tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36406809748860095742024-02-20T20:05:43.134-08:00Curried AwaySarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-14073576763008927922010-04-05T21:27:00.000-07:002010-04-07T09:05:10.641-07:00Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma…<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjpLH-3uXYiji_XlBuuK68AdMnQyNRlvR6qzxbsLul_M1ccA38IvwQMfZlVp59dezz10CUZS3HO49SOEN0KPpGqJjE-A2JzuWWWa8Mh8rBi1y5BIy569JCskhccJKN40SITXNd2decUna/s1600/CIMG2974.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjpLH-3uXYiji_XlBuuK68AdMnQyNRlvR6qzxbsLul_M1ccA38IvwQMfZlVp59dezz10CUZS3HO49SOEN0KPpGqJjE-A2JzuWWWa8Mh8rBi1y5BIy569JCskhccJKN40SITXNd2decUna/s320/CIMG2974.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457145983784388674" /></a><br />After smashing into that cow on the road to Bundi, our murderous secret began to weigh heavy between the four of us, like the storyline to a trashy teen horror film (<span style="font-style:italic;">I Know What You Did in the Desert</span>). Maybe I was being paranoid, but I began to get the distinct impression that the entire animal kingdom was out for revenge. <br /><br />The next morning, the first thing we did was to sack our cow-murdering driver, with the vague intention of ‘wiping the slate clean’. But this was India: you can’t escape your bad karma. I mean, not even the toilets flush properly. <br /><br />It didn’t feel like a coincidence that on the morning after It happened, as we innocently breakfasted on the rooftop restaurant of our hotel, a gang of monkeys launched a premeditated attack from the canvas awning above our table. They weren’t the cuddly kind either; they were more like the fanged, screeching Wizard of Oz variety, with shrunken human faces and a knowing look in their eyes. They leaped down from the roof and prowled around the table, swinging their tails like lethal weapons. “Monkeys very naughty today,” said the owner of the guesthouse, who appeared with a big stick, “But that is your bad karma I think”. Our karma? How could he possibly know what we’d done? “You should give him a chapatti,” he suggested. The alpha male perched on the wall next to us and stared me in the eye while he menacingly fondled his balls. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Bit6N4p7EjJ5KQY4obnGWOyoUyJq6qNuqGdxre81Ied3jHy5xD_68rJOH-cG_9qatpK39AGSaEKH-5bVVvc26iNAvdv6bwxOS8kJ1RNF3sldrK3WPV9KVI0mBllQC70c-M1FCWEz2r19/s1600/CIMG3106.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Bit6N4p7EjJ5KQY4obnGWOyoUyJq6qNuqGdxre81Ied3jHy5xD_68rJOH-cG_9qatpK39AGSaEKH-5bVVvc26iNAvdv6bwxOS8kJ1RNF3sldrK3WPV9KVI0mBllQC70c-M1FCWEz2r19/s320/CIMG3106.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456878942927948194" /></a><br />We spent the rest of the day strolling through the shady cobalt blue streets of Bundi, shopping for sparkly Rajasthani bangles, taking pictures of doorways and trying on turbans. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesj8ozdLNlM5esYFjuzVJBbVEseLNKAGVxVfAC-y0GTJZaI6gp14lw98RLs1wt3eT98GtyVZhtOILDGyt8F59HdhGKIJyiB84MsrTVi9B_XjwYOA95JakhooA98ba27iOLr0SwcwYLrZi/s1600/CIMG3246.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesj8ozdLNlM5esYFjuzVJBbVEseLNKAGVxVfAC-y0GTJZaI6gp14lw98RLs1wt3eT98GtyVZhtOILDGyt8F59HdhGKIJyiB84MsrTVi9B_XjwYOA95JakhooA98ba27iOLr0SwcwYLrZi/s320/CIMG3246.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457146689346465618" /></a><br />With my turban on I looked like someone who’d been injured in a major road accident. With her turban on, Claudia looked like the bohemian heroine of an E.M. Forster novel – but everyone else thought she was a transexual. “YOU BOY!” women kept shouting at her in the market, snorting into their saries. She didn’t care though and kept telling them, “they’ll be selling these in Top Shop this time next year”. <br /><br />Later we ate putrid 30 rupee lukewarm curry in a tin shed by the side of the road and felt really adventurous – and a bit nauseous too. I started worrying about dysentery and clean forgot about The Cow Murder until we began the long winding walk back through the narrow streets to the hotel and an angry herd galloped past with fearsome red and yellow horns, forcing us to shriek and cower in the nearest doorway. ‘Cow very naughty today,’ giggled an old woman washing saucepans outside her house. Naughty? More like deranged. The cows in Mysore just lie there in docile moth-eaten heaps, chewing on old plastic bags – not gnashing their teeth and baying for human flesh. Maybe it was time to leave Bundi? <br /><br />So the next day we piled into the car with our new driver, Khaled, who turned out to be even worse than the last one. He sat slouched behind his faux fur steering wheel, chewing a dark slimy mouthful of paan, legs splayed in (non-ironic) crotch-hugging acid washed jeans and high-heeled boots. He spat out the window and introduced himself as, “number one driver and tour guide in Rajasthan”. He was one of those repulsive blokes whose main goal in life is to draw attention to his straining gusset – and like all the most disgusting spectacles, it was difficult to avert our eyes. I sat in the front seat and tried to concentrate on the scenery: the endless dusty highway, blue skies, and camel trains loping across the rocky desertscape. As we passed through small towns along the way, I would cheerfully ask the Number One Guide in Rajasthan, “Where are we now Khaled?” Silence. “And now?” Silence. “What about now?” Spit. “HEughhhhher,” spit. “This place, you don’t need to know,” he grunted. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Udaipur <span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />We arrived in Udaipur (‘the most romantic city in India’) hot, tired and quite pissed off. "Don’t call us, we’ll call you" <span style="font-style:italic;">you big sweaty bollock</span>, we said to Khaled, when he dropped us off at our hotel. He regurgitated some unidentifiable substance onto the hotel forecourt and wandered off into the sunset with a click of his Cuban heels. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” I thought, smiling and waving him goodbye. Please let our bad karma be over soon. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmZ0Pv6Ygdv91_iBGQYbcgGJ3BZtRX1tBLSpIO5UjC8sHeZQMBtTTcrEtzZm8IhrJOIKlLrMAA2UCmonnmfnrfcJX5NfL0-JGa-UieS-9pzg-9k6LP3iZ4RXRFTrTA4stdDCU7uxVWTp7/s1600/CIMG3119.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmZ0Pv6Ygdv91_iBGQYbcgGJ3BZtRX1tBLSpIO5UjC8sHeZQMBtTTcrEtzZm8IhrJOIKlLrMAA2UCmonnmfnrfcJX5NfL0-JGa-UieS-9pzg-9k6LP3iZ4RXRFTrTA4stdDCU7uxVWTp7/s320/CIMG3119.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457166999625749058" /></a><br />We thought our luck might be on the turn when we walked through the grand wrought iron gates of our hotel. It was one of those amazing old heritage palaces with carved marble balconies, four-poster beds, three sausage dogs and an ancient German woman crocheting in a rocking chair on the lawn. We were practically panting with excitement at the thought of kicking back on a chaise longue with an ice old gin and tonic, but when the bellboy showed us to our rooms it turned out we were actually staying in some converted cowsheds. That’s right, the cowsheds. Oh well there was so much to do in Udaipur that we didn’t actually have to spend much time in our sheds. It mostly revolved around going from jewellery shop to chai shops and buying little embroidered camel leather shoes with bells on them. On our first evening we sat on the roof of an old haveli, overlooking the famous, floodlit palace hotel floating in the middle of the dark lake, drinking cocktails and wishing we could afford to stay there. <br /><br />But you know, you can’t just spend every day shopping for camel leather and drinking cocktails (can you?), so the next day I decided to book us on a Royal Desert Horse Safari, with those lovely fancy Marwari horses. My mum will be so proud, I thought to myself as I booked the safari, the taxi and confidently told the man on the phone that I was a Very Experienced Horsewoman (I haven’t ridden a horse since I was 13 and discovered snogging and Bacardi Breezers). “You like running?” asked the man on the phone, “what you mean cantering? Oh god yeah, been doing that for years,” I said, imagining myself draped in diaphanous white linen, galloping across the desert planes into the sunset. “OK we give you very best horse, queen of horses madam,” he promised. The other girls will be so impressed, I thought smugly to myself. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-idVZx71oyKNGFhkap4vYf8QAsoBjhrRdFfeJtjlRVtk5IozjO1amvF8R9ZFrJrJUGH9zLh_mQR5EolaLV0hodCznw8o1bFxUq5SJJg0uniGNiZNISkdtLYH2CZ9qlf63AzDVInTJzGW/s1600/images.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 111px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-idVZx71oyKNGFhkap4vYf8QAsoBjhrRdFfeJtjlRVtk5IozjO1amvF8R9ZFrJrJUGH9zLh_mQR5EolaLV0hodCznw8o1bFxUq5SJJg0uniGNiZNISkdtLYH2CZ9qlf63AzDVInTJzGW/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457168021527013010" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctBA9TB3HfeqZymnhn7o1GcDd_6psC40tW92NpgWy7vKXmFhQgM_cCHeCptlm6ZH6ytH8tMaEA14agy1SUM7A_nvR9sbLXn_Ejjb5VrkdiW5iQieUIbpBB6XIlB192nzNJdyPaaOXCzIQ/s1600/images-1.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 84px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctBA9TB3HfeqZymnhn7o1GcDd_6psC40tW92NpgWy7vKXmFhQgM_cCHeCptlm6ZH6ytH8tMaEA14agy1SUM7A_nvR9sbLXn_Ejjb5VrkdiW5iQieUIbpBB6XIlB192nzNJdyPaaOXCzIQ/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457168761394730850" /></a><br />In the end, it was just Claudia and me who turned up at the riding school, on a bright windy morning in the middle of the desert, inappropriately dressed in leggings and flimsy Top Shop trainers. We sat under a small tent with a few other tourists while the guides solemnly explained that the name Marwari actually means ‘from the land of death’ and that our horses were originally bred by the ancient Rajput clans for war, and are known for their hot tempers. They even used to rear up onto their hind legs to fight elephants – so not exactly like the fat old plodders I was used to riding in Barnet Riding Stables. They told us we would be absolutely fine as long as we didn’t make any sudden noises or movements, like talking too loudly or opening bottles of water. Claudia had never ridden before and started to get really nervous about falling off and smashing her head open, and then I started to get a bit nervous about being responsible if she did fall off and smash her head open. “Don’t worry, all we’ll be doing is sitting on a horse and looking at the lovely scenery,” I said, surreptitiously crossing my fingers and toes. <br /><br />I started to regret my decision to tell them that I was a Very Experienced Horsewoman, when I was taken to one side and equipped with a giant pair of leather chaps. “Why am I the only one who has to wear these things?” I asked, buckling myself in. “Don’t worry, you are very experienced horsewoman – just a precaution,” said the guide. He then led me to the yard where an enormous prancing black and white mare was frantically pounding the earth with her hoof, frothing at the mouth and rolling her eyes. “Yikes,” I laughed nervously, “What the hell’s wrong with that one? She looks a bit mad!” “This is your horse, Puja,” he said, confusing my terrified expression for excitement. “She is very proud lady, like Queen. You have to earn her respect”. <br /><br />I mounted her, while all the other riders looked on in horror. “Are you sure you want to ride that one Sarah, she looks fucking mental!” shouted Claudia from across the yard. “YES! SHE’S GREAT, HA HA, JUST A BIT FRISKY. NOTHING I CAN’T HANDLE!” I screeched, clinging on to the reins. “Shhhh, there’s a good girl Puja,” I whispered in her ear as she thrashed wildly at the bit. Fuck, she doesn’t understand English. “Don’t worry,” said the guide, “she is just a little upset because she hasn’t been exercised for two days and she didn’t have her breakfast this morning.” What? Isn’t that dangerous, I don’t even have any holiday insurance. “Ah right! No problem, I’ve handled much worse. Giddyup!” I said through clenched teeth, wishing desperately that it could all be over. <br /><br />We began our trek into the desert with the midday sun beating down on us, my hands clenched tightly at the reins while Puja skipped, pranced and reared at the slightest flutter of a leaf. She was a bit like the horse version of Mariah Cary, throwing tantrums every five seconds and being completely mental. Every time she threw a hissy fit, the rest of the horses would rear or try and run off into the desert. One Australian girl started crying “Gemme orf oye wanna goy hoyyme! Oye wanna GOY HOYME!”