Build Me Up Buttercup (India, you can be a real jerk sometimes)

Have you ever been slapped by a motorist whizzing by you at at least 60km/hr?

I hadn’t either until three hours ago, and I still have the welt to prove it. India is a cheeky little fucker. I waltzed, no wait, I strutted into Jaipur three days ago, brimming with travelers confidence and emotional baggage from having to leave my most amazing cohort after an intense three week residency. I felt so bonded with these amazing folk, but a small part of me was glad to be on my own again with more space and time to think. My liver was thrilled too after the 1o days in Goa that we had (insert fist shaking at whiskey and Goa-specialty feni, a cashew liquor that goes down much too easily).

The famous Raj Mandir Cinema

I started out all piss and vinegar, unable to contain my glee at exploring another city and state so freely. I found a great guesthouse in the dead of night after my original choice was booked. I made my way through the city palace, the bazaars of the Pink City and climbed the monkey-laden hill to the temple in Galta. I attended the cinema by myself and not only was I NOT groped, but I felt like less of a spectacle as there were two other white girls there, and since they were a larger surface area of white skin, all eyes went their way and I was free to roam and appreciate the opulent theatre in a way I couldn’t anywhere else.

My cycle-rickshaw got lost one night, cycling in circles for an hour before I magically was saved by a tall and authoritative Egyptian/American hybrid I dubbed “St.Michael”.  I felt invincible but I should have known that would end, and soon. To quote the Adiga novel I am currently zipping through: “What a fucking joke!”

Men and asking for directions = a universal fail

 Today was strange because I literally had to force myself to leave my room. My guesthouse (Ratan Niwas) is nothing fancy, but it’s clean and safe. It also lacks windows and thus any semblance of natural light. So I wake up later and get pissed off at myself for wasting yet another sunrise in India. But a strange thing happened today.

The epitome of white guilt

Today is my last day in Jaipur and I had a list of things I wanted to do and see, but suddenly updating Twitter seemed more important. As was rearranging my backpack. Watching some terrible show about Indian women trying to look Western took precedence. I also decided to fung shui my room, moving the chairs, bureau and even the huge-ass wardrobe just a titch to the left to balance things out. It was 1pm before I ever left the room, and I only did it then because the power went out and sitting in the dark was not appealing. I spent an hour on the roof, eating aloo paratha and drinking tea, before I ever ventured beyond the hotel gate. And when I did, what did I do? I went to a fancy hotel and paid to use their pool! Ugh, I’m disgusted with myself even writing that. So I spent my last afternoon, lounging by a frigid pool, in the shade, surrounded by chubby, euro retirees.

Yup, I hate myself.

After the pool, I had just enough vim left to check out the Nargarth Fort so I set out to find an honest looking tuk-tuk guy to take me as far as he could before I had to hike up the steep hill. But before I found him, there was a motorcycle coming at me at an alarming speed. Three guys on the bike locked eyes with me but I refused to back down. They had the entire street (for once, In India, there was zero traffic thanks to the fact that today was a Muslim holiday) and I was off to the side of the road. They could stay on their side I thought to myself smugly and boldly continued to walk straight forward. Suddenly they zig-zagged towards me, I didn’t flinch, but the guy in the rear slapped my arm, hard, as they whizzed past laughing. 

He was NOT smiling by the end of our exchange

Now, if he had been going slowly, this would have been more of a playful smack. That’s my theory anyways. But because of their velocity, I stumbled backward and spun a little bit, my right arm smarting and turning a violent red as I turned to yell at their retreating, and still laughing, form. I mustered all the mystic powers I had and cursed them with bad karma forever. I stopped short of spitting at them though because an Untouchable was looking at me then, with such pity in her eyes. For a woman who is disgraced by her own society to look at me like that, well, it stopped my pity party right there. But I was still pretty pissed off and took my bad mood out on the next three tuk-tuk drivers who refused twenty rupees offer to get me back to the hotel.

What is the point of my rant? Nothing really. But it’s been four weeks since my last blog and I felt guilty about not communicating. There have been so many amazing moments in between, but it was the thoughtless gesture by this young hooligan (yeah, I know I sound 80) that made me want to spew words into my blog again. Hopefully my next post will be more positive.

Am about to board a night train to Jaisalmer, to ride through the desert on some poor, smelly camel and camp out under a clear and starry sky, a la ‘Arabian Nights’. That should be worth a rave review for sure but for now, I’m just annoyed. 

India… why do you build me up?

Rooftop sunset over the Pink City

My First Corpse. Welcome to Varanasi!

