On the Christmas campaign trail: Delhi to Jaisalmer

Dear Reader

It's been a hard week on the Christmas campaign trail. What we four unlikely candidates (see end) have been campaigning for is not quite clear. perhaps the usual cheer and goodwill? cleaner buses? better tourist souvenirs? whatever the intention, we gathered enough issues and philosophies along the way to assure us at least a wooden bench on the global village Parliament.

It all started in Delhi and meeting up with the team - Helen, Richard, myself and Max (see end for descriptors). And like all good campaigns, we could smell victory before we even began and decided we needed a taste of it too. So we opened one of the two good Christmas bottles of red wine brought from our home states and toasted the start of a good race.

And what a race it has been. We bus into towns, throw a few toothy grins and conciliatory waves at the locals, make a few deals and then, in the dead of night, get shunted into rickshaws and onto trains, leavingh a small paper trail of money in our wake. Of course we are smart. our presence is just enough for locals to feel that we have made a contribution to the community coffers but not to memorable that they might remember the broken promises a few years later when me might return (see you next year! coming back now now! I'll definitely visit you on my return!)

Agra wasn't as agro as made out but they definitely understand the 24 hour tourist. before you can say "where's the western toilet" you have bought a taj mahal souvenir, booked a bus outta there and come away with a complimentary (for good business my friend) toilet roll. i was a bit suspicious of the hospitality (and cleanliness ) when after my first meal the waiter asked if i wanted a toilet paper and water to go? hey, if you are only there 24 hours, you cant really blame the squirts on Agra can you. its the poor schmuck town just a few km's away that fits the bile bill while Agra comes off squeaky clean. they be smart business people.

24 hours later and the team was on the train, posing difficult universal scenarios like, if you're squatting on the shitter and you drop your sunglasses into it do you fish it out or let it lie fowl and fallow? Do you give attention to the mangy dogs and ignore the diseased beggars? Do you bring your poor currency (the rand is same same rupee) into the bargaining occasion? but as you can imagine, with shifting train eyes and bouncing bowels being thrown into the mix, what may have looked and sounded like your typical Obama family situation slowly slid into the Simpson family with Homer and his honeys loosening belts and farting furiously. high culture, it has to be said, is not the platform we were campaigning on.

Pushkar was next. Max bought a Don Corleone ring which he proceeded to pimp around in Maharajah style and ask if they wanted to kiss. they looked confused, but not amused by our grinning Aryan. With a luxury two days in Pushkar, we were taken to shopping, doing a yoga stretch and taking in the occasional rooftop gathering to take in the spectacular sunsets over the lake.We even seem to have gotten our message of free love and free trade (i give you a hug you give it free yes?) through to the locals but left before they got to discuss our confidence trick.

In Jodpur the search for the famous pantaloons and obligatory polo horses (who must whinny at the sight of these men in these billowing tights) proved as dry and fruitless as the surrounding landscape. Our previous night cuddling up on a lumpy mattress on a cold rooftop tent proved less romantic than anticipated. Strangely enough, discussing ones daily constitution doesn't seem to kill any idea of shacking up with your honourable candidate to the left. But the morning grumps tend to follow you all the way up the winding hill and into the majestic fort and palace buildings. small mercies come in the form of tourist translation walkie talkies which you listen to instead of moan at each other.

A few million photos and hot chais later and you are back on the campaign bus, separated by plastic chairs and blatant stares (the men do look like plastic dowls that never blink. its incredible) but propped up by each other and the memories you have shared in the days passed.

The 500 year old fortress of Jaisalmer was sooooooooo worth 6 hours of the snorting man behind us and the stares from the men falling out of every air pocket. at times i felt like i should stand up and address the men who looked on us so eagerly from their lowly aisle squats. but then you choose to pass your time staring at the locals in a similar fashion with a camera at the ready. touche.

And so it came to pass that our campaign came to an end in the most beautiful fortress on the hills of Jaisalmer, a town in the Thar desert just 100km or so from the Pakistani border. we know this because as we celebrated with our final bottle of red over the final reds and pinks of the day, jet airplanes shooted past us like red stars with sound capabilities. And all was still well with the world as, thankfully, the boys were but in training to be men and the leaders were acting like sissy girls (local sentiment) and peace was the only wish launching itself across the sky that night.

The desert, four not so wise "men" and a few cows let out of their lowly stable - that was our Christmas, and I tell you, dear reader, we couldn't have campaigned for a better one even if we tried. and we did.