. It was all my fault. “Sorry everyone!” I said, as Puja gnashed her teeth, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her!” “Puja want to run to Pakistan,” said one of the guides, fondly. “But she do not have passport! Ha ha ha!” <br /><br />When we arrived back at the stables, after two of the most terrifying hours of my life, my hands were bleeding, and the two Australian girls were crying – and no longer on their horses. “We were very worried about you,” said the owner of the stables, “this wind is very dangerous, makes horses very, very crazy. You are lucky you are still in one pieces!”<br /><br />In the rickshaw on the way back to our hotel, as I watched each of my fingers swell into giant blisters, I wondered how many more dangerous encounters with mother nature it would take before we’d paid off our bad karma? Surely it couldn’t get any worse than Puja? <br /><br />Oh how wrong I was. That afternoon, as we relaxed in our cowshed, recovering from the stresses and reins of our adventures on horseback, I suddenly began to experience an ominous twisting in my guts. “I don’t feel very well,” said Claudia, almost simultaneously. She went grey, started groaning, broke out into a cold sweat and curled herself into the foetal position. My guts churned as I replayed the memory of that greasy, lukewarm 30rupee curry in Bundi, our dirty hands and the flies buzzing around our plates. Our friend Elisa poked her head around the door to find us in a pathetic, moaning heap on the bed and said, helpfully, ‘I knew it was a bad idea to go on that stupid horse ride’. <br /><br />After 24 hours of, writhing, sweating, cramping and other unmentionable things, we finally arrived at the light at the end of the tunnel. There we were, lying pale and comatose in our cowshed, when we heard a little scratching at our door and the patter of tiny paws – and in burst the two little sausage dogs that belonged to our hotel (‘Sausie’ and ‘Weiny’). They jumped on our bed and curled up next to us, all warm and reassuring. I usually fucking hate dogs, but somehow I took it as a sign that all our troubles were over. Thank God, as a wise man once said (or was it Boy George?), that "karma comes and goes". <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8j9J4W6oa9AnLhEm_DkB6mAh_VmIkXLfnD-jQSewWDXgFCixJ0S4QzgYxT49M2N-HesAFVL-qFT3Nk4lsHn1HdyhoiYEd29xRzoP7HEeR0Fah4qrRloWBmUK_4WUxEB3lY1nN0W_k1KG/s1600/CIMG3148.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8j9J4W6oa9AnLhEm_DkB6mAh_VmIkXLfnD-jQSewWDXgFCixJ0S4QzgYxT49M2N-HesAFVL-qFT3Nk4lsHn1HdyhoiYEd29xRzoP7HEeR0Fah4qrRloWBmUK_4WUxEB3lY1nN0W_k1KG/s320/CIMG3148.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457169266700405634" /></a>Sarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-45105989173982189972010-04-05T21:08:00.000-07:002010-04-05T21:26:23.322-07:00A holiday in the desert<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKeRo3iZH2OxztXteaajdgFDtbveKAhPPlRcK6S13VmEOHRYXeDt1rOyl3A62QtelNhOnWAid0hax1t57G_m9JtDw2XwZok6EmMm-GFG2x7Lur3ep8VduyWzCCy-Uwc7NT6oGly1IBNZLW/s1600/CIMG3284.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKeRo3iZH2OxztXteaajdgFDtbveKAhPPlRcK6S13VmEOHRYXeDt1rOyl3A62QtelNhOnWAid0hax1t57G_m9JtDw2XwZok6EmMm-GFG2x7Lur3ep8VduyWzCCy-Uwc7NT6oGly1IBNZLW/s320/CIMG3284.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456873180075774754" /></a><br />It’s been quite a while since my last confession from India. I’d love to tell you that’s because I’ve been too busy writing my first novel, knocking-back gin and tonics on a tiger-skin rug and shouting at the maidservant, but the real problem is that I’ve become too settled into the Indian way of life – a bit like dirt in an old hippie’s heel. How can I write about the barefoot spiritual exiles of India when I am one of them?<br /> <br />It’s a worrying fact that my skin smells like chicken tikka, I wipe my bum with my left hand, wobble my head in answer to any question, have a shit haircut and can drink five chais in a row without blinking. I’ve been spiritually channelled, had my chakras rubbed down with paraffin oil on a dirty kitchen table, attended a candlelit-chanting workshop and was the most enthusiastic person there – ‘Om shanthi! Let me have a go on that tambourine, John!’ No joke. Last week I wore a turban ‘to keep my head cool’, and I call them fucking hippies?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfz7_bZBzQ4U47EDahixpCxwEznvAf_Lo-byenUkA9MgUcX_RNDt6Md6-UayVnfdqhgaDsJtgY0tQ7NgGd9TFssHXAm-XAV36kurE_9wKBioQDg3yu9LjpHKf6vwhbgGUqollB7d8xAox/s1600/CIMG1812.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfz7_bZBzQ4U47EDahixpCxwEznvAf_Lo-byenUkA9MgUcX_RNDt6Md6-UayVnfdqhgaDsJtgY0tQ7NgGd9TFssHXAm-XAV36kurE_9wKBioQDg3yu9LjpHKf6vwhbgGUqollB7d8xAox/s320/CIMG1812.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456874885900991554" /></a><br />It suddenly dawned on me: was I really so much better than those mad-eyed leathery freaks in faded psychedelic kaftans who have stayed here so long they re-christen themselves ‘Krishna’ and insist on wearing white robes and mala beads to Tescos when they go home?<br /> <br />So at the beginning of this month I decided that it was time to leave the Hari Rams and cheesecloth behind me and feel like a normal tourist again. Claudia was visiting from England so we flicked through her crisp new Lonely Planet for inspiration and booked a last-minute flight to Rajasthan. The guidebook called it The Land of Kings, a mystical desert-scape of maharajahs palaces, fortresses and, of course, shopping. It seemed far, far away from pious bongo-bangers of the South – and also I’d been after a camel leather bag for ages.<br /> <br />Flying into Jaipur was like landing on a different planet. The sky was bluer, the light harsher and the desert wind cracked our lips the minute we stepped off the plane. Everything was just a slightly amplified version of what I was used to. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDMsFLTCsraejr2AWv44XOp_0gZfTbJD673JeD1_qh_KojaTHqL6uzBg2qYUClOGkX8AEVg61g6AsAPe-TYOtuoxELYx2wS268YNE3SlM4T4v7MUoGAwHbb8sXxLnfYv32-PPu9aL9mY9/s1600/CIMG3215.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDMsFLTCsraejr2AWv44XOp_0gZfTbJD673JeD1_qh_KojaTHqL6uzBg2qYUClOGkX8AEVg61g6AsAPe-TYOtuoxELYx2wS268YNE3SlM4T4v7MUoGAwHbb8sXxLnfYv32-PPu9aL9mY9/s320/CIMG3215.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456875323683983810" /></a><br />Lipsticked ladies shimmied through the arrivals gate in sequinned neon saris and diamante heels, pushing over-loaded trolleys with arms like forklift truck drivers. In baggage claim I saw a guy in chai-stained white pyjamas retrieve a wicker basket of tiny yellow bananas from the revolving carousel. You can actually check-in bananas? He looked right back at me as if to say: “yeah bananas and so fucking what?” <br /> <br />Everything about our first couple of days in Jaipur was amazing as far as we were concerned. Delirious from all the desert sun, bangle-shopping and sickly saffron lassies, we were stupid to the point of putting ourselves in mortal danger on a daily basis. We ate every dubious lukewarm samosa from the street we could get our grubby hands on, piled four on the back of a rickety cycle rickshaws the wrong way down busy dual carriageways at night with no lights on; Claudia got too friendly with a paraplegic beggar selling wooden puppets and got her tits groped. “But I told him we were lesbians!” she said. I wonder why didn’t he get the message? I gave my email address to the pimple-faced hotel manager and two hours later found a string of romantic Facebook messages ‘to beuotiful Sarah. I am Nazeem hotel manager. I want to give you kiss ok, call me ok luv n hugs Naz xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx’.<br /> <br />We learned to expect the unexpected. Like on our third day when we decided to hire a ‘luxury’ car for the whole ten-day trip 1000km across Rajasthan – and the driver turned up three hours late and extremely pissed. “Erm I don’t mean to be rude,” I said to the travel agent, “but your driver stinks of whiskey, could it be that he is he drunk?” The driver stood swaying cross-eyed on the pavement next to the car, looking like he wanted to regurgitate something. “No not drunk. Just tired.” said the travel agent. Then an exchange took place in Hindi, which probably went something like:<br /> <br />Travel agent: “Put your tongue back in your mouth you stupid goat, you need to start acting like you’ve driven a car before and that I didn’t just peel you off the floor of a bar and bribe you with 100 rupees to drive these fussy foreign slutbags around for the next 10 days”.<br />Amir: “But shhir I’m sho sho drwunk, drwunker than a shkunk. My head ish shpinning, I feeling like yakking up my lunch and when I look at you I sshee three fat angry men inshtead of one. How can I drive when I can’t even shtand up? ”<br />Travel agent: “Drivers just need to sit there, smile and press the floor pedal thingy, butt plug. Keep quiet and I’ll tell them you just had one beer”.<br /> <br />“He only had one beer – for the festival. Don’t mind OK? Amir is very good man,” said the travel agent, slapping him on the back. “I’m sure Amir is a very nice man,” I said, patience thinning, “but he smells like he’s been on an intravenous Jack Daniels drip for the past 48 hours.” The travel agent scratched his arse and executed a chain of complex mathematical calculations in his head: “Better you open window, oxygen is good for smell”. <br /> <br />So we opened the windows, prayed, held on tight and everything was fine – until it got dark and Amir turned the headlights off to ‘save fuel’. I’m not sure how it happened but one minute the road was empty and the next minute we heard horns smack into the passenger window and saw a dazed-looking cow through the back windscreen, wobbling around in the middle of the motorway in the path of an oncoming goods lorry. The horn sounded and there was a sickening thud. He was probably fine right?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUIo2E-2pKDHD6TYUr7LdJw1E-VVWhb8My7IaDHiV8YtU_mUh85yJBhMCRjyEThdtilT_J1-6XWNp4rhgKqXHoCuj-5DgcZoalIk9e1ucCx1kVVqRh0z5IRZsn0JSidEizt-u7RmULACZ/s1600/CIMG2974.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUIo2E-2pKDHD6TYUr7LdJw1E-VVWhb8My7IaDHiV8YtU_mUh85yJBhMCRjyEThdtilT_J1-6XWNp4rhgKqXHoCuj-5DgcZoalIk9e1ucCx1kVVqRh0z5IRZsn0JSidEizt-u7RmULACZ/s320/CIMG2974.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456875947384362306" /></a><br /> <br />To be continued…Sarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-72915376665202832452009-07-05T07:51:00.000-07:002009-07-05T10:01:41.626-07:00Wheels on fire<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE7n62-U5t9irytB58uNN6TjGTDg282M173Jq4vNPn2ojFfPLYbEO3ETelGTebTJAuSyuw-C_orUDy09QUTbLm3F3Mv6JbMi7NI2ahEKN745E3PXNm_4S68b9uS2AIoU9thPABiH_c8XgN/s1600-h/CIMG2352.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE7n62-U5t9irytB58uNN6TjGTDg282M173Jq4vNPn2ojFfPLYbEO3ETelGTebTJAuSyuw-C_orUDy09QUTbLm3F3Mv6JbMi7NI2ahEKN745E3PXNm_4S68b9uS2AIoU9thPABiH_c8XgN/s320/CIMG2352.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354997931479851490"></a><br />What do you get if you cross 17 Indian teenage girls, 10 do-gooding foreign volunteers, 27 broken bikes, 100 villages, 70 schools, 800 kilometres, 4,800 trees, 2430 plates of rice, a few tonnes of curry and unspecified numbers of head lice? A big fat crazy beautiful, filthy dirty, tragic-comic Indian adventure - and here are some of my personal highlights. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ezhOP3dpBPglIhw-j_sO-o_b_o26M01PTmL4sFhsrO0tNQ8HEDREqoAFFkumy19yMIlYFB2kKMdgefYOoVZpEGZF8VjZCsMSsIDyfoUVN7slq6xICO0Vx_i24836md9NoT71SLPoeG-X/s1600-h/CIMG2105.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ezhOP3dpBPglIhw-j_sO-o_b_o26M01PTmL4sFhsrO0tNQ8HEDREqoAFFkumy19yMIlYFB2kKMdgefYOoVZpEGZF8VjZCsMSsIDyfoUVN7slq6xICO0Vx_i24836md9NoT71SLPoeG-X/s320/CIMG2105.