I’m now hovering above 38 hours without sleep. After a four hour bus ride, two flights, and a sleepless overnight in the grossest airport I have ever encountered, I am touching down in Varanasi, City of Light and public cremation. I find out from a Dutch guy on the flight (who spits when he talks and apparently doesn’t notice) that there is a huge festival in Varanasi this week and I am instantly regretting not booking a room in advance. Leaving any train/bus station or airport in India is chaotic enough, but not knowing where I am going, or if there is even a bed waiting for me at the end, is a trial I am not looking forward to. 

Outside the airport is a loud crowd of touters, all eager to earn some commission by hijacking me and taking me to their hotel of choice. I pick the frailest one, my logic being that if he attacks me, at least I have a fighting chance. He pulls me through the crowd, calling me his friend and talking on his cell in a language I don’t even recognize as Hindi, it must be another, even less familiar dialect. Great. He takes me to a rusty car (the jig is up, now I know he’s not a taxi driver), and the largest man I have ever seen emerges from the driver seat and plucks my bag off my shoulder like it’s a flake of dandruff, and throws it in the trunk. Before he slams the lid down I glimpse a long black canvas bag and a length of rope. Fantastic.

We are driving along the highway, a typical rural highway, but this time we are crawling along. The giant behind the wheel is the most careful driver ever, and rarely uses his horn. He doesn’t speak during the drive, but the frail “Kempo” in the passenger seat is still on the phone, obviously having trouble locating a room for me but reassuring me with every hang up: “No problem madam, I find you a room. And if not, you come and stay with me!" *laugh uproariously* Ummmmm....!

Some are waiting for a modeling contract before death... on the Ganges

I’m imagining the various ways these two could kill/rape/rob me when we crawl into a city that looks older than dirt. The sun is setting and a strange calm comes over me. Suddenly I don’t care if I die here, because the city is lighting up, seemingly from within the earth, as if a giant candle is bathing every crumbling building with its glow. I feel at peace.

And apparently if I did die here, I would achieve instant “Moksha” or enlightenment. All of my sins would dissolve and I would emerge in the next life, as clean as my mother’s bathroom. Widows and elderly folk come to this crossing place between devotees and deities to live out their final days. They are literally here, just waiting for death.

Preparing livestock for the festival ;)

Kempo does find me a room, a fantastic room actually. For the commissioned price of 800Rs ($16CAD) I have a large, clean room with a bathroom that has a hot water option, a luxury I have not experienced in India (nor have I needed a hot shower, especially in the South). I’m at PB Ganges View Guesthouse, efficiently run by Arvin, a man with a penchant for “magic” lassis and India’s “So You Want to Be a Millionaire”. He tells me that he initially told the touter no, he had no rooms, because he doesn’t like to support scammers. But something told him to pick up the phone and call Kempo back. Thank Shiva he did!

After so long without sleep, I eat a quick dinner on Arvin’s rooftop restaurant under his interested gaze (I discover over the course of my stay that he is fascinated with watching me eat – I have no clue why). I fall asleep at 7pm to the sound of wailing, singing and a preemptive rooster. When I awake the following morning, my first steps outside the guest house present the shocking experience of my first corpse. An old man has passed away in the night (hence the wailing), and women are gathered in the alley, in between pools of runny cow dung, human urine and dog vomit, washing his body in preparation of his (public) cremation. I tiptoed around him, apologizing (in English) to the weeping women as I did. 

This was my introduction to Varanasi, and three days later, it hasn’t let me down yet. Stay tuned...

A treasure within the maze of tiny alleys of Varanasi

I Gots Biriyani Under My Fingernails!

Eating with your hands is trickier than it sounds. 

Years of being barraged by your parents into respectable table manners does not allow for an easy transition to eating rice and curry from a banana leaf with your hand. I am lucky though. I'm on an island in the backwaters of Kerala, surrounded by 6 very hungry Indian men. I imagine I look pretty ridiculous, picking up a few grains of soupy rice with my hand and nervously looking around the room before popping it in my mouth as quick as I can. Jackson, a man I believe named himself just this minute, laughed at my attempt to copy him with a twinkle and a half-sad shake of his head. “No, no, you lean into your food, like you are smelling it”. I didn’t realise I was sitting, bolted upright, tring to let my shaky hand do the work. 

“It’s like this Christian (I go by a lot of names here) Step 1: use your right hand, fingertips only (the left hand is reserved for other, less hygienic activities and the palm is considered holy) Step 2: moisten your food with curry or sanbar or biriyani to make it easier to pick up a chunk of it, rather than a few morsels Step 3: Lean into it! Make the distance from plate to mouth as short as possible Step 4, Just 'go for it', don’t try to be polite. And if you have to burp, do it really loudly. That is a sign that the food is good."

Of course I am adding a few connecting words here, but you get the gist, and so did I. I finished my meal before they did, and received way too many extra helpings, to the point of near nausea. Fifty rupees well spent but my mother is going to KILL me this Christmas dinner! I am still probably the world’s worst eater here but am thankful for Jackson`s tutorial.