Peace, goodwill and love to all in cyberspace.
Cat


********The unlikely campaigning candidates were:

• Helen, 33 my sister, lives in London, art student


• Richard, 22, my sister's boyfriend, Australian, graphic designer


• Max, 29, my boyfriend and a technophile and NGO specialist


• Me, same old same old

Can't make head or tail of this beast

Dear Reader

Now India, by any God-given name (Kali?Ganesha?Hanuman?) is a bloody big beast. with many arms that make for even longer journey legs. i know, because after the marathon we just sprinted in the three-legged sack race that is my disadvantaged (not historically but genetically) life, i feel that i am finally on my last stubs. and i got like 3 months to go. but let me (just this once) give you some perspective on my last 24 hours and what it took to reach this the cremation hub of India...Varanasi

It all started in Hampi, that quiet little bouldering haven that i have fallen head over heels (are you picking up the theme yet) with. actually a lot more started in Hampi (deep in the bowels of the beast when i awoke rather suddenly to the yearn and churn of fire in my belly only to play karma sutra (heads and tails not decided) with the toilet bowl for a couple of hours. (another time friend.)

When you're travelling, diarrhea and vomiting is just your body's way of telling you it's a (guaranteed, no refunds) travel day. Because on these special days of trains, planes and risk-taking rickshaws, it is a given that for every one brain cell that is preoccupied with deciphering and bargaining its way through the transport system (which platform? what time? how long (30kms often takes over an hour), there are three equally tired, equally drained cells whose sole purpose in life is to find you a place to squat...in sanitation and silence (genius IQ required here).

For the rest of us cretins, we have to make do (and this really grates me) with paying 2 or 3 rupees to squat in the most foul stenching dark hole that induces vomiting even before it is volunteered by your biling body. if you're lucky , you don't have to actually imitate a mythical (multitasking) Hindi creature by squatting whilst balancing a backpack and keeping your daypack suspended over the flooding floor. and so it continues on the trembling trains and into the much used and abused bushes between chai shops and bus stops.

Butt i get side tracked. the point of this cockeyed story (which is now limping to its conclusion) is to give some perspective on the average "transport day".

We are where we are (in Varanasi) because we...

• kickstarted a 150 cc motorbike (bags abalancing) to a boat jetty.
• sat silent through a sunset river crossing
• closed our eyes and crossed our fingers through a rough rickshaw ride (defying traffic laws and train timetables)
• sweated it out on an overnight train (why are there so many big fans attached to the roof but none work?)
• sat stupefied on a luxury airport bus
• waited out a delayed flight over cremora cappuccinos
• undertook a quick terminal to terminal (wow this is an amazing race) sprint
• caught a short connecting flight
• bargained our way into a taxi
• got transferred onto a cycle rickshaw
• got led up the beaten path and through the alleyways to the burning Ghats
• dragged our sorry asses up the stairs

And all the while, what keeps your bowels moving (or not) is the hope that at the end of all this that for just for a few days, maybe even just a few hours, you can sit on something cold and white and reach for something long and soft (and preferably 2-ply).

Please note dear reader: this post was under the influences of Imodium. I cannot be held responsible for the shit that comes outta my mouth...because it sure ain't coming outta anywhere else!

Mary Poppins sing along...all together now

Now Dear Reader,

I am in no way suggesting that India is a Mary Poppins Nanny state. Quite the opposite. Poor old Mary has been given the boot and the children run wild, letting the animals loose on the streets, pissing on pavements, throwing their plastic to the wind with never a thought to rules or responsibility.

It's generally potholes of chaos but they do it with such broad smiles and humanitarian hearts that it's hard to get angry. because they don't and they have to live in it right. so, when you can, you turn a blind eye to the temples of rubbish, lower your nose to the the sickly sour stench (a mixture of rotting and ripening) and close your ears to the sound of 1 billion people waking eating and sharing their lives.

so it is strange that on my 5 hour bus journey from seaside UNESCO heritage site,Mallapurum, to the temple town (a loose term this) of Trivanamalai, I would have the world's most famous nanny and most annoying songs well popping in for a quick cycle around my head. and presumable she is a fit little bugger because she stayed the course for a good few hours and then buggered back to the land of rules and regulations.

So here's my Bollywood version of "These are a few of my favourite things" (set to the image of travellers with overladen backpacks wading through rubbish and rickshaws to reach their spiritual speak. plus your own images).

