the corner of my eye, and my heart races in empathy…here we go.

But then she’s through! Such immense relief. In retrospect, if the guy lets her leave on a roundtrip ticket and a single entry visa, it’s only fair that he let her come back in as well…