There is also an after-meal wash up routine that I had to learn quickly. My fingers and especially under my nails, were saturated with Keralean deliciousness by meals end. Near the table was a bucket of water, and a curious jug that pops up everywhere here. With your left hand, you pick up the jug and fill it with fresh water, take a few steps to whichever is the nearest puddle/sewage drain/grass/tree/plant and rinse your right hand beneath the water. If someone is behind you, you hand the jug directly to them and rub your hands on your clothes or sari once you’re done. And beware, if you’re a female in the company of men and you are wearing a sari, a friend may use your sari to dry his hands off as well, usually without any warning. It is a sign of intimacy apparently. Again, going back to my neat freak tendencies, I would hope that anyone who knew me at all would never consider this move.

I`m still learning the many highly intriguing cultural differences over here but I feel secure that at least eating won`t draw as many stares as it did this day ìn Kerala.

Eventually, the Glow Wears Off: A Rant

After 24 hours in Mamallapuram, on the east coast of India on the Bay of Bengal, the best thing I can say about it is that I’m leaving. 

I’m sure this is quite a pretty and interesting town… when it’s not raining every minute of every day and when tourism is more kind as to put the aggressively pushy touters at ease. My Roughguide suggested that the RamaKrishna Hotel would be a safe bet: “clean, well-appointed rooms with well-scrubbed ensuite bathrooms, some with sea views”. Well I don’t know who paid this writer off, but I saw rooms on every floor, from every angle, and it is a dump. Easily the worst place I have stayed since coming to India. The management was unfriendly, the charge was ridiculous (500Rs), the bathrooms grimy and so questionable I didn’t even shower. I assumed slime, or worse, would pour from the walls. 

Mosquito "cancer" coils: a must have in Southern India

I had a clean sheet on my bed, I’ll give them that. One white sheet to cover a stained and lumpy mattress. The walls were covered in the bloody corpses of mosquitoes which I initially reacted in horror to, but quickly understood once darkness descended and the little fuckers came out in battalions. I quickly added more than a dozen corpses to the wall, each one exploding with some poor bastard’s blood in them. I lit one of my trusty mosquito coils and the air became so thick with noxious fumes that I worried that I would suffocate in my sleep. The saving grace was a small 13 inch TV in the corner, which screeched from somewhere deep within it, prompting me to turn the volume to ungodly levels to drown the screech out. I fell asleep to a sappy John Cusack movie about love & rejection, wrapped up like a mummy and trying to forget where I was.

There were good things about this town, of course. I ate at Santana restaurant on the beach and had really tasty prawn pasta for $2. I had pants tailored, costing me $3 and then instantly destroyed them in the first of many downpours. Mamallpuram is famous for its stone carvings and they are glorious! I visited temples carved 1300 years ago, and in that time the rain has softened the delicate artwork somewhat but they are still a sight to behold. I went up to a viewing point and met the lighthouse manager. He walked around the park with me, telling me about the Hinduism and the various gods and goddesses he worships. I told him I really dug Saraswati (namesake of this blog and also the goddess of knowledge, education & music), and he quickly offered me back to his family home to see his father’s marble carvings of the deities. Of course he also wished me to buy something but he was asking 2800Rs ($56CAD) for a Saraswati figure that was beautiful but not four inches tall. Eventually I did leave with it, at the “bargain friend” rate of 1000Rs which I still assume to be overpriced. 

Carved marble deit

His wife made me a lovely black tea while he showed me all the figures and explained what each hand placement, animal and prop meant. It was money well spent, especially when I got up to leave empty handed and his docile expression turned dark and desperate. Once again, I was reminded that I was alone, in someone’s home in a foreign country, and no one knew where I was. His wife seemed to be the boss when it came to the sell, authorizing the 1800Rs discount with a curt nod and a prayer motion. I learned a lot but I was glad to leave.She also demanded my pen; I would have handed over a kidney if it meant leaving sooner.

The best part by far was randomly meeting Mukesh, a young and serene fisherman turned surf instructor. His English was amazing and his grin was wide, if he were to come to Canada every girl on Team Hetero would go crazy. We walked a little on the beach and then he directed me to a café he just so happened to also wok at (every Indian, no matter how handsome, has an agenda) where he served me a yummy masala omelette and coconut pancake with coffee. If you're ever in Mamallpuram and wish to ride some waves, head to Mumu surf shop, a hidden shop off the beach.