Manly moustaches and hot bucket washes
standing on buses and rickshaws no fusses
swirling silk saris and scented flowers on strings
these are a few of my favourite things

Squatting and spitting and burping and pissing
waiting in queues til time has gone missing
bargaining down and then wiggling it away
this is all part of the Indian way

Scooping sauce with parota right hand they taught ya
drinking beer from a teapot and wondering whose got pot
talking "bomb bay" one minute before dashing to the loo
these are the things that all travellers do

Meeting tiny tailors over silk and soft cotton
haggling over quality and the cost of a single button
Drinking hot chai and watching cows amble by
these are the days when you don't question why


Dirty day buses and sticky night trains
dripping with sweat and dripping with rains
finding my calm amidst this colourful craze
this is what i love about my India days


A lesson to self: there may be no set rhyme or reason to india, but she sure has a catchy tune...
namaste

The shortest meal and the longest stare

Dear reader

i think i just played a bit part in a low budget Bollywood. Admittedly it was more drama than romantic comedy and there were no scheming ugly chicks or pinning, perfectly coiffed heroes but there was plenty of ham acting so I'll let you be the judge...

it all started one hot and humid Indian night with a grumble in my stomach. (a common theme these days but then who said i was of a different caste anyway). the grumble led to a stumble upon my friendly Indian guest house owner pitching a local restaurant which served good tandoori chicken to a couple of linen clad Brits. well i can tell you, he had me at tandoori. with his wiggles all deciphered ( yes we go now? yes we wait more?) i was soon zigzagged through the streets on his motorbike, the grease and humid air exactly what my hair needed for an authentic Bollywood blow. so i wasn't complaining. if you could see some of my styles of late (from Curly Sue to Tina Turner and Seinfeld Kramer ) you would have encouraged me to hire a motorbike a few curries back. anyway i swing my long cotton camo legs from my steady steed, turn on my flip flops, wave my hunk into the night and prepare to make my entrance...follywood style

except that i must have got the location wrong. why else would the bustling restaurant set suddenly stop mid-musical (i could hear the sing song laughter chatter along the hallway) to look so silently in my direction? i had to ask myself...was i wrongly cast/of the wrong caste? did my travel agent get it wrong? perhaps. so i did what any self respecting thespian would do in this situation...i did up another button on my conservative linen shirt and found a table tucked far away in the shady corner...presumably where all the extras/to be cast section would be. and waited. but not so patiently. i had a hunger that needed to be fulfilled you understand.

The set looked authentic, if not a bit drab, or so i gathered in the minutes i waited for my waiter. the white plastic tables beamed in the florescent lighting (not my best lighting) while the women bunched tightly together like a bridal bouquet and the men stared thoughtfully at me over their right hand shovels.

A few added details ...the "no liquor served" signs on every wall and the waiters all capped in Muslim Taqiyah changed the story line somewhat. How was i to be cast now? (cast aside it perhaps). so when the waiter, wearing a checkered country and western styled shirt (who dressed this set anyway??) eventually John Wayned himself to my table, i wasn't quite prepared to sit idly by as he asked the wall for my "drink and food" order.

it's quite a strange thing to have the dank restaurant wall serve as your mediator/medium/chaperone. quite an interesting Shirley Valentine impression i admit. i am just confuse as to my offence. was it the slight stench of beer on my breath? perhaps it was all he could do to not laugh at my motorbike styled hair?

of course i did a quick check about me. legs, elbows knees and toes covered? check. so, dear reader, as confused as i was, dissuaded from the promise of good tandoori, i was not. i sent him off with a tall order and watched him make his way to the open kitchen about 20 meters straight ahead of me.

it was then that the game changed because as soon as he was behind the kitchen counter, he joined the rank and file in their very open, very glaring (did i mention the lighting?) staring down of me from the safety of their barracks. if i was the pariah, he was the piranha.

it was war. no more miss apologetically sitting in the quiet corner while country and western stares me and my western (I'm from crazy Africa fool)morality down. no sireeeeeeee. i come from a country that knows how to bring about bullies with peaceful protest. dang, I'll even take a Bay leaf out of Gandhi's book if i have to.

I knew the food would come quicker than I could say "game on", but i had a plan to eat every grain and mouth at every morsel like a mime artist in freeze frame, a tableau on a "go slow". and if you want a staring competition, i have my third eye all primed and ready. i am not your worthy opponent, i am your commander in (mis)chief.