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354997919393075650"></a><br />On the 25th of May the Odanadi cycle jatha streamed through the gates of the Mysore Police Commissioner’s office, a peddling snake of sparkly white t-shirts with enthusiastic smiles, cheering and waving to the flash of a hundred journalists’ camera phones. The yellow silk Odanadi flag fluttered proudly from the window of our Jeep escort. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLlUVDe54f0iZMwPbGYbsSWvsiYyiLNZh4t62dQ0kZzYd2oj4Sdup52ILW3-zWYR6FOzUD1bcNgnd-78FdafInN4ebvvC2rhTdsG9Smmqhyphenhyphen-HqauzyzzQBBd9s3OnkxDhyuzwKjHBVBtVK/s1600-h/CIMG2106.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLlUVDe54f0iZMwPbGYbsSWvsiYyiLNZh4t62dQ0kZzYd2oj4Sdup52ILW3-zWYR6FOzUD1bcNgnd-78FdafInN4ebvvC2rhTdsG9Smmqhyphenhyphen-HqauzyzzQBBd9s3OnkxDhyuzwKjHBVBtVK/s320/CIMG2106.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354997946868316914"></a><br />We felt invincible, confidant, bursting with a sense of purpose – but no more than seven seconds later the first girl went headfirst over handlebars and into the gutter. “Oh my god Anitha!” The team of concerned volunteers wailed. “No problem sister,” the Odanadi girls reassured, heads wobbling, “she has never ridden the cycle before isn’t it.” NEVER RIDDEN A CYCLE BEFORE? “How many other girls have never ridden a bicycle before?” Hands shot into the air. I felt sick, but Anitha casually peeled herself off the tarmac and swayed off into a stream of heavy traffic without looking and a lively ‘ding’ of her bicycle bell. Then I remembered: this is India. No rules, no brakes, no expectations, no need to worry, isn’t it?<br />Not exactly the most auspicious start to the cycle ride, but as we left the crowded highways of Mysore behind us and recovered from the first five accidents and a motorbike crash, we really began to get into our stride. Apartment blocks, belching lorries and supermarkets were replaced by green coconut groves, paddy fields and lumbering ox carts. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLEVc-aQJs2Nfw_z2tkRpxEP_mujiJBupFFYnglzcrwSDancaajeGAZK10sV6ZBEKvXvakAgicXTBAXeYAx-DEOrUjhrS_UNykBRoL1ypfODQ56hbiWhQVvH0flEbRPJAciZLJcAkZ3-x/s1600-h/CIMG2141.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLEVc-aQJs2Nfw_z2tkRpxEP_mujiJBupFFYnglzcrwSDancaajeGAZK10sV6ZBEKvXvakAgicXTBAXeYAx-DEOrUjhrS_UNykBRoL1ypfODQ56hbiWhQVvH0flEbRPJAciZLJcAkZ3-x/s320/CIMG2141.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355004326475185938"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3aK-BBVBgWfrQplpDBrr_PJ0u3VgeokrWqfmb1d6AUfS8U6r56Tl5_54Yi3RyggPirUN_osC-1cdViA1aKIUXMLY2ChS7EYAWrNv6KJ4kz3rojEohG85HC-8hyphenhyphenm0WiIlDctoNRA-iaZWv/s1600-h/CIMG2140.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3aK-BBVBgWfrQplpDBrr_PJ0u3VgeokrWqfmb1d6AUfS8U6r56Tl5_54Yi3RyggPirUN_osC-1cdViA1aKIUXMLY2ChS7EYAWrNv6KJ4kz3rojEohG85HC-8hyphenhyphenm0WiIlDctoNRA-iaZWv/s320/CIMG2140.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354997939941792466"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSGUM4XzGsoK-ox76HsF9S7daKXIu_WiqjU8QBGQYM2KsjLKQksM1MzsDqPfUsKYeBrIwTZWDMzSlytFNADXykXaI-vrwDSu3X7lCPhG4wYDKVTAsM5JdFY5WcOP8Js28-iBIdXdhTBAc/s1600-h/CIMG2330.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSGUM4XzGsoK-ox76HsF9S7daKXIu_WiqjU8QBGQYM2KsjLKQksM1MzsDqPfUsKYeBrIwTZWDMzSlytFNADXykXaI-vrwDSu3X7lCPhG4wYDKVTAsM5JdFY5WcOP8Js28-iBIdXdhTBAc/s320/CIMG2330.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354997927233911186"></a><br />The lack of brakes, gears, general fitness and experience proved no obstacle to the resourceful Odanadi girls, who found time to stop at the bottom of every hill, chat to everyone we passed and still take a keen interest in the wellbeing of the foreigners. “Sister your face is red, but your body so white, why?” Because I’m hot. “But before cycle you looking so nice, now a little no-nice. Why?” BECAUSE WE'RE DESPERATELY TRYING NOT TO GET KILLED. On the first day the Volunteers learned that if you want to stay alive on an Indian road you have to follow the Indian ‘Highway Code’, which goes something like:<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">• Cows are God; <br />• Overtake everyone, especially on blind corners; <br />• Never ever check your wing mirrors, unless you are combing your hair and; <br />• Beep your horn loudly and often, especially if you have one of those fancy ones that plays a tune. </span><br />25 kilometres later we arrived at our first destination, just outside the village of Bilikere: two sheds in the middle of a building site. It wasn’t exactly the Savoy, but there was a (sort-of) roof and two barrels of cold water with unidentified bits floating in it. Undeterred, the Odanadi girls screamed, punched the air and jumped around in celebration of their month-long slumber party, while the volunteers looked a little stunned and began tentatively dipping jugs into the scummy ice-cold water for a ‘shower’. “Is this water filtered?” Definitely. “Mosquitoes?” No way. “And toilets?” <span style="font-style:italic;">Al fresco</span>: in the left hand corner of the field where that piss-smell is coming from. As the sun went down over our rustic encampment, we ate cold chapattis with coconut chutney, lit a bonfire and the Odanadi girls sang and danced under the stars to the latest Bollywood song (“move ya move ya move baaaadey, shake ya shake ya shaaaaake ya baaadey”). <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQ2IgEFLsJfODp5QoKbj5YFip6zi2HXYqaj2Cq-rGnYEjLufSB3YzeJFw2RJsxiX-Z9U9SWInKQWrbY60mtzhVNh79WrSQkuQ-RmqKlV_Bo7VCFvKFveKlx1-vmPcaLEJxuAkpfDrtYbn/s1600-h/CIMG2109.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQ2IgEFLsJfODp5QoKbj5YFip6zi2HXYqaj2Cq-rGnYEjLufSB3YzeJFw2RJsxiX-Z9U9SWInKQWrbY60mtzhVNh79WrSQkuQ-RmqKlV_Bo7VCFvKFveKlx1-vmPcaLEJxuAkpfDrtYbn/s320/CIMG2109.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355001336425761058"></a><br />“Sister, now you do your country song and dance OK?” said 17 pairs of imploring eyes. At which point most volunteers made their excuses and collapsed on yoga mats, under thin cotton sheets – and prayed for their faces not to get eaten by mosquitoes, rats or cockroaches during the night. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchg5Pc58xjr5WTMNajm8b9xb5qVrw7YaWXP6jHavssQMfIj7wbuA-lV0tABuEASuKzVDZtpZusqeACvZuYPI9YUHleqLM01_egCLL_pEwAKWmY36jO-ifbA0MMU3zjT7JHU9sMfZGQT3B/s1600-h/CIMG2121.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchg5Pc58xjr5WTMNajm8b9xb5qVrw7YaWXP6jHavssQMfIj7wbuA-lV0tABuEASuKzVDZtpZusqeACvZuYPI9YUHleqLM01_egCLL_pEwAKWmY36jO-ifbA0MMU3zjT7JHU9sMfZGQT3B/s320/CIMG2121.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355001339422059426"></a><br />But I don’t want to bore you with the gritty minutiae of every day – or it could start feeling like a month-long episode of Indian Big Brother, minus the booze and the big posh house. The first few days went by in a blur of sweaty cycling on pink bikes through lush paddy fields, remote villages and dusty towns, dodging herds of goats and trains of camels. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkzgnt7ilJiEitjj9lpH2qavIRQraHAkt1aIMrDu07AwaHcAkl2y7qTWWF-MsZuEH45lK4gd-mmu7rZ534Raezn-WbyhTuLbfDaGjH-cqHz9qJO66B9d3W0dd_uQOpsHbw68a7oxC5531/s1600-h/CIMG2196.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkzgnt7ilJiEitjj9lpH2qavIRQraHAkt1aIMrDu07AwaHcAkl2y7qTWWF-MsZuEH45lK4gd-mmu7rZ534Raezn-WbyhTuLbfDaGjH-cqHz9qJO66B9d3W0dd_uQOpsHbw68a7oxC5531/s320/CIMG2196.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355004340825498802"></a><br />None of our cycles had gears – and most of them didn’t have brakes either, so there was a lot of stopping in the shade to recover from minor road accidents, broken chains, to dip cheap glucose biscuits in sweet cups of chai. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQvZVp5tZ28yxrSbct7knrwFR19RCbzLMsqReM0NHaT558CqKzY43GYhdnUFZJCM1mwrm96DmEUYh7Miv_QT1zjjH3wIVcT46bhruMadVG019cVxSC-XVVioYY8i9O4cjThi_jX4sLYh6/s1600-h/CIMG2190.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtQvZVp5tZ28yxrSbct7knrwFR19RCbzLMsqReM0NHaT558CqKzY43GYhdnUFZJCM1mwrm96DmEUYh7Miv_QT1zjjH3wIVcT46bhruMadVG019cVxSC-XVVioYY8i9O4cjThi_jX4sLYh6/s320/CIMG2190.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355004350930719074"></a><br />Breakfast, lunch and dinner (rice, rice and rice) was provided for us by supporters as we made our way through Karnataka: temples, monasteries, schools, community halls, NGOs, tribal organizations and government hostels. In return, we planted mango trees, performed songs and distributed leaflets to raise awareness about human trafficking. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_b5XrOfi6N3Vpy3-o-18r6e_ZmxIFqeC7ZN5xh0-CUtzlZ6lM3Yx2JH998YDHgypPTmgV91UFPGMwecYiSdk3aoQDyWcWwBfALfMkupVTuSsqaKq3fxpNDPbL1WhSrzzuGFuQVcWKymq/s1600-h/CIMG2122.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_b5XrOfi6N3Vpy3-o-18r6e_ZmxIFqeC7ZN5xh0-CUtzlZ6lM3Yx2JH998YDHgypPTmgV91UFPGMwecYiSdk3aoQDyWcWwBfALfMkupVTuSsqaKq3fxpNDPbL1WhSrzzuGFuQVcWKymq/s320/CIMG2122.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355004330583009570"></a><br />We were hardly inconspicuous. Groups of skinny boys on motorbikes would zoom past smacking their lips at 30 female arses struggling up a hill. “SISTER!” the Odanadi girls would whine, “Those boys are ragging us!” In India “ragging” isn’t an Eighties paint-effect, it means someone taking the piss out of you. “Just ignore them,” I would say in my best do-gooding, stoic volunteer voice. But when you’ve been cycling uphill for 30 kilometres in 40 degree heat with a plastic saddle wedged up your arse crack and a greasy shitbag in a vegetable lorry starts blowing you kisses all you really want to say is ‘GO AND FUCK YOURSELF YOU FUCKING PERVERTS,’ but then I remembered we were NGO ambassadors and we had to set a good example and kept reminding myself that the closest most of these men have come to a Western woman is in porno mags and <span style="font-style:italic;">Fair and Lovely</span> TV commercials. It’s not their fault TV has taught them that all Western women are whores. <br />Strange rumours about the cycle team would circulate in each village where we stopped. People would stand in doorways pointing at the “AMERICANS”. They were convinced that we were either Hollywood actresses or worked at The White House. “AFRICAN?” they would stage whisper, wagging their fingers at the black (Belgium) volunteer. “No Belgium,” she would explain. “No, you African,” they would insist. “And she - CHINESE” they would stage whisper and point at the Korean-American college student. Even the local Indian newspapers started running stories based on our group of Chinese, American and African Hollywood actresses and White House employees, with grinning photographs of us taken on mobile phones. <br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyMr6Bw2wKDVZO5i-mVDu5m-i2j2XW55gsRqKkwaOoGim0oYtQixkcIy4OTki5nniuDUZVemQN3YDUMu7f48Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />And it wasn’t just the locals who were bewildered. Over the course of 30 days Volunteers and Odanadi girls had a lot to learn about each other from each side of the cultural divide. For the most part we were one big happy family, but a few things were bound to get lost in translation. “Why you country peoples no marriage? Why toilet paper? Why red skin? Why pimples? Why reading book? Why no good cloth washing and dirty t shirts?” Some situations got pretty awkward. Like when one of the older female volunteers got stomach cramps, crouched by the side of the road to get water from her bag – and found that her emergency sachets of chocolate glucose syrup had exploded all over her hands. “Oh my god oh my god! Canadian sister has made loose motions, all over her hands!” whispered 17 girls, eyes bulging, cycling up and down the line making sure everyday knew just what was going on. The whole cycle ride was in uproar. “DO SOMETHING SISTER! Come quick, Canada Sister’s monthly-problem is coming all over her hands, she needs to take bath!” No, no don’t worry Canada sister has just got chocolate… oh never mind. <br />Bathing was another big issue on the cycle ride. Apparently the volunteers didn’t do it enough because we were determined to Rough It (“Sister please at<span style="font-style:italic;"> least </span>body washing? They would plead), while the Odanadi girls did it as much and as often as possible because most of them have Roughed It for their entire lives and the novelty had kind of worn off. <br />But bathing wasn’t the most comfortable experience for Western volunteers, used to mod cons like ‘taps’ and ‘privacy’. <br />About ten days before the end of the cycle, we were all allocated village families to stay with. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI-DYwHCb2qxGg7B89iXbonW3WESo-z_-2-utpSVTk3rp859feiC3enHay9JnWxz7harLnl1SDaLzbJH1z2tkGNZEtVJJOwUJGDDE7EI_9LAudAKfldkACOWnqCb1GVD3SfJo6Ur4gVWjN/s1600-h/CIMG2180.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI-DYwHCb2qxGg7B89iXbonW3WESo-z_-2-utpSVTk3rp859feiC3enHay9JnWxz7harLnl1SDaLzbJH1z2tkGNZEtVJJOwUJGDDE7EI_9LAudAKfldkACOWnqCb1GVD3SfJo6Ur4gVWjN/s320/CIMG2180.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355011235218166898"></a><br />After a cosy night spooning in bed with two Odanadi girls, Sindhu, Ramya, the mother, daughter and their two mates from next door, the girls were keen to get me clean. “You first sister, ok?” They pointed to the corner of the dimly lit hut, where I could see a small concrete wall, surrounding a plughole and a bucket of water. “Where do I wash though?” It all suddenly became clear: I was going to have to crouch naked in the corner of a room full of strangers to wash in a bucket – while they all watched. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5L_S_FjaoggOr5mOSvjgkxWgqcNtx6M76_QsPq0hCQsAUjHns5bqT8uCivuYLEKlGlhxZ73SlWDQO97eLpNWxi34-ggB4BLBGDWaDFl5zxNVeN3Nh6TKRAfBY52E0BpW49bgQiTFAj7y/s1600-h/CIMG2187.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq5L_S_FjaoggOr5mOSvjgkxWgqcNtx6M76_QsPq0hCQsAUjHns5bqT8uCivuYLEKlGlhxZ73SlWDQO97eLpNWxi34-ggB4BLBGDWaDFl5zxNVeN3Nh6TKRAfBY52E0BpW49bgQiTFAj7y/s320/CIMG2187.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355014022859737730"></a><br />I tried not to look fazed as I casually took off all my clothes behind a small towel. How was I going to do this without offending them, without confirming all their worst suspicions about slutty Western women? Two heads poked around the concrete wall. “Sister, what is this?” they asked pointing at the towel. “Go a-way” I said, panicking and hastily splashing jug fulls of water under the soaking towel. My washing method wasn’t very convincing. Suddenly four more pairs of eyes joined them to watch the poor pale skinned prude desperately trying to save her battered dignity with dishcloth. “FINISHED!” I laughed, “it’s traditional to wash like this in England, we’re a <span style="font-style:italic;">very</span> private nation.” When it was time for Sindhu and Ramya to wash, they simply took off all their clothes and stood naked while the mother of the family poured warm jugs of water over their hair. Then I felt really stupid. <br />Very little seemed to get under the skin of the Odanadi contingent, most of whom have been through a lot worse than hard floors and dirty toilets. Like when the entire cycle ride became infested with head lice. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKn0uTjnXUKtvI9AGISjDX-8FTGcqN81rVPpytVQoc7922sLgxCi5Rgdrj3JMKCh6uMBRwEF1v90NdIZeY4xXfeem_5UyfsdlM2XeJUjudNJcs61n9X16Pf3O2kBApivrfxrnh7J81P0sy/s1600-h/CIMG2306.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKn0uTjnXUKtvI9AGISjDX-8FTGcqN81rVPpytVQoc7922sLgxCi5Rgdrj3JMKCh6uMBRwEF1v90NdIZeY4xXfeem_5UyfsdlM2XeJUjudNJcs61n9X16Pf3O2kBApivrfxrnh7J81P0sy/s320/CIMG2306.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355011240363963234"></a><br />“AAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!” came the scream from down the corridor of a seedy government hostel where we were staying. It sounded like a Greek tragedy out there. “SISTER! American sister has head lice, she very crying,” explained an extremely bemused Shamala. “She is telling she has disease and she wants to go back to America. Why?” Every volunteer started panicking. “No one told us the girls have head lice, how could this have happened?’ came the cries. We gathered everyone in a room. “OK, who here has head lice?” I asked the girls to raise their hands. “ME SISTER!” came a chorus of seventeen voices. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgOpnSI_m5e50I4XB9v89XLQcwehFCo4kVFL1xJDt7msJHdNM3_JbVcbHIe-m_IzXAWtURlyR5WF0rTXLc9wL7wCXTvr78RkC2rs4uK6RPNIW3po67jd44gbNKqEyMpFDKLCallCXsiNR/s1600-h/CIMG2344.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgOpnSI_m5e50I4XB9v89XLQcwehFCo4kVFL1xJDt7msJHdNM3_JbVcbHIe-m_IzXAWtURlyR5WF0rTXLc9wL7wCXTvr78RkC2rs4uK6RPNIW3po67jd44gbNKqEyMpFDKLCallCXsiNR/s320/CIMG2344.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355011249343090978"></a><br />In India, death, disease and head lice are always pretty close at hand. There’s no escaping the harsh realities of life, as the team of plucky volunteers discovered one Saturday morning when we woke to the scream 20 goats being sacrificed in the temple next door to our hostel. In a matter of seconds everyone crowded around to watch the next quivering victim, rope tied round its neck, flailing desperately in a bright pool of blood. “THAT’S DISGUSTING!” the volunteers wailed, as a couple of dogs started nonchalantly lapping at the pools of gore on the temple steps. “Yes sister,’ agreed the Odanadi girls, unconvincingly. “Look sister, knife is coming,’ said Anitha, who is perhaps the most unflappable girl on the planet. The butcher held a huge rusting machete over the goat’s neck and tapped it slowly. “One, two, three…dead,” said Anitha calmly, as the knife came down and sliced its head clean off. I stared transfixed as the headless body of the goat twitched violently and tried to make a run for it. “Don’t worry sister,” said Anitha, “body still moving, but goat is dead”. <br />But unlike the goats, the Odanadi cycle jatha made it back into the city of Mysore with bodies, bikes and sanity (almost) in tact. The last afternoon was never-ending. Struggling against monsoon wind and rain we cycled around the busy ring road with punctures, broken pedals and a missing saddle. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0M29aeWCM4g-D0RItQTwB4EMN4y98HrYnfk9CL8nHX8LvkHjs7O4LS3RNKuGGPyiSkt6iBn7_SvAYxejMT247So22dR-3I7YYgxB342IxMacqHaP07YMsQqrxdHErun-aTKnsJJZTK9M/s1600-h/IMG_4016.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0M29aeWCM4g-D0RItQTwB4EMN4y98HrYnfk9CL8nHX8LvkHjs7O4LS3RNKuGGPyiSkt6iBn7_SvAYxejMT247So22dR-3I7YYgxB342IxMacqHaP07YMsQqrxdHErun-aTKnsJJZTK9M/s320/IMG_4016.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355014008291843090"></a><br />But finally at about 6pm, as we rode across the dusty scrubland with the pelting rain in our eyes, the white roof of Odanadi came into view. My legs were jelly and my nerves were in tatters, but as we got closer, we heard the sound of 60 Odanadi children screaming and cheering from outside the gates, “welcome home sisters!” <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQoJaTA_j-QsRgIEBy4KoaE5D-66-EKpXTryhuyIMjlTLN-oj6usI9muXtQFnvw_SVip6Lz9gj53KwwLeEoxDLFna8szIgH4Gb_27mGXD9FncTC0QACFaayap9AsGCVU0Twy7jFQIfp2re/s1600-h/CIMG2347.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQoJaTA_j-QsRgIEBy4KoaE5D-66-EKpXTryhuyIMjlTLN-oj6usI9muXtQFnvw_SVip6Lz9gj53KwwLeEoxDLFna8szIgH4Gb_27mGXD9FncTC0QACFaayap9AsGCVU0Twy7jFQIfp2re/s320/CIMG2347.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355014012767884322"></a><br />Afterwards I felt like the goat: body still moving, but dead. I didn’t even cycle for the full 30 days, but for those that did I was amazed that despite rainstorms, heatwaves, accidents, injuries, cold floors, cold buckets – everyone survived. The volunteers who had never been to India before, the Odanadi girls who had never ridden a bike before; victims of brothels, pimps, gutters and worse – they all made it. In fact it was such a success the Odanadi founders are thinking about doing a cycle ride for the mentally ill residents next year. Any takers?Sarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-6698095646429115762009-05-29T23:13:00.000-07:002009-05-30T00:07:35.742-07:00My first brothel raid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8KYwgbHRx4NnvrwSBBUPj9ibb3Py9t7uRXa_BlQj859vkmcmk29vENRz4D-UiAgQAHCgL2bMVifwzh5hJmqrvph_72eMA2tff8dJQdBXyYyeL2DC9ejp1EW8toW-6-zTuMHs8Y9IEGjv/s1600-h/IMG_3905.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI8KYwgbHRx4NnvrwSBBUPj9ibb3Py9t7uRXa_BlQj859vkmcmk29vENRz4D-UiAgQAHCgL2bMVifwzh5hJmqrvph_72eMA2tff8dJQdBXyYyeL2DC9ejp1EW8toW-6-zTuMHs8Y9IEGjv/s320/IMG_3905.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341499791511190866" /></a><br />Last week, on a humid afternoon in Mysore, Odanadi rescued 12 female sex workers from two windowless dungeons, no bigger than toilet cubicles. They had been kept crouching in the dark for more 14 days, hidden behind false walls in the back of two roadside restaurants on the Bangalore to Mysore highway. I want to describe to you what I saw there so you can understand a bit more about what Odanadi is fighting against – and the reasons why your support is so crucial.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsw74i7zRSOYOMLceIxWBmacFxS3Oiu4O_mVZyjwD1E-ajwZZE6dxR66ZBw1HRQOC8TnfHl50KTSLf41FR9r0Nc0yMtFHmC_t0GZ2e3eQcjtJ6CY7CV2JHxT84CW9xiZa4LsZSSNwI12yI/s1600-h/IMG_3898.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsw74i7zRSOYOMLceIxWBmacFxS3Oiu4O_mVZyjwD1E-ajwZZE6dxR66ZBw1HRQOC8TnfHl50KTSLf41FR9r0Nc0yMtFHmC_t0GZ2e3eQcjtJ6CY7CV2JHxT84CW9xiZa4LsZSSNwI12yI/s320/IMG_3898.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341499766079466914" /></a><br />By the time we arrived late on Monday the raid was over; secret trapdoors had been smashed open and the girls released: seven from one hiding place and five from another. Two police vans were already there. Khaki-clad officers stood shouting into mobile phones and questioning the crowd of restaurant employees milling in the dusty forecourt.<br />The place didn’t look anything like a brothel to me: no red lights and seedy boudoirs, just two nondescript restaurants sitting on either side of the highway, with the usual corrugated iron rooves and cheap plastic garden furniture. These are the kind of places you stop for a lukewarm Coke on the way to Bangalore – not the kind that place you’d imagine to be the centre of an illegal sex trafficking ring. <br />We were there just in time to see the 12 girls, mainly from Bangaldesh and Calcutta, filing out from the restaurant, squinting in the daylight and clutching grubby shawls to their faces. Some of them were crying. Others just peered blankly through the back window of the police Jeep, looking at us with a mixture shock and shame. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguciQDsORGh4Og4LD_eFKbkZteDxaez_OmP3r_tkeB3ghdiE_cnnZbgRcdudrrPyi3zM_PrNN4KoNaZJ233ERRwXsLjsZVLejkFQPgckYJJYJoQwx62LdYW1AEHpDrjW7NIMXJzMM4blzP/s1600-h/IMG_3896.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguciQDsORGh4Og4LD_eFKbkZteDxaez_OmP3r_tkeB3ghdiE_cnnZbgRcdudrrPyi3zM_PrNN4KoNaZJ233ERRwXsLjsZVLejkFQPgckYJJYJoQwx62LdYW1AEHpDrjW7NIMXJzMM4blzP/s320/IMG_3896.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341499777226049474" /></a><br />Somewhere during the mayhem of the girls leaving, Odanadi founders Stanly and Parashu ushered us through the maze of filthy bedrooms, corridors and kitchens at the back of the first restaurant. We came to a disused room with a small trapdoor set into the wall at knee-height. Outside a tangle of clothes lay amongst dirty plates, high-heeled shoes and discarded condom boxes. We had just enough time to stick our heads into the dank 6 x 4 foot hole. It stank of human bodies, piss and old food. Dark stains splashed up one wall and the odd, sad item of clothing lying abandoned on the floor. There wouldn’t have even been enough room for more then one of them to lie down and sleep.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj86_Y7CYibsBnziEs2CjcrdBkUKajTPIxUmABXBiJtCqy5XqrPtbFDChyphenhyphenstVGn5Kvn_3aLynZLmyySJV7Wc6tbjYzKk8HpLqKM99VUN8HcPIvj1Lf79o31QGegWVRLnUUnCUUsBCi2J5rm/s1600-h/IMG_3899.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj86_Y7CYibsBnziEs2CjcrdBkUKajTPIxUmABXBiJtCqy5XqrPtbFDChyphenhyphenstVGn5Kvn_3aLynZLmyySJV7Wc6tbjYzKk8HpLqKM99VUN8HcPIvj1Lf79o31QGegWVRLnUUnCUUsBCi2J5rm/s320/IMG_3899.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341499776076644594" /></a><br />We left the first restaurant and had just enough time to run over the road to see where the other five girls were being kept, before the police noticed we were gone. Up a squalid, urine-stained staircase and along a corridor of empty, unmade bedrooms, we arrived at the last room to find a bright blue trapdoor positioned under a shelf. Inside was a dirty squat toilet in a cubicle barely big enough for two people to stand up in – and yet it had been home to five grown women for more than two weeks. It was like something out of a horror film.