My two taxi rides to and from Mamallpuram have given me the impression that drivers here are even more reckless than in Kerala. The first spent 15 minutes talking to his friend… who was on a motorcycle beside us! Oncoming trucks, buses, cars, goats, motorcycles or bulls didn’t faze them as they laughed and swerved while going 80km/hour. Right now, I am in my second taxi, this driver with the enticing name of “Vino”. He has apparently decided that 80km is too slow and is whizzing past everything and everyone, never braking, just relying on his horn to warn the people ahead of death. Constantly passing on the inside and outside, we play chicken with a bigger vehicle at least once every minute, and each time the bigger vehicle has bowed down, as if they all know how Crazy Vino doesn’t give a shit and will just keep on going. My  mother would have died within the first 3 minutes. My father would have clubbed Vino on the head and taken the wheel. But not me. I am shoving my head inside this laptop, like an ostrich, trying to avoid looking up. The only words I have spoken have been “Vino, I would feel a lot better if you put your seatbelt on”. He did, begrudgingly like a teenager, slinging his arm through the strap but not actually buckling it. I think that he hates Mamallpuram too and wants to move on to his next life. I just *really* hope I’m not in this car when he does.

The bright side to the very real possibility of my untimely death is that I suddenly feel inspired to write.Another bonus is that his insane driving will get me to Pondicherry sooner. I cursed a lot as I got ready to leave Mamallpuram “Fuck this room. Fuck you mosquitoes. Fuck you shop touter. Fuck this taxi and the outrageous price I paid just to get out of the town faster.” I apologize to those reading this who have sensitive ears. But sometimes a girl has got to curse. Cursing. has been the one thing that has made me feel normal here. However, I have avoided telling harassing tuktuk drivers to “Fuck OFF”, not because I think that they would be shocked but because I feel like I am representing Canada here. I don’t want India to think that all Canadians are potty mouths, but my ability to censor myself is dissipating quickly in this ever-stressful environment.

Sometimes, this guide be verrrry wrong

Pondicherry is supposed to be nice (of course, my travel guide raved about Mamallpuram too so I take this with a grain of salt). But friends I made on my trip to Munnar raved about it and the place I am *hoping* to stay (if they are booked, I may cry). All I want is a cleanish bathroom and a break from the rain, even for just a half an hour. If this place is even half as nice as Javi & Silvia say it is, I may just set up camp for a week! I trust their judgement. Silvia, a teacher, radiates kindness. My favourite memory of her is at a roadside café, crinkling her eyes like Santa Claus at gawking Indian children. Javi, speaks with authority and the delightful arrogance I have come to associate with Spanish men. He knows what he’s talking about, his demeanor is one of competence and dismissive elegance. My favourite quote from him was “Once you have seen one temple, you have seen them all” said with a sniff and a dismissive wave of his hand. I laughed  because yes, from our perspective they are all very much the same, but only a Spaniard would say that out loud. I liked them both very much and was happy to run into them again in Kochi as I was waiting for the airport bus. I hope that they discover “The Real India” as Javi would say, before they fly home to work and Life. As for me, I could happily avoid "Real India" for a few days, locked up in an ashram and meditating.

The Best Laid Plans

Tembo paddled without break for 8 hou

Everything happens for a reason and even the best laid travel plans need some leeway. Case in point: I meant to leave Fort Cochin after two nights. In that time I explored the amazing backwaters on a bamboo houseboat, escaped the heat for a weekend to the cool, lush green hills of tea heaven, Munnar, and made friends with the local boys at Salt n Pepper bar, a weird little hideaway full of incense smoke and bad lighting. But I’m ready to leave the state of Kerala behind, with its beautiful beaches and too many tourist enclaves. I am hugely looking forward to the slightly more chill state of Tamil Nadu, known more for its holy temples than its tourist packages. But alas! Flights to Tamil Nadu’s capital are fully booked and I have to wait another two days before I can go. What to do, what to do...

I’ve been tucked under the protective wing here in Cochin by Pius and his lovely wife and sister, who run both Adam’s Old Inn (the budget backpacker place I originally stayed at) and the El Kapitan Inn (a more upscale home stay they moved me to, free of extra charge). Pius is always ready for a discussion, mostly about the difference between western and Indian values. He speaks, not with a tone of judgement, but from the perspective of a backpacker innkeeper who has seen/heard/smelled some pretty crazy stuff. He told me things that had happened in my room that I really didn’t want to know, but he seems to want my opinion on pretty much everything from Indian marriage traditions to sexual deviance. I’ve taken the very un-Kirsten approach to the latter question and didn’t voice an opinion at all. Biting my tongue is one of the many trials India has put before me.

Where all of Fort Cochin traveler washing is done. Impressive!