And so it came to pass that every stare was met with even longer stalling and stuttering of limbs. He brings my wall the bill before the steam even cools on my chicken and i, in turn, choose to not know my right from my left. So that, with every slight of my right hand in favour of my harem left, his stares are shot down with shame. ag shame, see the worry in my eye.

Gradually i tire of the tedious combat, but never the war. I use my gravy-stained fingers to fish out the money I owe and leave the change " i wish to see in the world " lying in the bill folder. And with my eyes firmly fixed to the wall as i march past him, i direct one final thought his way...."Yes, Mustafah, my money is dirty but then so are your eyes. And by the way, Kenny Rogers called and he wants his shirt back".

And that my friends is why you should never pick a fight with a cat when her hair is up.

photos on facebook

dear reader

when words are few photos are many.
see posts on facebook.
namaste
c

cat eats humble parotha pie

dear reader...

i am sorry for having left you without word for so long
be it for an ashram, a long bus trip, even a sandy sarong
you are worth more than my time
even more than a well constructed rhyme
so please, dear reader, do forgive and forget
for i promise to love (and leave you) for a long time yet

c

A headline for my journo friends...

Best India News headline so far... (presumably not posted with tourism bureau's approval)

West Benegal to get arsenic free water by 2012

How Cat got her first hot wash

Dear reader

This is not a "Just So" story ( as the title might suggest), but take my word for it happened Just So...

it's week two. i am high on life and yoga asana's in the ashram but after all the squatting, stretching and shoulder stands, i'm in the mood for someone to hunch over my every need and knot. so i book a massage. the famous keralan specialty ayurvedic massage let it be said at the ayurvedic hospital on the ashram property. granted i should have flinched at the idea of a massage in a hospital but hey, i'm all trippy from my morning chant session so i just mantra my way over there and wait patiently (no pun intended here).

i am ushered in by my lady masseuse (it is illegal in India to massage the opposite sex i am told) and gather from our clumsy exchange (remove yes? wait here, this okay?) that this is not going to be a chat session. fine by me.

i don't need indian phrases to tell her that there is no way i am going butt naked but yes okay i'm willing to compromise by wearing the discretionary loin cloth instead. (actually it looks more like a muslin cloth curtain than a respectable pair of disposable knickers. but no mind, i am sure that the smell of ether will make me pass out even if the massage doesnt.)

Let it be said that having a massage at a hospital tends to be more treatment than pleasure.

what i am avoiding telling you is the part that really freaked me out. the room. perhaps i have watched to many movies in my day but i didn't expect to be conjuring up images from the jack the ripper movie era at a hindu ashram in india.

Let me paint the picture a different way. have you ever watched those movies ( in the 16-1800s with the grimy backstreets and dingy surgerical rooms where surgeons operate under low wattage and even lower regard for the patients on their tables? well the image i have is always of the old bearded white surgeon wearing a white shirt covered in blood and some woman dying in childbirth. bad image i know and right now i bet you're asking yourself why am i following this blog. didnt i promise you cheap thrills and the occasional witticism? stick with me here reader, don't pass out.

the room was straight out of that movie set, complete with a massive wooden surgical table (well oiled thanks to the limbs of many) and a surgical trolley crowded with large glass bottles showcasing viscous yellow ointments and tubes running between them. way to authentic for my liking but luckily i had my pranayama (yogic) breathing to keep my mind focused on the green tiles that gripped so clinically to the walls surrounding me. or at least until the ether made me pass out.

to the traumatized mind, the incident (in this case the massage) is only recalled in visual frames, which i shall try to recall...

i was smothered in more oil than a south indian curry. at one point i remember thinking that i was waiting on this plastic chair for my wrestling opponent to challenge me. instead i was placed on the surgical bed and rubbed down but not massaged as such. i recall my knees and elbows being bent back and forth, presumably she was checking that my joints were indeed well oiled.

yes sireeeeeeeee. i was well lubed with no opponent to wrestle.

i think she had the last laugh over my "not completely nude" rule as my loin cloth curtain wasn't drawn in the first place.

And the butt naked truth is that i had to go through this treatment of mind and body manipulation to earn my greatest desire.... a hot wash. those few minutes after the massage, when she left me alone with a bowl of chickpea mush and a large bucket of hot water, were probably the most sacred and sweetest i have experienced in all the weeks of mass participation and ritual in the ashram. i scrubbed myself down like i was edifying myself of desire itself and allowed myself to tingle and drip with a simplicity that only nature allows.