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QBBShG7oOTr07msThhMaJXpjXhoZbcz_4QtJrwseBkecClwezZ7QviyNJ6HOPlhO_fnbBiI6Ai5gZRnqbw1BUL9ox1Sg4CHaEFuXMMthv7HuYFAVyjhPFYX9HPKAdhQbCIdXhJ-HV3fw/s1600-h/IMG_3900.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6QBBShG7oOTr07msThhMaJXpjXhoZbcz_4QtJrwseBkecClwezZ7QviyNJ6HOPlhO_fnbBiI6Ai5gZRnqbw1BUL9ox1Sg4CHaEFuXMMthv7HuYFAVyjhPFYX9HPKAdhQbCIdXhJ-HV3fw/s320/IMG_3900.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341499781538599330" /></a><br />Just as we ran back down the stairs, we saw a man who had been sleeping in one of the bedrooms dragged outside and thrown into a police Jeep. The owners of the restaurants were nowhere to be seen.<br />Since then we have found out that most the girls travelled to Mysore willingly, under the instructions of a pimp or ‘agent’. They had been secretly working as prostitutes at the restaurant to earn some fast cash. One of them had been thrown out by her husband for having a miscarriage; another girl’s husband had sold her into prostitution himself. Many more of them had families to feed – families who believed them to be working as domestic servants and nannies. They had come from Bombay, Calcutta and Bangladesh with the promise of a generous monthly ‘salary’. They saw between five and eight customers per-day who would take them out to a hotel for an hour and then bring them back. In reality the girls received no money from the restaurant owners, but were given a small budget to adorn themselves with new clothes, cheap imitation gold and brightly coloured nail polish.<br />As the situation stands, the five Indian girls have had counselling and are being transferred to another rehabilitation centre in Bangalore. Odanadi is still working for the release of eight Bangladeshi girls from jail, where they are currently being held by police for not having passports or the relevant immigration documents.<br />So far there aren’t any happy endings or quick solutions for these girls, but just being allowed a glimpse of what they went through was enough to remind me just how important the work that Odanadi does is.Sarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-82822014038000751092009-04-02T05:57:00.000-07:002009-04-03T21:18:02.526-07:00Softly, softly catchy snakey<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYOQiRhy8D_b4CR2QG300hJZFyvTS-VdLZz1DWVd2rXhMVKrWyDspmtvc_j5-c-US2tKJMRBNw0V5WED8LU4JT7EXgmW468YCSPD0_uHiO4RFz8_va-aaXRxWDy45pnY1tbdZsDgRsKYs2/s1600-h/IMG_3745.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYOQiRhy8D_b4CR2QG300hJZFyvTS-VdLZz1DWVd2rXhMVKrWyDspmtvc_j5-c-US2tKJMRBNw0V5WED8LU4JT7EXgmW468YCSPD0_uHiO4RFz8_va-aaXRxWDy45pnY1tbdZsDgRsKYs2/s320/IMG_3745.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320080255973474866" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Today I’m going on a snake hunt with a man who looks like a cross between Ron Jeremy and Crocodile Dundee. He is the famous Snake Shyam of Mysore, the tattooed legend who rides through the city on a motorbike with the wind in his hair, a golf club strapped across his back and a bag full of snakes attached to the handlebars. Like most action heros, everyone in town knows and respects him – but only a lucky few of us are granted the honor of riding with him. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZHL6vlu3hYkRxMljUHS1h9bPpSoLdVY4u6PYH0dTbJoTRZXlHXGdV5tRMauzeIYoxVSuwIE0rQWVIzPSbb-ZQsW6zxd5XIgi0KQQYzL2Btf91yRpYrT_Qj3OTx6ibmyr2TsJC1qkXPn9/s1600-h/IMG_3693.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZHL6vlu3hYkRxMljUHS1h9bPpSoLdVY4u6PYH0dTbJoTRZXlHXGdV5tRMauzeIYoxVSuwIE0rQWVIzPSbb-ZQsW6zxd5XIgi0KQQYzL2Btf91yRpYrT_Qj3OTx6ibmyr2TsJC1qkXPn9/s320/IMG_3693.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320080258125089554" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />When I arrive at his house the minivan parked outside says it all. Wildlife isn’t usually my thing unless it’s a programme about elephants having sex or hermaphrodite slugs, but something tells me that a morning catching cobras with Shyam is going to be a lot more exciting than a suicidal afternoon in front of the BBC with David Bellamy. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqe1bMIqY1y2gqvhwHHYF0YG8Oh7kk6fpd_1clBpyma7pLhiDfrQSTOb0Q_ATug_EcNzjMzdexoFxA69NxnBt9TNYSOZpyUpBQjcSZj3JbYxUy68kEiadOUZHXcg57oz_VP3-IhCyCUVAy/s1600-h/IMG_3747.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqe1bMIqY1y2gqvhwHHYF0YG8Oh7kk6fpd_1clBpyma7pLhiDfrQSTOb0Q_ATug_EcNzjMzdexoFxA69NxnBt9TNYSOZpyUpBQjcSZj3JbYxUy68kEiadOUZHXcg57oz_VP3-IhCyCUVAy/s320/IMG_3747.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320086945512542562" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The 42-year-old conservationist (original name Balasubramanya) strides down the front path wearing his trademark bedroom slippers, outsized fanny-pack and a tight white vest, golf club held aloft in a fistful of knuckle-dusters. We are leaving immediately for our first rescue operation: a snake stuck in an underground water tank on the outskirts of the city. This is just the first of up to 20 emergency calls Shyam receives in a day from people with vipers up their drain pipes, cobras coiled underneath air conditioning units, fridge freezers and plasma screen TVs. Some of them pay him by ‘donation’, most of them don’t – but Shyam doesn’t do it for the money or the fame, (‘In nature, hero means zero’ he is fond of saying). If he doesn’t rescue the snakes then people will kill them, so he makes up the extra cash by doing daily school runs for local kids in the Snake Van, who all call him ‘uncle’. All fired up, we start loading the van with snake catching gear. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">SNAKE RESCUE KIT</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUeSzlC20rDT2Fs67qe5qxsOPu2yHoXbF94XXHspG0TuZ8WyPsd3xNjZZ_CVn8oceMScZNxQVS5PoiSjm37bT2A7B5JUppI0gelTz7Ij9SalsK5dX9_rF6YDt8bPmwhxM0SBFJn-kAFbv/s1600-h/IMG_3730.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUeSzlC20rDT2Fs67qe5qxsOPu2yHoXbF94XXHspG0TuZ8WyPsd3xNjZZ_CVn8oceMScZNxQVS5PoiSjm37bT2A7B5JUppI0gelTz7Ij9SalsK5dX9_rF6YDt8bPmwhxM0SBFJn-kAFbv/s320/IMG_3730.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320383372940213730" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">• Snake Bag:</span> a badminton racket (strings removed) attached to an old red pillowcase with bulldog clips. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">• Snake Hook: </span>an old golf club with a large steel hook welded to the end. This piece of equipment was developed after he was bitten by a cobra for the first time. Before that he just used to grab it around its neck with his bare hands. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">• Reused plastic muesli container</span>: now more likely to be used in the capture of Vipers. Their 2cm fangs are too long for them to be safely stored in the cotton pillowcase along with the others.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BAiTNmKRc6Zkbu1iU8BwUoz81nG8WNvyFF_4hDsOYn0_RoIHUc2CcVRm6ISrrBO4TuE_qOrfJ9IGe74rS0dcIVVs0MdIU4-IT3uw9lms_GyrpMwhqF_yQr1MvcrvTuPNmsTvj2qZvIYp/s1600-h/IMG_3699.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BAiTNmKRc6Zkbu1iU8BwUoz81nG8WNvyFF_4hDsOYn0_RoIHUc2CcVRm6ISrrBO4TuE_qOrfJ9IGe74rS0dcIVVs0MdIU4-IT3uw9lms_GyrpMwhqF_yQr1MvcrvTuPNmsTvj2qZvIYp/s320/IMG_3699.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320086950177405394" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And we’re off. Judging by the fang marks all over his hands, life hasn’t always been kind to Snake Shyam. Not only does he not get paid, but he has been bitten and injected with anti-venom so many times that he has now developed an allergy to it. But he assures me ‘courage’ is the best anti-venom‘ and explains that God gave him this job 'without application form', and if he didn't rescue the snakes then who would? Good point. Just to prove I’m really pretty relaxed about things, I throw out a few casual questions about the exact deadliness of a cobra’s venom and what happens just before you die from a cobra bite (swelling, nerve damage, black deadened flesh), the approximate distance to the nearest hospital and where exactly are you going to put it once it’s caught – on the backseat right next to me – and can snakes smell fear? To reassure me, Shyam refers to Newton’s Third Law of Physics (also pasted on the back of the van). ‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,’ he explains, ‘Sarah if I punch you in the face, you will punch me in the face, isn’t it? If I kick you in the stomach, you will kick me in the stomach, isn’t it?’ Maybe. ‘But understand one thing: snake has no fist and no leg, only bite. So if you step on a snake he will bite you. That is his reaction’. A bit of an overreaction, if you ask me, like brutally murdering someone for accidentally stepping on your toe, but then ‘Adventurous life is always dangerous,’ Shyam chuckles darkly. He is no doubt reminiscing about the time he got bitten by a cobra and had to take a six-hour bus ride to the nearest hospital while vomiting and losing his eyesight as his nervous system slowly shut down. ‘I showed courage, so nothing could happen to me. I was out catching snakes again after three days in hospital,’ he adds. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjMaRhF3OzYpnojC4UTtsTgfLIiclwW0UXzXEV47j84Kyxg_aFFj0FvAugAOZd3f8poJS54yl0cBnPXUf2-u8OdTNh0zlPMGeDXoaI6kUFSaRouQrS6jC6_RBUTRJ2baI_eItbpvTs_9E/s1600-h/IMG_3705.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjMaRhF3OzYpnojC4UTtsTgfLIiclwW0UXzXEV47j84Kyxg_aFFj0FvAugAOZd3f8poJS54yl0cBnPXUf2-u8OdTNh0zlPMGeDXoaI6kUFSaRouQrS6jC6_RBUTRJ2baI_eItbpvTs_9E/s320/IMG_3705.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320086949037005186" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Forty minutes later the van pulls up in a dusty street on the outskirts of town. It’s the kind of place where people having nothing better to do than rearrange their balls and appear at the site of minor road accidents, fights and any other public incident – such as a snake being caught in the water tank of the local bank, for example. I don’t think most of them even knew why they were there, just lost themselves in all the excitement and climbed up on the wall to stare at the water tank because everyone else was. It’s one of the miracles of India, how quickly a crowd can materialize over the most seemingly trivial thing. Compare that to London where you might be lying in the middle of Oxford Circus having been run over by a double decker bus and no one would offer you so much as a Kleenex. Not in India. People appeared from nowhere to come and witness the famous Snake Shyam at work, expertly probing into the depths of the water tank with a golf club, I mean Snake Hook. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfNzBkFBue_TaCTH7HTJHzdcdC9vnsPDv79NTI_GGRxg45f4UWIvr7QmTU6gE6t33KSn8AVLEHSPaiz53j0kQy82O3CVWnAGk_dPcO7U1vu6XMlB_HbJy9EqiiJG2sik-YigHis8KPr5u/s1600-h/IMG_3709.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfNzBkFBue_TaCTH7HTJHzdcdC9vnsPDv79NTI_GGRxg45f4UWIvr7QmTU6gE6t33KSn8AVLEHSPaiz53j0kQy82O3CVWnAGk_dPcO7U1vu6XMlB_HbJy9EqiiJG2sik-YigHis8KPr5u/s320/IMG_3709.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320086952637394770" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We all hold our breath as first he pulls out a plastic bag. Then some old crisp packets. The suspense is almost too much to bear, so someone from the local corner shop brings out a tray of chai to soothe our nerves. After some more poking in the murky depths, Shyam wipes the sweat from his brow and gives me a look that says ‘let’s cut our losses and run’. Apparently snakes don’t like crowds. ‘This is why humans more difficult than snake,’ Shyam mutters crossly under the brim of his bushman’s hat, as we piled back into the van and headed to our next appointment. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyhH0oS9pYLF1km_BDOPK3U62wyAI-W9YKEeAHgG1GGOqekU7k8gO4zH-YPCZklKo4fR_oyJsYfGvczbTl_WTPPkmb78epOsEQtNxxrZKXVtna_8uZWSPFZ-ODJAeNaGmtQVvuwdTkJXM/s1600-h/IMG_3714.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyhH0oS9pYLF1km_BDOPK3U62wyAI-W9YKEeAHgG1GGOqekU7k8gO4zH-YPCZklKo4fR_oyJsYfGvczbTl_WTPPkmb78epOsEQtNxxrZKXVtna_8uZWSPFZ-ODJAeNaGmtQVvuwdTkJXM/s320/IMG_3714.