So with really no plans other than a looming exam and bucket-loads of school-related research to do, I set forth in Cochin to find… something. It turns out that I found many rickshaw drivers who were eager to harass the early rising tourist. The constant barrage of touts made my ears ring until one stood out from the rest. Fiser (I assume I am spelling his name wrong, it could be like “Phizer” as in the pharmaceuticals company) was hanging back from the crowd, smiling peacefully next to the most pimped out tuk-tuk I have ever seen. Flashing lights, an upholstered ceiling, leather bench seat for passengers, this ride was pretty fly for a brown guy. Of course I hopped in and had the most randomly fun afternoon careening through the streets of Kochi, dodging goats and visiting laundry ghats (to some this would seem boring but to a neat-freak it was AMAZING!!!!!), a fisherman’s hideout where they obviously don’t see many tourists judging by the unabashed stares and a rug/jewels/pashmina/everything shop where the guy, once he realised I was not going to buy, instead offered me some marijuana and the proposal to “hanga out” that evening. I declined, but I’m glad I had to stay in Cochin another couple of days. I would have missed out on a new friend and a thirst for Indian rugs.

These hills were alive... with the smell of delicious tea

Now, it is once again raining. The afternoon brought forth a mighty thunder clap, some white lightening and monsoon rains that have kept this traveler beneath a leaky tin roof, cloaked in mosquitoes happy to have found a Canadian to snack on during the rain. Tomorrow I leave for Chennai, and plan to quickly escape from there for Malamapuram (ok, I am definitely spelling that one wrong but my travel book is inside and I am too lazy to get up and get it). Once there, I have promised myself that I will focus on my studies… unless another Fiser happens upon me, of course.

God's Own Country

This is Kerala's state slogan and dear lord is it true! Named as such because of the myriad of natural wonders in such a small, but "wealthy" state, Kerala boasts beautiful white & black sand beaches, lakes, rivers, mountains, canals & forests. Moving north from Trivandrum (read my premier blog about the train experience there), I was so looking forward to the promise of a chill vibe atop sheer, red-clay cliffs in Varkala. A part I forgot to mention about the train was that I was kicked out of the a/c cab as I had unwittingly bought a ticket for sleeper class with just 10 minutes left in my journey. So I waited, where else, in the urinal cab, trying not to breathe and counting the palm trees that whizzed by. So ready to get off that train, I considered just leaping out as soon as I felt the train slow (hey if the kids can do it in "Slumdog Millionaire", why can't I, right?!) But eventually it did slow and I was the first off the train, battling hordes of school kids who ended up hanging out of every train door and barred window.

Steps to the beach etched into the cliff

I grabbed a rickshaw for Rs70 to Varkala Beach and instantly the memory of the train slipped away as the Arabian glistened and beckoned me like the salty temptress she is. Dividing into three areas, Varkala caters to mostly european tourists on the north and south cliffs while Hindu devotees pray at the inland Janardhana Swamy temple before making their way down to Papanasam Beach to scatter the ashes of their dearly departed. In the morning they wade into the waters and the sea around them turns turquoise with the ashes. I didn't want to take photos, it felt too intimate even watching their procession.

The guesthouse I can my eye on was closed for renos, but the owner sent me across the Tibetan Market lane to another guesthouse, Thiruvathira. She doesn't look like much from the outside, but inside she is all cool marble floors, netted four poster beds, clean ensuites and for my room, a balcony overlooking the villagers huts. It was exactly what I was looking for, and for only Rs350/night, it was a bargain.

My morning view, chai in hand, text in the other

Ms. Vasantha runs it with warm, yet independent, hospitality. When I tried to give her a tip to thank her son for carrying my bags up to the room, she misinterpreted and instead brought me a chai tea. This became my morning ritual, sitting on my balcony, watching the birds bathe in the monsoon rain or the villagers put out clean laundry to dry, reading my suddenly interesting textbooks and drinking the most delicious chai I have had yet in India.

Varkala is most definitely a tourist destination but the half-naked white bodies on the beach keep to their side while the devotees worshipping their ancestors keep to their section, seemingly in perfect harmony. The dress code is more lax here, and I reveled in wearing sleeveless long dresses or tank tops over the ever comfortable "ali baba" pant. I spent the first day chilling at a cafe overlooking the water, drinking lemon soda and watching the waves try to carry the tourists out to sea.