And that, dear reader, is a true tale of how Cat got her first hot wash.


PS> it's funny how things come full circle. as my masseuse was directing me to put my used loin cloth in the bin i suddenly realised what i had been emptying every morning on my daily rounds of bin duty. dirty loin cloths. karma yoga indeed

AAAAshram

Dear reader i have become a fugitive. just for you.

i have scaled the ashram walls and outwitted the docile blonde lions (no joke. there is a lion park next to the ashram with real "native" Indian lions so they say but in reality they sound more like the MGM variety...Bollywood style) just to send you word of my wellbeing and whereabouts.

i am sure i don't stick out with my panama hat(slowly woven in panama, quickly unweaving in India) and RayBan retros. I am wearing an authentic Indian shirt..i got it at the oriental plaza. genuine. So cover your screens dear reader for only you can know where i will spend the next two weeks....living under my new name (Swami Balmy) at at the Sivananda, high in the lush hills of Kerala province. (but a great deal further from reality i gather).

To be honest, ( and i must because right now i need the karma points) it is only my imagination which runs amok in these humid hills. i have neither the time nor energy to go anywhere that requires legs. But how rude of me. i haven't even given you a tour of my ashram. forgive me if i do it zombie style as my body has recently started confusing sweating with sleeping so that by the time the 5.20am gong chimes in the trees i don't exactly feel like rising from Sealy Posturpedic advert right.

Routine is key here. Nothing changes. the food is the same, the schedule is the same. the yoga is the same And i think that's the point. when everything stays the same, the change must come from within. do not look to changing your external environment as this may not happen as you want. The only thing you can change is your internal environment (and especially your attitude) the short of it is that we have a long, unshakable daily schedule:
5.20...wake up
6-7.30...satsun (meditation and chanting)
7.30 ...tea (literally...no Ouma biscuits!)
8-10...yoga
10 ...brunch
11-12...karma yoga (chores. i take the trash to the land fill up the road and fend off the cats (small ones. not lions))
12-2 ...free time (guess what hour i write.)
1.30..tea (literally. again.)
2-3.30... lecture time
3.30-5.30... yoga session
6...dinner
8-9.30... satsun (see above)
10.30... lights out (actually you pass out way before that. until the heat or gong wakes you)

And yes dear reader, by no flight of the imagination (or Flight of the Concords) there is absolutely no "business time" here. there is actually some recycling. but that is not part of the foreplay. we are, after all, one universal Ohm of energy and light. we sway and chant as one. (partly because we are all so tired and about to fall over).

i had one surreal experience. It took place during afternoon yoga. Shiva, Kali, Lakshmi were all there, staring down at me from the 4-meter high vantage point on the walls. And i was mid shoulder stand, feeling insignificant. both for the fact that i was dwarfed (just for you Max) but the size and stature of this great hall and also because I am just me... not a mythological God
preserved in bright psychedelic pinks and drinking out of a trunk. so there i was, mid shoulder stand. sleep deprived. the blood rushing to my head, but suddenly the ceiling came rushing towards me. I swear, before it was 10 meters away and now my legs were coming out of it (like one of those 3-D posters from the 90s but with the colours of the 80s) and all their animals and arms were looking down on me trying to send me a message. Of course i wasn't in any position not to. I was upside down and vulnerable. so naturally i indicated in my trained yogi way that i very much wanted to hear what they were saying. so i decided to come down from my blood rushed position to increase my chances of remembering. which i did. but not so slowly. which meant that I released a queef (google friend) along with my posture. i think this offended them because they never told me the secret to life or even how to come down from a shoulder stand without said queef escaping..... the end.... and that, dear reader, may or may not be a true story. i told you that my mind is given to wandering when my body cant.

now i must go dear reader. the tea gong is about to sound and i must honour my stomach as much as my "contract". i will be missing in yogic action for a few days but will check in with you as soon as my limbs will allow.

Namaste to you all...

The Grande Dame of the South

AAh, dear reader. Fort Cochin - the grand dame of the spicy nutty South (cashews are cheap!!). Her faded beauty legendary, her old world charm irresistible.

Oh yes this grande dame, dear reader has her charms. Even in my khaki standards i lifted up on her bohemian breeze and was taken to wafting through her backstreets like a women cocooned in silk and seductively spiced in saffron.