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320086957908214610" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Secretly relieved that I wasn’t sharing the backseat with a great fat slimy water snake, we quickly made our way to the site of our second rescue operation at the Mysore City Steel Works. When we arrive a big crowd of panicking men with sooty faces are shouting and pointing in the direction of the reception, making the snake sign with their hands (raised arm, fingers cupped into a cobra’s hood). I run in the opposite direction, whilst maintaining the appearance of cool professionalism. It turns out, after some tactical ‘tapping’ on various walls, drawers and cupboards that the snake has slithered into a doorframe. The door is then unscrewed with alarming speed and laid out on the tarmac while Shyam starts gently probing inside the frame with the Snake Hook. (Don’t make it angry, don’t make it angry). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcV6oTR3vI3nnxlpeqCiSMVeqzJUQ8i-e0WTsnLnKaDAg-CeW7QISVAKhO7K9wpW1whyPGmZu4SJqNSgMVCwhlmkXsHHb5IJPTyQX24gk9gUG1Q4SNvGZKiYPeRyhWZT0AAczuTouYwiWU/s1600-h/IMG_3723.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcV6oTR3vI3nnxlpeqCiSMVeqzJUQ8i-e0WTsnLnKaDAg-CeW7QISVAKhO7K9wpW1whyPGmZu4SJqNSgMVCwhlmkXsHHb5IJPTyQX24gk9gUG1Q4SNvGZKiYPeRyhWZT0AAczuTouYwiWU/s320/IMG_3723.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320328316138886962" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />One of the steel workers solemnly holds the red Snake Bag at the ready.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzA2SPCl5GtOEIvdq4Imp8ZgcCOnGYyvAw-b-IqQH2sXP1o0-EwunU0wvqgG5AhDEitWDVaTlrxQLMD24-GMX5gV_LQt8OBOeKg22ZezftFyPbJ0Vpnh9OZ22OzpH507O7nHFvyr1vBI0Y/s1600-h/IMG_3726.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzA2SPCl5GtOEIvdq4Imp8ZgcCOnGYyvAw-b-IqQH2sXP1o0-EwunU0wvqgG5AhDEitWDVaTlrxQLMD24-GMX5gV_LQt8OBOeKg22ZezftFyPbJ0Vpnh9OZ22OzpH507O7nHFvyr1vBI0Y/s320/IMG_3726.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320328321900255634" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Lucky for us, the actual snake was more like an earthworm than a python. In a matter of seconds it whips out of the doorframe and into the red sack. Back in the office, the manager gives us two warm cans of Diet Coke as a reward. Shyam takes out an old notebook and jots ‘Snake No. 19,564’ in blue biro. No money then? He sighs and throws out another one of his favourite sayings: ‘we come into this world empty-handed and we will leave this world empty-handed. In the middle we are just drama artists.’ What a guy. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKnwmMG6FjPqBdIZ5h9g6-pwPzGkGxFLB35AtAJV4Apwjr4fyxZP8OVMgp9NnwdkTMBKQoj4iIBYSnjSxYzgymDDQZm1dRbLzeWYsXNy36GbPM9_Uw80nTULyOMO858ehoOVDgR6A4m9Q/s1600-h/IMG_3740.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKnwmMG6FjPqBdIZ5h9g6-pwPzGkGxFLB35AtAJV4Apwjr4fyxZP8OVMgp9NnwdkTMBKQoj4iIBYSnjSxYzgymDDQZm1dRbLzeWYsXNy36GbPM9_Uw80nTULyOMO858ehoOVDgR6A4m9Q/s320/IMG_3740.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320328326549409394" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Back at Shyam’s house he introduces me to the latest addition to his cobra collection – one of 40 he keeps in a fluorescent-lit glass case above his house ready to release back into the wild. He pulls the 2m long Cobra out of its box with a hook in one magnificent flourish, while I run backwards for the doorway, tripping over mice cages. He stands in the centre of the room waving the cobra on the end of the hook, where it sways gently from side to side, moving its head in time with mine. Suddenly I feel a bit like when you start queuing up for the really scary ride at the fair and then you change your mind at the last minute and just really fancy the Teacups instead. I really, really can't go home without touching one, so I go for the slightly smaller option. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhln_eUM8eFYqkTafl329cZjtsM9Pbo0Nw8qSITCTbcmK-KGk5BzD47sT8TamIRWKc471xZNen6IuZD9scOrVr4wiWNmGQnFnUaJE7VNgBL6Ex4v1pr79QMqaQ7rXRzCxyyWq9LwKxte58A/s1600-h/Snake.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhln_eUM8eFYqkTafl329cZjtsM9Pbo0Nw8qSITCTbcmK-KGk5BzD47sT8TamIRWKc471xZNen6IuZD9scOrVr4wiWNmGQnFnUaJE7VNgBL6Ex4v1pr79QMqaQ7rXRzCxyyWq9LwKxte58A/s320/Snake.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320380782230237650" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This little guy seems so much nicer than the cobra, all soft and cool like the inside of a thigh after a cold swim. I feel so green, so close to nature. It's been one hell of a morning. On the way back to my apartment, squashed into the back of the Snake Van again – this time with 20 teenage schoolgirls – I tell Shyam how glad I am to have experienced a different side of India. I don't tell him that I am also glad that I never have to experience it ever again. He pulls the van up outside my house and informs me that I am lucky I like snakes so much because there are also loads of cobras living at the back of my building. 'But please don't think these snakes are trespassing on your land, you are trespassing on their land OK? If you see one, no need to be scared, just give me a call and I will come.' My hero.Sarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-8191137077583243742009-02-18T05:31:00.000-08:002009-02-21T03:01:15.192-08:00Bloody Valentine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJx7AjehJmmwFWGsDHAo2VvRurC2enGyiAvVhIHs4hF7Epto954ISBqhM3H63d8MXjvxHa76FOLlkV0sG_NaT69Vg6MMumozUXUEqBDSWZU2A218_Q-TABw4Ig4samxQN_LZMzmeFrUmR/s1600-h/CIMG1792.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJx7AjehJmmwFWGsDHAo2VvRurC2enGyiAvVhIHs4hF7Epto954ISBqhM3H63d8MXjvxHa76FOLlkV0sG_NaT69Vg6MMumozUXUEqBDSWZU2A218_Q-TABw4Ig4samxQN_LZMzmeFrUmR/s320/CIMG1792.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304132243083929890" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Celebrate Valentines Day in India and you could end with a bald head and a donkey for a husband. Read all about it in this piece I wrote for Vice... http://vice.typepad.com/vice_magazine/2009/02/india---agras-b.htmlSarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-50772288476964269022009-01-24T05:06:00.000-08:002009-01-25T23:24:37.812-08:00Vikram Smile<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VvFeLJ8QUbRu4U7agYA-Dojexkq6Pzk_TDvHDT3Lxllcv20LfXq-mEVvSk7ZujbYhwG1wJUdmH4A-4hOG5-m7oXSeTRLvbB0vCuUBNOyiuV8R552IPO41BCYx1HCtKXJMbuSy95ikMAr/s1600-h/CIMG1707.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VvFeLJ8QUbRu4U7agYA-Dojexkq6Pzk_TDvHDT3Lxllcv20LfXq-mEVvSk7ZujbYhwG1wJUdmH4A-4hOG5-m7oXSeTRLvbB0vCuUBNOyiuV8R552IPO41BCYx1HCtKXJMbuSy95ikMAr/s320/CIMG1707.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294851834629220290" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This year I didn't make any new year's resolutions. Making it to India in the first place seemed ambitious enough for 2009. It's almost like the mere effort of being here, pissing in a hole, doing some yoga and coming home with a tan and telling people at the pub that you've been to 'Injiah' in a loud braying voice, is enough change for most of us. A bit like Superman in the stationary cupboard, you can get on the plane a pasty office manager with a beer belly and about as much spirituality as a potato – and six months later you've got a tanned dysentery six-pack, a sexy Israeli girlfriend who doesn't know any better and the uncanny ability to climax for 48 days solid while in handstand. <br />I haven't mastered the orgasms yet but last week I embarked upon a dramatic transformation of my own - and decided to have my teeth seen by a dentist for the first time in four years. In case you didn't know, dentistry tourism is all the rage these days. Root canal is like the new ayurvedic massage. There are dentists popping up on every street corner prepared to drill your teeth for about the same price as a dirty chicken korma in Brick Lane. It seems like every Om, Deepak and Hari is putting up a laminated sign outside his house and calling himself a dentist. And those framed diplomas on the wall from the University College of London Cambridge Central Oxford Miami look totally kosher. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxEmAyKv9TheeLa3qeuJy7oB1CtnbAOkd5OM0-4xhHoJjy6R2iOpbhgxBdiLkk06z2MmJswK6WF0d6nilD_63Na9sK-b9HMahXH0BPGU8Sgr5gWOKhOHpZ14MBYIbTbgAJ0yDt25leSFuz/s1600-h/CIMG1710.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxEmAyKv9TheeLa3qeuJy7oB1CtnbAOkd5OM0-4xhHoJjy6R2iOpbhgxBdiLkk06z2MmJswK6WF0d6nilD_63Na9sK-b9HMahXH0BPGU8Sgr5gWOKhOHpZ14MBYIbTbgAJ0yDt25leSFuz/s320/CIMG1710.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295492513982239906" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"> Om: Hari you can using the drill isn't it?<br />Hari: Oh yes, I am using drill to putting up those shelves - todally easy isn't it.<br />Om: Oh todally eazy, you is having drilling, chair, torch light and one small mirror and ve are making vun dentist buziness isn't it? Now I am just needing diploma isn't it...<br />Deepak: I am having a very good specialising photocopying machine printer. Everything will be ready by tomorrow only. Todally professional quality only...</span><br /><br />And here in Mysore the local hippie contingent are lining up in their droves to have their canals rooted and molars drilled. Take my word for it: crusties aren't quite as laissez faire about personal hygiene as they used to be. They still wear the same terrible clown trousers, but now their dreadlocks are clean and they spend their rupees on new crowns, laser whitening treatments and the latest tooth reconstruction methods from the United States. It's like a revolution. The next thing you know they'll be washing their feet and eating dairy products.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcPWxKubTweiZltDC8day9MMTQJtTfsYtBr8SHaitZUZ_Hn2rQaATiWNL-Dbxp7O2nhyphenhyphenmv3L-9P9Zy0FHBcbT-aqrITWxMjFnOFDZVv_IqD5TPy2NMrtrWdGg-Hs1ehEHcc6-IzltE52Zx/s1600-h/CIMG1716.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcPWxKubTweiZltDC8day9MMTQJtTfsYtBr8SHaitZUZ_Hn2rQaATiWNL-Dbxp7O2nhyphenhyphenmv3L-9P9Zy0FHBcbT-aqrITWxMjFnOFDZVv_IqD5TPy2NMrtrWdGg-Hs1ehEHcc6-IzltE52Zx/s320/CIMG1716.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295492556118803490" /></a> But I'm not one for dodgy backstreet ‘Deentists’ and ‘Cusmetic Surgeoneries’ which is why I headed to the best place in town: the Vikram Perfect: Shape, Skin and Smile, a modern monolith shining from the dust and cow dung by the side of a dual carriageway on the outskirts of Mysore. It felt more like a spaceship or luxury hair salon than a dentist, with its gleaming fluoride-white air conditioned corridors, plush leather sofas and smiling white models leap frogging about in fields with Vikram Perfect teeth, skin and boobs beaming down from every wall. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTMP-EMeAkZOjis0umYhUemwa3gkruEcKBbNwnUm-IQJuC3S4a5QhBgKdpLTmYXVgDMHPFI9QcF7OhO4M1cfe1tZI0Eo6PH0kwkpQ2S_JwNgQlJEKJ5lYgwnqrFN2_THxl-38450Zen1I/s1600-h/CIMG1704.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTMP-EMeAkZOjis0umYhUemwa3gkruEcKBbNwnUm-IQJuC3S4a5QhBgKdpLTmYXVgDMHPFI9QcF7OhO4M1cfe1tZI0Eo6PH0kwkpQ2S_JwNgQlJEKJ5lYgwnqrFN2_THxl-38450Zen1I/s320/CIMG1704.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295492518593238226" /></a> I was hypnotised. I stopped thinking my own thoughts and started thinking about fixing my boobs, belly and possibly lips and promptly forgot all those stories in Pick Me Up Magazine about the botched foreign cosmetic surgeries where your nipple ends up on your cheek, goes black and falls off and you end up with a tit on the back of your head... Nothing like that would happen somewhere like Vikram Perfect, I reasoned, and trotted off down the hall to see Dr Anita in one of six high tech consulting rooms. After all, there was nothing wrong with my teeth and I was really excited to see a plasma screen TV above my chair...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNiGmBF84yN62X6L99myn3X4L7Ect-gndemhE286u4n_qXeupJT55XR5EueVNv4bHnqWOTFqJLc1vnHYnANlKNbGd-fgaoTDP7GDwhWAsq3g25QmhaWdwM27WA7c67047b20nBt9azbqB/s1600-h/CIMG1708.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNiGmBF84yN62X6L99myn3X4L7Ect-gndemhE286u4n_qXeupJT55XR5EueVNv4bHnqWOTFqJLc1vnHYnANlKNbGd-fgaoTDP7GDwhWAsq3g25QmhaWdwM27WA7c67047b20nBt9azbqB/s320/CIMG1708.