I had a proposal to write while I was in Varkala so I spent much of my time cafe hopping between wifi connections. Thank you to the Little Tibet Cafe, Cafe del Mar & People for letting me chill out for a couple hours, ranting when the internet connection was touchy and feeding me wonderful Tibetan momos (dumplings) and thai soups. Shopping at the many vendors became like a sport, bargaining with young girls who were as smart as they were persistent. My favourite girl was 19, had been married for a year and was 5 months pregnant. Over a henna tattoo, she told me how lazy her husband was, how she did all the work while he sat and smoked with his friends. She hadn't wanted to be married but of course her parents "strongly encouraged" the union. She was the eldest daughter of seven children and as such, it was her place to marry. After that story, I was happy to "over pay" for henna and a sarong (Rs700=$14CAD). She asked me if my parents would "make me marry" in Canada. Ha. If we were an Indian family, I'm sure I would have been betrothed to Adam Zroback at age 9, over a few too many beers at a soccer party. I have never been so glad to be Canadian. No offense to Adam Zroback of Powell River, of course. ;)

North beach, Varkala

Waking up (in more ways than one)

Central Bus Station, Trivan

Waking up in Trivandrum was like waking up on the first morning of camping. The unfamiliar sounds, smells and four walls confused me for a minute and I thought I was still dreaming. But NO! I am in F*CKING INDIA!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! It was like Christmas morning, only more humid and my only gift was throwing open the musty curtains of my room to an *almost* sleeping city below. It was 3:30am Trivandrum time (I had been sleeping for 12 beautiful hours) and the streets were empty save for an occasional rickshaw or lean dog prowling for a snack. I sat in bed at TeeKay Palace, watching the sun come up over a hazy city and bed-dancing to Hindi music videos coming from the Samsung flat screen across the room.

Hari, looking suave. He has a beautiful smile too ladies ;)

The day before, the hotel I had wanted was booked full so I wandered up the muddy Aristo Rd and found TeeKay. The room was ridiculously over-priced (Rs.1880 incl tax = $38CAD) but it had a comfortable bed, a/c and an attached "western-style" bathroom.

I'm glad I wandered here too because the jack-of-all-trades, Hari, showed me to my room and instantly gravitated towards the Nikon hanging from my neck. We bonded over photography, he insisting on taking pictures of us and telling me about his new Canon. Even in my sleep-deprived state, I felt a connection to his open smile and his enthusiasm for pretty much everything. He guessed my age at 17 or 18, which didn't hurt either ;)

When finally the sun had graced the city, I made my way down to the hotel restaurant which would be my home base for three days. It had wifi for studying and Facebook, delicious vegetable curries, coffee and a wait staff who became my friends and food critics over the next few days - it had everything I needed. From the windows I could see the chaos of cars, taxis, rickshaws, buses, bicycles, scooters, motorcycles, people, goats, dogs and the occasional police jeep careen through the mud with no discernible traffic pattern that I could identify.

Although I later switched to Greenland Lodging for a much more economical (Rs 380) room rate, I came back to the restaurant at TeeKay to watch Indian families supper and to interact with the staff when they felt brave. Many didn't speak to me directly. Instead, they found me on Facebook and started messaging me from the computer behind the counter. Facebook provided equal footing while also the chance for them to practice their written english skills which were already pretty amazing. Most had learned through a Singapore school, and dreamed of one day becoming a Permanent Resident in Canada (I gave them Red Seal Immigration's website!)

Chalai Bazaar

When I did venture out into the world, I practiced my street weaving skills, avoiding being flattened by buses and cars by never stopping. That is the secret to navigating India's streets during crunch time, never stop moving. Weave between people and cars, hop over puddles and slosh through them, but never stop. Men would call out to me every few seconds and I would smile, wave, say hello or just keep going, depending on my translation of their greeting. Hailing a rickshaw was the easiest and cheapest ways to see the city I found. I went to the Chalai bazaar and moved between the cramped shops selling textiles, spices, fireworks, metals, flowers and fruit.

Cutie-pie!

I hung out at the bus stand and made friends with a young girl, clearly fascinated by such a sweaty, white beast slurping back orange Fanta and taking pictures of her in all of her cuteness. I went up to the public gardens (meh) and walked around the Kanakakunnu Palace (wow), but mostly I just walked the streets and basked in my celebrity status.

Another early morning brought me to Kovalam Beach, a Rs200/14km rickshaw west. I got there around 7am and caught the morning fisherman hauling in their nets and the delicate-legged sea birds catching their breakfast on the black sand. I walked to Samudra Beach and chatted with an elder about his visions of Canada (he offered me drugs when we parted ways, what a sweetie but no thanks). Before the mostly German tourists came out, the beaches were serene and filled with cricket-playing children. I walked through Hawah Beach where young locals were playing in the waves, fully clothed and up the hill to Lighthouse Beach where I took my first plunge into the Arabian Sea. Slightly cooler than the air above it, the sea was filled with white and brown bodies by noon. A man took my hand in the water and taught me how to dive under the waves, between the floating garbage. His wife stood on the shore, taking photos and encouraging him to put his arm around my waist for a photo. I have never let anyone take so many photos of me, in a bikini no less. As I let the salt dry on my skin on the beach, endless pineapple/coconut/papaya/mango vendoresses approached me. I finally gave in when one offered me a mandarin orange. My celebrity status was taking it's toll after about a dozen posed photographs and numerous other covert ones, so I headed up to the white & red striped lighthouse for some serenity, moving through smoke clouds of burning garbage on the way.