Many have courted and tried to conquer her and perhaps she let them think they did. She allowed Vasco and his crew to explore her coastline for a while before she tired of his philandering ways (always the new horizons caught his fancy).

Perhaps she decided the Dutch were a safer bet(it is a woman's prerogative to change her mind...and then let the man think it was his idea) for her they would churn butter from beans. For their efforts, an entire cemetery was set aside. And from what i could tell, from my view in my rickshaw, very few people ever come to pay their respects. (perhaps they tried to inflict their clogs on the locals).

But to be fair their conquests were successful. The Dutch's courting gave rise to a few notable erections around town. And yes both the Portuguese and English have greatly contributed to the colonial spunk that permeates every curvaceous corner and sultry street.

But let me tell you, dear reader, that history has had the last laugh. Because for all their trading and tarting, cajoling and cavorting, no matter how many architectural feats came of their passion for this grande dame, it is not the De Gama's or Rembrandtesque curls who sit proud and pasty as the poster boys of Fort Cochin. No no dear reader. Their great erections (now also bold) do not even so much as feature in the "most photographed" "most visited" list on E! Entertainment (the Indian section).

I can tell you on good authority that most visitors (of which most are European), walk straight past it's inlaid doors to its oily shores where they ooh and aah and wait for sunset hour to photograph a living cultural treasure....the fishing nets whose structures arise like petrified wooden structures from the hyacinth waters. And here's the spicy rub...they're made in China! Bloody Chinese fishing nets everywhere!


PS. This might have been a slightly Mills and Boon version of cultural history but know this dear reader that whatever you make think of my innuendo, my character, as my stools, remain solid!

Timing is Everything

Dear Reader

As i sit here at Cafe Del Mar dunking my danish pastry into my italian esspresso while overlooking the red cliffs of Varkala, my thoughts start to wonder, dear reader...not so much about the commercialisation of culture or even the role that pleasure-seeking yogis play when they cross these shores and demands crocs in the local stores (sadly not fiction).

No, my dear reader, that yellow brick road is already laid and well trodden. That hegemony is already in phase II of implementation. we must deal with it. what i am concerned with today, as i watch these two backpackers (who look more like travelling tinkers) try to catch a rickshaw to the station is that of timing.... today is diwali which means everyone make "big festival" big party" "which makes "big accomodation problem" for anyone leaving today. but perhaps they do not leave the timing to the universe and book ahead. somehow, the tibetan flags sticking out of the bald one's day pack convinces me otherwise.

My timing, for instance, brought me to the tropical southern province of Kerala at the time of the "second Monsoon" ...which is why i sit eurpoean style at a cafe instead of horizontal style on the beautiful beach below. no matter. the rain is of the "constant intermittent" variety, so i still get to pull out the occasional sand wedgie (and do my Bo Derek in "10"/ Halle Berry in 007 sea exit). The rain offers a good excuse to "not go see temple","not go see town". in the last few days i have been walking the streets like forrest gump in the second half of the movie...the part where "shit happens". (It has by the way, but just briefly so i wont slosh arouhnd in those details.) For the weary, the sick and the sunburnt, the rain gives you permission to sit on the cafe strip, commatose style (in that way the rain works a lot like fires), breaking only to read, write and "run forrest run" for the loo. It's all about timing (and having wet wipes on hand).
For instance, Bad Timing.

• gets you on the train with just enough time to wonder why the locals are still waiting on the platofrm. In good time you realise that when the train starts moving, so too dos the rest of the province...which is why you end up standing in the rancid latrine alcove. here you remain until another station platform or God do you part.
• puts you at a restaurant with only a Rod Stewart loop for entertianment and the clientelle to match. Luckily, while the waiters hang on your every eye and hand gesture (no, no more. i was just reaching for my water.). you spot the traveller balancing out the other diagonal. timimg is crucial. get the bill first or you will become the entertainment.

Good Timing

• gets you to the woman washing your clothes with a translator in time to help her fish out the 2000 ruppees (R500) out of your dripping pants.

And thene there are those times when you should just wait a while...

like when you get so excited to see the sun that you make a sprint for the sea only to watch your books soaking up the flash flood from your distant focal lens.

I must be off dear reader as time waits for no man and tides for no woman. yes, i am off on an 8-hour boat trip from Allepey to Kollam on the backwaters.

I will meet you dockside later....

Departures and Arrivals

We all leave something behind.