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295492516461341714" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But like most seemingly perfect things, the Vikram dream soon turned into a Vikram nightmare. Dr Anita looked sweet enough, but as soon as she slipped that mask over her perfect smile she turned into a more violent, female Freddie Kruger – with drills for hands and fewer morals.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJywAhHr6jstLcZGRRFPfJIJLeMBakH0Z7Om_x6Cv8hmbAhwlk37AI8brBgqEoQp5xr1HobwwvS7dxXInOKrHofO04-ClS-WAE5GQAkkvgZrb1__BQGm4K9AxFQGGvrcqrEMBGNtbJk-M/s1600-h/CIMG1712.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJywAhHr6jstLcZGRRFPfJIJLeMBakH0Z7Om_x6Cv8hmbAhwlk37AI8brBgqEoQp5xr1HobwwvS7dxXInOKrHofO04-ClS-WAE5GQAkkvgZrb1__BQGm4K9AxFQGGvrcqrEMBGNtbJk-M/s320/CIMG1712.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294851865122892962" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dr Anita: MISS SARAH. TEETH IS TOTALLY ROTTON. BAD NEWS: YOU ARE NEEDING SEVEN TO EIGHT IMMEDIATE RECONSTRUCTIONS.<br />Me: What? But Dr Anita I clean my teeth religiously, like twice a day [except when I'm too drunk and fall asleep with all my make up and clothes on] and always use an electric tooth brush [until the batteries ran out about 6 months ago] and always brush for about 4-5 minutes [usually just before I come to the dentist] and have never felt any pain or sensitivity [except when I eat very hot or cold foods or sweet things or when I bite down too hard and then it realy hurts]... Surely it can't be that bad?</span><br /><br />Fortunately my memory of the next few minutes is slightly blurry from the shock of hearing words like 'pulp', 'decay', 'nerve endings', 'tooth', 'dying', 'root' and 'pain' come cooly out from behind the mask. Apparently Indians don't mince their words when it comes to dentistry. Wimpering under neon lights, dry mouth wrenched open with Dr Anita's torture tools, I began to feel homesick for the cuddly incompetence of my NHS dentist Mr Heinz who talked teeth in soft Scots using words like 'won't hurt a bit' and 'just a wee sting' and smelled like warm porridge oats and never did anything that took longer than 15 minutes. But like a big brave girl I gave Dr Anita the go-ahead and she started maniacally drilling at my molars.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Me: aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHH!<br />Dr Anita: 'PLEASE DON'T MOVE, or I may injure some part of your body with my drill unintentionally, isnt it (HA HA HA HA!).<br />Me: But it hurts and I'm bleeding. If I remember correctly the leaflet said 'the solution to your dental problem will be painless, bloodless and amazingly quick'.<br />Dr Anita: Vell don't believe everything you read. I may have to drill deeply inside cavity close to the nerve so there will be pain. Ready?<br />Me: No, Can I have an anesthetic?<br />Dr Anita: No.<br />Me: Why?<br />Dr Anita: It's best not to have. And it's too late.<br />Me: OK. Sorry I'm being a baby.<br />Dr Anita: Yes you are like baby. Always crying and wanting to know 'will it hurt?' (HA HA HA!) Yes is going to hurt isn't it. NOW OPEN WIDE.</span><br /><br />Apparently Dr Anita doesn't have time for cry babies. In the end she only gave me three fillings and I had to make another appointment for the rest. But before I even had a chance to spit out the blood and wipe my mouth Dr Anita got all chummy and started sweetly dangling a strip of yellowing teeth in front of my mouth. 'Your front teeth is quite yellow isn't it Sarah comparing to these? Better you have some laser whitening and some nice braces for you to straighting out those crooked front teeth you are having. I vill be doing the very most excellent job and you vill be telling all your foreigner friends about Vikram Perfect isn't it?' Oh yes Dr Anita, I will tell them all it. But not before I go home and weep quietly into a piece of bloody tissue and wonder why the hell anyone would bother getting their mouth excavated by a grinning drill-wielding psychopath when they're supposed on holiday trying to relax. Come to think of it since when did a dentist make anyone smile?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1u-O0o_0M-YE1YfAEg6naR051Cou3e72lQ9dgTgifNTr4Tj_XO-NnQmXcRtSUg5FI79WKVjEaz2asVku5BRU1nRQUBQx5Kf8Y-6BfgJr0MXyw8aaNPCBQjDhGL0cXw97hbz26htWpbAJ/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 103px; height: 137px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1u-O0o_0M-YE1YfAEg6naR051Cou3e72lQ9dgTgifNTr4Tj_XO-NnQmXcRtSUg5FI79WKVjEaz2asVku5BRU1nRQUBQx5Kf8Y-6BfgJr0MXyw8aaNPCBQjDhGL0cXw97hbz26htWpbAJ/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295499911619871074" /></a>Sarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-34137792250493080622008-12-28T01:34:00.000-08:002008-12-28T02:17:16.897-08:00Happy Christmas and a very Safety New Year<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjABf6JOEkRaTsVyt0hbpDVPEtRyE43X-yv2FqlszjpGtpwYbAnbpcVXtmLM7tyZms_7oFqJWYtAQAv2tj-Dy8eFpBJvCuqaqeHdhE0xQrJ0kh-ROpvCkD34RNx5ohyOudmUFbncFy_Omi7/s1600-h/P1010184.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjABf6JOEkRaTsVyt0hbpDVPEtRyE43X-yv2FqlszjpGtpwYbAnbpcVXtmLM7tyZms_7oFqJWYtAQAv2tj-Dy8eFpBJvCuqaqeHdhE0xQrJ0kh-ROpvCkD34RNx5ohyOudmUFbncFy_Omi7/s320/P1010184.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284781549310475026" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After a month of filming prostitutes in some of the worst shit holes in India, Pegah and I decided to treat ourselves and head to the beaches of south Goa for a fortnight wild of bongo-drumming, psychedelic acid raves with the crusties for Christmas. It being the festive season, everwhere was pretty much fully booked. It seems that not even the terror threats can keep a good hippie down, so as a last resort we ended up staying at the newly opened Armando Corner Luxury Beach Huts in Agonda. They weren't luxurious, but they were on a corner and they were owned by a retired sea man man called Armando. We were pleased when the man himself insisted on coming to pick us up from the train station... <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkG_2_dkO25iHo6B9mqNgyNUUeoBZbvIqBIYNQqTL7PRpVfpcEeySNbwxcoZGdYZK3rz0i8KIAC2K2R-JvNOda3NmFdtRwf9t8hGZfRIxPCADcpKOmqgz47fauNjQ3ZWRVEZ4-OLm2PL-j/s1600-h/P1010239.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkG_2_dkO25iHo6B9mqNgyNUUeoBZbvIqBIYNQqTL7PRpVfpcEeySNbwxcoZGdYZK3rz0i8KIAC2K2R-JvNOda3NmFdtRwf9t8hGZfRIxPCADcpKOmqgz47fauNjQ3ZWRVEZ4-OLm2PL-j/s320/P1010239.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284781556597602290" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Margao Railway Station 6am<br /><br />Us: Hello Armando nice to meet you!<br />Armando: You are late, isn't it. You tell me fye thirty, now it is 6am only isn't it?<br />Us: Yes sorry the train was late, there wasn't much we could do.<br />Armando: I call you one, two, three, four times. <br />Us: Sorry but we were carrying our rucksacks and couldn't get to the phone. We're here now though.<br />Armando: Why you come to wrong exit only? I come to other exit. <br />Us: Sorry, we just went in the direction of the EXIT sign and waited at the front of the station like you told us to.<br />Armando: But I come to other side only, you come here. This is wrong side. Big problem now (sweating). <br />Us: Sorry Armando, but can we get into the car now?<br />Armando: OK, but you tell me you bring only small bags, this is no small, they are big only.<br />Us: Sorry Armando, we thought we told you medium sized bags.<br />Armando: You tell me small bags only, I bring small car because you tell small bags, no big problem fitting the big bags in small car (more sweating)<br />Us: But look they fit, everything is fine Armando.<br />Armando: Ok but you come to wrong side of station. I came other side but you came this side only. <br />Us: OK sorry Armando, can we go now?<br />Armando: OK, but now we waste too much time talking, we have to go now only.<br />Us: Ok Armando. <br /><br />Later, in the back of the car<br /><br />Armando: You know Bombay blasts, too, too much dead peoples, no? <br />Us: Yes very sad. <br />Armando: Goa very most saftiest place, you no need to worry isn't it.<br />Us: No we aren't worried, thanks Armando.<br />Armando: Police say Goa red terror alert, terrorists come attack tourists killing them very very blood and violence Christmas and new year – but my Armando Corner most most saftiest. No need you worry. <br />Us: Oh. OK. So there isn't any threat of terror attacks near here?<br />Armando: Yes attacks. No attacks from Goa peoples, only attacks from Pakistani, Muslim, Hindu, Kashmiri, other peoples attacking and fighting want to killing tourists. You stay Armando Corner breakfast, lunch, dinner then no problem. Our cook Jimmy is working in U.S.A very bestiest food in whole Goa. No need to go outside isn't it. <br />Us: So we are safe in Goa then yes?<br />Armando: Oh yes Armando corner very saftiest place in whole Goa. You will be most safety here only. <br />Us: Ok thanks. But what if we want to go to another bar or restaurant on Christmas Day for food, drinks, or hallucinagenic drugs?<br />Armando: No need for to go outside, Armando Corner have bestiest Christmas party, food cooked by Jimmy in U.S.A food, nice music radio playing until 10pm. <br />Us: But we came here for the crusty free love and all night unregulated beach raves... Where do foreigners go to have fun?<br />Armando: Armando Corner only so so much fun party. Then 10pm then the police are coming with guns and very violence and smashing towards foreigners making party on the beach. Must very shut down party after 10pm only. <br />Us. Oh. <br />Armando: Don't worrying, we are making some quiet party, silent party here after 10pm. My wife and daughter here also and nice 70 years German lady in nextdoor hut making so, so much quieting party. <br />Us: Sounds great thanks Armando. <br /><br />At breakfast that morning, we are the only guests staying at Armando Corner, along with the 70 year old German lady.<br /><br />Armando: How many nights you stay here, how many dinners and lunch and how many breakfasts fruits salad, pineapple, papaya, apple, banana, you have. One every day isn't it. <br />Us: Erm we don't actually know yet. We only arrived today we'll let you know if we decide to stay longer and if we need to eat. <br />Armando: Advance booking very most important you telling me how many nights you stay, so so so fully booked every day new person, one man is coming Richard from U.S.A and 70 years German lady is here only, she likes Armando Corner only. Then also other foreigners calling every every day, "I want to stay here Armando Corner," but I tell them "no is space here, fully booked, there is no ways, no ways to stay here". I tell them this because you have the best room only, you came here first. You have the front side beach hut. I give only you the front side, the beach side bestiest side only. Everyone is asking for beach side but I say no only for you.<br />Us: Thank you. Sorry Armando, we thought we were the only people staying here. There are nine empty double rooms aren't there? <br />Armando: So, so fully booked only they coming every day but I tell them "NO no is space for you". Very popular Armando Corner, too much popular. In reserve the best room for you Sarah and Pegah only. Very bestiest room. <br />Us: When are these other guests coming?<br />Armando: They coming German, U.S.A, UK, Spain, other is every place. <br />Us: Wow good business Armando, we'll try to stay out of your way then. <br />Armando: No way! No staying way. You favourite only bestiest guests. Anything you want Armando Corner I give you. Stay here only. <br /><br />Early one morning Pegah goes for a run along the beach and Sarah does some yoga next to sea. Pegah comes back to the hut. <br /><br />Armando: Oh I see you running. <br />Pegah: Oh, did you?<br />Armando: Yes I see Sarah look she is running too over there.<br />Pegah: No that's not Sarah. Sarah is over there doing yoga. <br />Armando: Yes I can see her running too. She is very Athletic, very running fastly only. Good no?<br />Pegah: no that's not Sarah. <br />Armando: Yes so much athletic running. <br /><br />Sarah comes back. <br /><br />Armando: I saw you running Sarah.<br />Sarah: I didnt go for a run.<br />Armando: Yes you were running.