Lighthouse Beach, Kovalam

Kovalam introduced me to the Arabian, but I wouldn't recommend it for a relaxing day at the beach. Too many vendors and photo requests! So I packed up and enjoyed a scenic rickshaw through rural Trivandrum back to Greenland Lodge. The rains came then, drenching the city and sending people running for cover. I was glad for the quick shower, salty as I was. Grabbed a dosa from Teekay and then passed out by 8:30.

Moving on!

With that first, slightly "downer" of a post, I am ready to move on and share with you the brilliance that is India through these weary western eyes of mine.

I left Victoria, BC with a third full backpack and absolutely no idea of what to expect when I landed. Luckily, I had 24 hours in transit and several textbooks to prepare me. My first glimpse of India was by the light of a red half moon over a sleeping Mumbai. My apologies to the 80-something Indian grandmother sitting beside me as my face was glued to the window, my breath not half as steamy as the warm water droplets forming already on the outside of the glass. Customs was simple, and I was delighted to receive my first ever Indian Head Waggle (which I am conducting my first field study on in Ahmedabad) from the customs desk when I asked my first of many, dumb questions. "What do I do now?"

Flying over the Pacific towards Seoul Icheon Intl Airport

I wasn't "feeling" Mumbai at that precise moment, I wanted to escape south, where I expected less crowds and a more tropical vibe. Buying a ticket to Trivandrum, Kerala proved to be my first challenge as A) I couldn't pronounce the name right and had to grab my Rough Guide to India handbook (Loser moment #1) and B) I wanted to pay with credit card, but the three men behind what seemed more like a lemonade stand than a ticket desk, said cash only, or "we add mega fine to your Visa".
 I wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound good so I forked over 6000 rupees and stood in line for the free terminal shuttle.

The shuttle turned out to be kinda scary. A decrepit bus pulled up behind the dimly lit airport hanger and I, along with about 20 men, got on. Everyone stared at me like I had three heads, possibly because I was white and female but more likely because I was sweating so much I could feel it dripping down from the backs of my knees onto my heel. The shuttle brought me to the domestic terminal, but not the one I needed to be at. So at 2am, I lugged my bag around a dark parking lot filled with sleeping rickshaw drivers and wild dogs. I didn't really know where I was going, but I figured I would end up somewhere near the terminal. Many drivers stirred as I hobbled past and offered me a ride. Luckily I said no because the terminal was about 20 ft around the corner (sneaksy rickshaw drivers). The security at this airport were pretty intense, and wouldn't let me in the building until I produced my passport, visa and submitted to a metal detector and physical search in the "Ladies Only" line.

Mumbai Domestic Airport

Waiting for the plane was an experience. I was the only white person on my plane, and was therefore somewhat of a curiosity to my fellow passengers. To escape the stares, I went up to the "slumber lounge" where I was alone until six 30-something Indian men came up as well and sat on either side of me, and across as well. In an empty lounge, this felt odd but also comforting. They chatted amongst themselves in Hindi, never taking notice of the Canadian who was happily re-organizing her backpack for the 20th time (OCD knows no borders or timezones). About an hour went by before their plane was called and they got up, one by one, and said good-bye to me, as if we had been chatting all that time. I don't know why, but I felt invincible in that moment.

Eventually my plane was called, and along with 200 Indians, I boarded Air India with Trivandrum as my destination. My travel companion was a business man who asked what would be my traveler's script for my time in India: Was I married? Did I have children? What did I do for a living? How much did that pay? How much did I pay for my ticket? Could he have a picture of me? I asked similiar questions of him and found out that he was married, had two daughters who were recently married, and didn't want any grandkids just yet. He made me laugh over the two hour flight because he called the stewardess 8 times in such a small amount of time. Mostly to ask for more water, or more milk for his coffee or if he could get up while the light was on because he "really had to go". The stewardess was stunning, and patient ;)

Trivandrum is the capital of India's most southern state, Kerala. The airport is surrounded by lush vegetation, colourful birds and grey necked ravens. Guards armed with automatic rifles glare intensely as cabs and rickshaws battle out front. A few bejeweled ladies were keen to know where I was from and if I would stay with them next time I was in India (Ok!).

I cabbed into the city center for 300 rupees, past muddy cricket pitches, tethered goats and horned bovine chewing lazily in the fields. Once out of the rural areas, I was shocked by the pace and hoards of people crowded onto the packed earth streets, not to mention the smells and the way the air clings to your skin like PVC. There is no way to describe it, so I won't try. I didn't even navigate it for the firstafternoon I was here, I just found somewhere to sleep and eat (TeeKay Palace on Aristo Rd) and waited for my lens to shift. More on city life after I've had about 12 hours of sleep...