Those essential items - medical scripts, travel insurance with evacuation clauses
A replaceable item - toothbrush, boyfriend (sometimes these fall into the essential category) and the comfort item - old t-shirt, an ipod loaded with favourite songs.

More often we bring too much and it weighs us down until we let it go. the push and pull of universal will. The hardest of these being our attitudes and preconceived ideas (principles, it seems we have no trouble getting rid of like a clingy white t-shirt at an Ibiza party).

Actually that's just philosophical bullocks. Something you are expected to be writing from india. well i aint there yet matey. no sireeeee. it's only been four days and i havent climbed the ashram walls yet (i am speaking transindentally of course). because right now it aint my attitude that's giving me backpains, it's my 20kg backpack. and don't blame the 15 silk saris. they're neeeded for cultural camouflage. and plus they weight less than the 3000 silkworms it took to make them (fewer than a nike sweatshop that is)

Let's face it. We all carry it. deep inside: that rucksack filled with pesty (pity we cant immunise ourselves against these) "just in case" items...

In (the) case...

• it's freakishly cold (tick: k-way tops, all-weather jacket, multipurpose gloves)
• i climb some serious mountains (tick heavy hiking boots, thermals)
• i want to go clubbing in mumbai (tick choice of heels)...and in colder delhi (tick smart but warm outfit)

i think you get the point cause i defintely do everytime i try to hoist it, and the bits falling off of it, onto the luggage rack of packed train. (actually everyone is forced tyo get the point then).

That said, there were a few things that i'm glad i checked in (mostly attitude related) and the few that i left out (mostly attitude related). because let's face it, these past few months i have felt like (and often looked like) a badly packed bag...filled with items i don't need, i can't use or that simply don't fit anymore. (pop pyschology is allowed. philosophy not yet.)

I think Borrie said it best when he said, "Cat, you haven't exactly been a bag of kittens lately." Exactly the point B. it's about being playful again. Saying goodbye to the Wild Cat, Minx or Lioness. It's time for the Kitten. (Lisa knew it all along). Cause, if only one thing i hope that i would look at these next few months in India as a kitten (read Milo Lisa) would an empty cardboard box. (no need for elaborations here).

So bring on the yarn my friend/s...cause i'm about to spin it in a whole new direction!

PS. If i do lose a few items along the way, there is one i will keep come Hell or El Nino. My super warm sleeping bag. Why, you ask, intelligent reader? Not because it was a present from my best friend, skinny, but because the note written on a big plaster (??) stuck inside is really the gift that will remind me why, when i am meditating on a tranquil Goan sunset, why i will happily depart again to journey home.

Namaste. Happy Dewali!

Do you take this blogger? (and other introductions)

This is a start of a very good relationship. I can feel it. deep down in my aching "South African-female-exploring-India-alone-and-on-a- declining Rand budget" bones.

What I'm looking for from you (like an self respecting singles ad) is commitment. Many don't actually come out and say it (in that way i'm a trailblazer). Most disguise it "long walks on the beach an all an all (don't worry I've got this covered). I choose to say it like it is. I want something from you ...and it's (unbridaled) commitment. Of course, you still have a choice friend (don't mind if i call you that? bit short right now). And it comes in the form of a question...

Do you take this blogger to be your loyal website?

Do you promise to visit her occasionally and talk about her often, and behind her back? In that case do you trust her yoga-toned tanned (recently updated adjective) to report fictious accounts of her travels to the best of her imagination? If noone has any objections, let's get this contract signed shall we...

I promise to....

• Theme my posts to minimise random ramblings
• Reveal the true identity of all my characters
• Expect the regular comment
• Welcome the occasional crit
• update write oftenish (see fine print)
• not offend your mother (unless she is currently visiting India)
• trie spelle cheque meye wurk

But as with any true relationship, the real deal breakers lie in the promises not made (the list is noticeably longer). Thus, and here's comes the FINE PRINT,

I cannot promise not to...

• write every day (would you trust my stories if i did)
• have strong opinions
• make sweeping generalisations
• write the occasional poem
• write when i am sick
• or get sick of writing
• talk about my bowel movements (i find it's best to get it out even if you have immodium)
• make you jealous/angry/an all an all
• meet up with your best friend and shag him silly (sorry max. just testing the sensorship on this thing)

So friend (don't want to assume any plurals here...thanks skinny)...do you accept? Am i wearing this wedding ring for good reason at last?

Carry me over the threshold and let the posts begin...