<br />Sarah: No that must have been someone else, i definitely wasnt running.<br />Armando: Breathing and running very fastly. <br />Sarah: Yes. <br />Armando: I used to play football. <br />Sarah: Oh thats nice.<br />Armando: You want fruit salad?<br />Sarah: Yes in a bit thanks<br />Armando: When do you want it?<br />Sarah: In about 20 minutes.<br />Armando: OK, please you tell me anythings you want because Jimmy has too, too much bored, no things to do so he can make you anything you like.<br />Sarah: ok no problem. can we get some chai with our breakfast too please?<br />Armando: Tea? OK tea no problem.<br />Sarah: Can you make Masala chai rather than just normal tea?<br />Armando: I will make normal most bestiest English tea only isn't it. <br />Sarah; but can we get Masala chai? we prefer it. <br />Armando: But English tea is better isn't it, every UK peoples likes. <br />Sarah: actually we prefer masal chai is that ok?<br />Armando: Oh but English tea is less problem.<br />Sarah: So masala chai is too much trouble?<br />Armando: Yes making too much problem, time is no making chai possible. Jimmy too, too much busy isn't it. English tea OK?<br />Sarah: OK.Sarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-75279684056660569692008-12-13T07:13:00.000-08:002008-12-13T23:20:58.448-08:00Bangalore BoysI've just spent two nights in Bangalore, sampling the social and cultural highlights of India's first silicon city. It's a bit like an overpopulated Milton Keynes in a heat wave, except with rickshaws instead of Ford Fiestas. There is just so much here to excite the senses; the bright lights of McDonalds, the toxic clouds of black diesel and the scent of sweetly steaming turd on tarmac. But for me, the best thing is the men. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTeUyJvI2AJsb91s_KNvHQaSF3iSi_HdSxvJfwybLNQMwvrQ0pa2_IN1XLT52zY6acUy0L4XX1ItENPVGDNow_1ThLcopo6kFERrBfrKM8phdZasYDMufKMFHTNkN4X0PVARPAGU5Da2R/s1600-h/P1000297.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTeUyJvI2AJsb91s_KNvHQaSF3iSi_HdSxvJfwybLNQMwvrQ0pa2_IN1XLT52zY6acUy0L4XX1ItENPVGDNow_1ThLcopo6kFERrBfrKM8phdZasYDMufKMFHTNkN4X0PVARPAGU5Da2R/s320/P1000297.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279541637478838450" /></a><br />Like most Indian cities, the ladies stay indoors sweeping and looking after the kids, while their sons and husbands hang about on street corners holding hands, staring at slutty gap year students, spitting phlegm and wearing t-shirts with slogans like 'Sex Machine' and 'Rock God'. False advertising or a message from heaven? I decided to take to the streets to find the best date in Bangalore. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG81jSze7BbKHbs032FATgoPh0PShW90cu4eWgzZfiX69AnqZjPWXcimLUNwAo8oLcXns9uB24TBzPsDnTztaX9ZZQxeh5Ifxo8EXYzHsbZdofzTnd7YSxfyMaG20pD6-HlSQ7F3k_Mf-Q/s1600-h/deepak.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG81jSze7BbKHbs032FATgoPh0PShW90cu4eWgzZfiX69AnqZjPWXcimLUNwAo8oLcXns9uB24TBzPsDnTztaX9ZZQxeh5Ifxo8EXYzHsbZdofzTnd7YSxfyMaG20pD6-HlSQ7F3k_Mf-Q/s320/deepak.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279301936397896994" /></a><br />Shopping is undoubtedly one of Bangalore's favourite pastimes. From Gucci to Louis Vuitton, D&G to Abecrombie & Fitch – every must-have fashion item is there for the taking. I hooked up with a style savvy IT consultant called Deepak who promised to take me to the Bangalore equivalent of Bloomingdales for the ultimate consumer experience. I wasn't disappointed. It turned out that his dad owned an exclusive city boutique. When we arrived it wasn't like any boutique I had ever seen before. Deepak and I exchanged a few flirtatious one-liners over brass statuettes of the god Ganesh and plastic trays of bejeweled Bindis. There was no way I was going home empty handed! We chose matching pastel coloured mesh caps with sequins. But I'm no material girl – and I need more than flashy fashion items and smooth talk to keep me interested. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTZG0suLtPbVygEO4eH6y5QmeYkdZzkKj16kwU_DuTLn5yunmdu1XpUQYWm-9rCD0YsLKgTc9jhglBVkH1PF5-V3d8NbpmYVQjv9pzIaR8O6v3phi6_qp4-CNG-uMHL3PVDkaEpvZiVTB/s1600-h/raj+by+day.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTZG0suLtPbVygEO4eH6y5QmeYkdZzkKj16kwU_DuTLn5yunmdu1XpUQYWm-9rCD0YsLKgTc9jhglBVkH1PF5-V3d8NbpmYVQjv9pzIaR8O6v3phi6_qp4-CNG-uMHL3PVDkaEpvZiVTB/s320/raj+by+day.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279303292052999074" /></a><br />Undeterred, I strolled towards Bangalore's famous Barton Centre – a thriving hotspot for the city's college hipsters, aspiring socialites and the Bollywood stars of tomorrow. Through plastic palm trees I immediately locked eyes with a striking young Bangalorian by the name of Raj. I asked him what he did for a living and from behind mirrored aviators he replied humbly, 'I am a professional dancer and a struggling model.' I tried to hide my excitement as he took my digits and suggested we meet later that night at the underground dance club 'Kosmos'. He informed me that since last year dancing has been banned in Bangalore – but this only added to the thrill. I had a good feeling about Raj. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGqpLmDBQ1xbiw16AVy6DVj1eel0g3KDntyBpmK8-5aYKTWcqK7EvVyyVEO0jZOcXFLwJEZhJEE4RYXXwmP7yr_S6VYfZNTalTlxNaS0kDGLLe82lbZdv1kAW6F3otUabp4oQfcYnoVHib/s1600-h/krishna.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGqpLmDBQ1xbiw16AVy6DVj1eel0g3KDntyBpmK8-5aYKTWcqK7EvVyyVEO0jZOcXFLwJEZhJEE4RYXXwmP7yr_S6VYfZNTalTlxNaS0kDGLLe82lbZdv1kAW6F3otUabp4oQfcYnoVHib/s320/krishna.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279301951651422258" /></a><br />Chatting up boys is thirsty work. In need of some liquid refreshment I headed to Coffee Day, the Bangalorian equivalent of Starbucks, where their T shirts tell me they are 'Nuts about Coffee'. It wasn't long before I was approached by a distinguished-looking Indian gentleman with a long tendril of snow white hair, going by the name of Krishna. He wasn't my usual type, but as my grandmother always said: 'don't judge a book by it's cover' (or an elderly man by his white toga). He treated me to a cappuccino and impressed me with his extensive network of friends from the United States, Thailand, East Croydon, Stoke on Trent and the Middle East. Despite his authentic appearance and sophisticated good looks, something told me that this silver fox had a silver tongue to match. It was definitely time to make my excuses – but not before he jotted my email address down in his BlackBerry and made me promise to stay with at his farm in Bijaipur if I was ever in the neighbourhood. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSxIToboN3LsfcCHEfYVVWj8Uh9BVanqkhJZWuRwPLz6OhD8ViuQxQ8EFwU7q6ftNWfkwGX9nnqCFm40Goe_Ow5vBnS-mfjHNQ5hF8zVqMA9KOtaHi5XSOEZpyp7ZP8bCqptUbIRtR-cGU/s1600-h/govinda.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSxIToboN3LsfcCHEfYVVWj8Uh9BVanqkhJZWuRwPLz6OhD8ViuQxQ8EFwU7q6ftNWfkwGX9nnqCFm40Goe_Ow5vBnS-mfjHNQ5hF8zVqMA9KOtaHi5XSOEZpyp7ZP8bCqptUbIRtR-cGU/s320/govinda.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279301943718422258" /></a><br />With three guys on the backburner I was keeping my options open and was just about to head back to the Komfort Terraces Hotel when I bumped into a suave entrepreneur by the name of Govinda. There was something subtle and mysterious about him that caught my eye. I told him I liked his style. He seemed to be playing hard to get. But I'm not one for mind games, so with a flick of my hair I disappeared into the steamy Bangalore night for some dinner. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFXWQC2x1Gw2N_verVBF-RCigPBrsm6gxOBr5q5ziMW9L1DZjiAy-13Hi9d0XnIdduU0kFwDGOoM6553QxLL5lghUwO5nnHXOzjdvdjXrYozRASi5dIhGGECERAzV4Em5RZvlfXE34v-mV/s1600-h/pizza+pramod.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFXWQC2x1Gw2N_verVBF-RCigPBrsm6gxOBr5q5ziMW9L1DZjiAy-13Hi9d0XnIdduU0kFwDGOoM6553QxLL5lghUwO5nnHXOzjdvdjXrYozRASi5dIhGGECERAzV4Em5RZvlfXE34v-mV/s320/pizza+pramod.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279303287700160994" /></a><br />Following a hot tip from a friend I headed for Bangalore's premier pizza joint for a slice of the local action. Blushing under the bright fluorescent lights, I gave my order to a shy guy in blue baseball cap and tight fitting T. After a medium cheese burst pizza I plucked up the courage to invite this mystery guy in blue over to my table to share the last of my Coca-Cola. We talked thin crust versus thick, but the chemistry just wasn't there. Hiding my disappointment with a smile I hotfooted it back to my room to freshen up. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUpY-PNxpyxDhqFw4FR7PVRdCQRJwf-fvZCHAqr9Yic5hBm-VwWbCa2Bk4T4eO7F8abvj7u4n50PwEtCX0pcicQQzYO1fSvovVaaOGiQUONwHbyT0nkf7FqQA-EqESlohLxl1Yd48QZR1/s1600-h/raving+raj+3.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUpY-PNxpyxDhqFw4FR7PVRdCQRJwf-fvZCHAqr9Yic5hBm-VwWbCa2Bk4T4eO7F8abvj7u4n50PwEtCX0pcicQQzYO1fSvovVaaOGiQUONwHbyT0nkf7FqQA-EqESlohLxl1Yd48QZR1/s320/raving+raj+3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279304419697001154" /></a><br />Not five minutes later I received the text message I'd been waiting for from Raj, telling me to get my dancing shoes on and to meet him at Kosmos at ten. My night was looking up! As I entered the club, I was grateful that the banging bangra house music could hide the beating of my heart. I spotted him across the dance floor in matching leather cap and jacket. I'd never seen a man's feet move so fast until that night. He bought me a cocktail and put his tongue in my ear. I think I'm in love with Bangalore. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvlE-cSNep5Wl6ycjjp1P1s1RP_ccwY5Rq6ov3t1cL9rXPWuUFwKnC4kex5Rjx76u0rcsQfhP5l-OHTwpfp39wvQ9e05nskfQ5fWe5liMltIXdcIjYYAijY9Mcbowyjf9WABGDe1s_elpu/s1600-h/raj+by+night.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvlE-cSNep5Wl6ycjjp1P1s1RP_ccwY5Rq6ov3t1cL9rXPWuUFwKnC4kex5Rjx76u0rcsQfhP5l-OHTwpfp39wvQ9e05nskfQ5fWe5liMltIXdcIjYYAijY9Mcbowyjf9WABGDe1s_elpu/s320/raj+by+night.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279303312628663906" /></a><br />Smittenly, <br /><br />SarahSarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3640680974886009574.post-47424127397635674822008-12-11T04:48:00.000-08:002008-12-13T07:13:22.837-08:00Holy Cow (Thursday 27th November , 2008)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpHg8eXe18Tkqj-v-p4JTYtgzS63uZAy26BG-i5Mk7DogNJKDB6Za2Yf4LGO0XV0sPt-RwU2LGmc4T-7xhAAEjm-2rQzLzjDYjq3OdyR9UXXPDzXk8xZ7vhDnMmyV6DnxJ6o7S48oLPoB/s1600-h/P1000094.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpHg8eXe18Tkqj-v-p4JTYtgzS63uZAy26BG-i5Mk7DogNJKDB6Za2Yf4LGO0XV0sPt-RwU2LGmc4T-7xhAAEjm-2rQzLzjDYjq3OdyR9UXXPDzXk8xZ7vhDnMmyV6DnxJ6o7S48oLPoB/s320/P1000094.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279292728999746514" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixpKT94frFIITUamQy_4wd53Vpo4cpfawf_Xh0jOoPT94ICJhQZqyAgmBLNDev9kywATvHZeOghH5OQsP2dUwthmtAXLGhbLO0pZu9V8X91Y0WXIXLZt1dpaoX3ahu3m-QrAOoCCdKMmbA/s1600-h/P1000046.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixpKT94frFIITUamQy_4wd53Vpo4cpfawf_Xh0jOoPT94ICJhQZqyAgmBLNDev9kywATvHZeOghH5OQsP2dUwthmtAXLGhbLO0pZu9V8X91Y0WXIXLZt1dpaoX3ahu3m-QrAOoCCdKMmbA/s320/P1000046.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279292727234747618" /></a><br />I'm pretty glad I didn't fly into Mumbai last night. Or stay at the Taj Mahal.<br />Instead we arrived in Mysore just as the sun went down - and the power went off. Luckily for us we could only see our new flat by candlelight. We spent an entire evening blissfully unaware of our landlord's frisky interior design sense, strolled to a restaurant, ate some curry and finally passed out as a pack of stray dogs howled us to sleep. I think they were singing "welcome to India" in Hindi, doggy-style.<br />This morning, in the cold light of day, we discovered that our landlord Suresh has an unusually brave sense of colour. As you can see the walls are a stylish melange of vivid orange, candy pink, sunshine yellow with a flash of lime green cornicing. The furniture is wrapped in durable plastic sheets. The kitchen, he says, isn't ready yet - maybe tomorrow, or next day. This is because of “climate problem“. In other words: there was some light rain yesterday. Welcome to India!Sarahharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02881514021817310067noreply@blogger.com0