 

On the kindness of strangers

India is not a country that you can begin blogging about instantaneously. It requires time, experience, reflection and, more than likely, a chance encounter with despair. Until you have reached these four steps, it is doing a disservice to India to begin judging it, or viewing it from a Western lens. 

With that said, I think I earned my badge of honour today. I had been in Trivandrum for a few days, enough time to navigate the chaos, meet some wonderful new friends and get my bearings in a culture so very different from my own. But it was time to move on and I had my eyes on Varkala, a holy site about 50km north, a short train ride away. India's train system is insane. It covers nearly the entire sub-continent and offers a cheap and effective form of transportation. I had been warned about trains before I left Canada. They were chaotic and confusing, and the trains and crowds moved in foreign ways. I was excited! I was also warned that men took the opportunity of the chaos to grope female passengers. I was told to yell at him if it happened, perhaps get a swift kick in if space could allow. I was ready.

I get to the train station in Trivandrum, and it is beautiful. I mean, it's grimy, and every pair of eyes are on the only white person in the terminal, but the smell of diesel, packed bodies and the imminent scent of rain was intoxicating. A very nice man took one look at my bewilderment, looked at my ticket, and steered me towards my correct platform.His knowing smile made my heart literally leap, this wasn't going to be so difficult.

I was waiting for the train away from the crowd when another man approached. He too, wanted to help me get on the right train because although I was on the right platform, I had no clue what train I was to board. We spoke for a short while, he practicing his english and I practicing understanding the thick accent. We discovered that we were the same age, that I had a boyfriend in Canada but no children and that he was single and thought that white skin was the most beautiful skin in the world. My train came then, and I thanked him for the pleasant exchange as I got up to board.

The nice man grabbed my bag and hoisted it on the train for me. So nice! He then asked, in the deserted train car, if he could have a photo with me. This was pretty normal. This happens every half an hour in India if you let it. Then he asked if he could have a kiss. Again, this was normal as already twice in my travels had I allowed a friend to grace my lily white cheek with his lips, usually while a photo was being snapped. I said yes, but only the cheek and only once, because he has begun to get a slightly wild look in his eyes, reminding me that we were alone, in a silent train, and that my right hook was not what it used to be. 

Of course he went for the lips, which I turned my head from and pushed him away just in time. He waggled his head in the affectionate way my indian friends had. But I wasn’t smiling anymore and asked him to leave, NOW. This was not his train car and I was getting nervous. A train official came through the door then, and the man backed away and pretended to be helping me with my bag. Again, I told him to leave. But still my voice was hushed. (Why did I feel like I should be polite in this moment? It’s beyond me.) The train official left without glancing back.

Now, being groped on a crowded Indian train is something that many females experience in India. It sucks, it’s icky and it’s actually a criminal offence if the signs outside of the train urinals are any indication. However, I was not groped on a crowded train. Oh no. The nice man who had helped me with my bag took this opportunity to reach around my back like he was going to put his arm around me and instead grabbed my left breast like it was an avocado he wanted to test.

Kind, and also camera shy, man

I was shocked, and angry and wanted to kick him in the junk. Instead, and here I am letting down all of my fierce Canadian sisters back home, I burst into tears. Pathetic, maybe, but it scared him off enough to back slowly out of the train, repeating “I not bad man, no problem madam”. Later he came back, with a 7Up to share and Indian doughnuts, like perhaps breakfast might make it better. Luckily, I was still crying, so he backed away sheepishly again. The man across the aisle from me had kind, old eyes and had been sweetly ignoring the fact that I had been sniffling for 10 minutes. He said “Indian people are friendly. Sometimes, too friendly” and proceeded to ask me questions about Canada until I could manage a sentence without hiccuping.

It has been a few hours since this happened. I’m sitting in the Little Tibet café in Varkala, Kerala, overlooking the wildest ocean I have ever encountered while sipping black tea and watching strange birds circle above the waves, hoping for a meal. Thunder rolls in the distance, signifying that the rain has not given up this fight. I don’t blame India for the train episode today, but it was a wake up call I needed to shake me out of the feeling of absolute security I’ve felt since waking up that first morning in Trivandrum. It reminded me that Western women are viewed differently here and that not all brown-eyed men are as kind as the older man on the train. But, oh, I am thankful to that older man! It would have been easy to be upset about this for days, walking around with a brown cloud over my head, so to speak.

The next train I take is going to be a very different experience. They say you always remember your first, and this trip was most definitely memorable. But I emerge from it, not disgusted with one man’s behaviour, but thankful for anothers' kindness.