Some people are just plain stupid. Others, only part of the time. I like to think that I fall into the latter category, although I've certainly committed my fair share of tactical and academic blunders. How does one account for this occasional display of ineptitude, this infrequent but nevertheless inevitable tendency to abandon one's better judgment? Is it possible that our brains simply emit a huge sigh of neural relief, jettisoning all good reason and allowing recklessness and feeblemindedness a spot in the limelight? Or do we all simply just have a stupid gene that flexes its muscles every now and then? Whatever the explanation, those of us who only act the fool on occasion should be thankful. Thankful because we're not predisposed to being stupid for every waking moment of our lives.
Like Dave, for example. Dave is an American from Seattle, traveling on his own in India, whom Dom and I met on the bus to McLeod Ganj. Upon arrival we were solicited for a hotel room, and Dave elected to check it out with us. We looked at the facilities and Dom and I selected a double, but Dave found the price of his single room too high and decided to look elsewhere. Later, he said, because he wanted to come for dinner with us, so he asked to keep his things in our room for a while such that he could retrieve them later and continue his search. We obliged.
At the restaurant we ran into a pair of Canadian girls we'd met in Udaipur, and the four of us decided we'd head to the girls' place for a while to hang out. It was 9PM, so I told Dave I'd walk back to our hotel with him so that he could collect his gear. Dave replied that he'd rather join the party and get the beg later; I winced at this because, by this point, I'd already pegged Dave as a complete and utter dork. But he insisted, so off we went to visit the girls.
1AM. Dom and I are walking home, and Dave, completely drunk, tags along. At the hotel we gave him his bag and said goodnight to him, and I let out a massive "Ahhhhhhh!" for finally having rid myself of the bugger.
8AM. I awake to a commotion in the hallway. I press my ear to the bedroom door and instantly realize that I'm listening to an argument between Dave and the hotel owner. It seems that Dave, looking to set the dumbass bar to a new height, had decided to sleep in the empty room that he'd refused to occupy the night before, and was now trying to sneak out without paying. The owner quizzed Dave on where he'd slept, and Dave told him that Dominic and I had given him refuge in our room for the night.
Jackass! A capillary blew in my brain and I opened the door in a flash, denying this allegation to the owner before he even had a chance to ask if Dave's story was true. The owner whirls back to Dave, calls him a liar and demands payment. Dave says no, that the price of the room was too expensive and that he won't pay. The owner, not a small man, steps towards Dave and fixes him with a steely glare and Dave, his head pointed up to meet the owner's eyes, returns the look as best he can.
Then - SMACK!!!! - the hotel owner's right hand meets Dave's cheek like a whip cracking. A clap of thunder echoes down the corridor. Dave's face goes whiter than snow, save for the freshly-slapped side, where the outline of a hand was now developing like a red photograph on flesh. Dave is in shock, and the owner takes advantage by shoving Dave back into the contraband bedroom and locking the door from the outside. He then goes to call the police.
Now Dave, with the instincts of a trapped animal, decides to turn himself into a fugitive by jumping out the window. Good move, except that the silly boy forgot that you can only leave the hotel complex via a set of stairs that begin adjacent to the owner's office. Dave crept around the building, but the owner had detected his plan to flee and was waiting for Dave at the steps.
A second confrontation takes place. The owner, who'd calmed down a bit, explained to Dave that he'd trespassed and should be arrested, but that the whole debacle could be forgotten if Dave would just pay the room fees. Dave, embarrassed by being bitch-slapped and intent on not giving up a cent (sorry, rupee), refused and made to leave. The owner stepped aside, and for a moment I thought Dave might emancipate himself without further incident. But that was not to be.
WHUMP! The owner kicks Dave square in the ass, black shoe meeting blue jean in a combination of colours that would soon surface as an enormous bruise on Dave's buttock. Dave let out a howl, but instead of turning to face his foe, he made perhaps one of his rare smart decisions and ran: up the stairs, out of the hotel, out of sight.
Maybe you think I should be sorry for Dave, and that I should refrain from badmouthing somebody in this forum? I don't feel bad one bit. Dave had every opportunity to find a room earlier in the evening, and in the morning he tried to run. He also attempted to bring me into the lie by telling the owner I'd let him stay (illegal in India). Nuts to you Dave. Twit. Bozo. Nincompoop. I hope you can't sit down for a week.
Oh, and don't ever mess with Indian hotel proprietors. Doing so would be just plain stupid.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Fun with Beef
If you are a cow, and you live in Canada, then I'm sorry to inform you that your life is going to suck. Your fate has already been chosen for you, and it will take you along one of two preordained paths:
If you are a dairy cow, then the duration of your existence will be spent living in an enclosure. Each morning a haggard old man will wake you up before dawn, place his hands precariously close to your private parts, and proceed to thieve all the milk that you spent the night producing for your calves. Said milk will be spirited away in a bucket, and for your donation you will receive not one word of thanks.
Perhaps you are a beef cow? In that case, you're going to live out the rest of your days cooped up in a pen - not in a pasture, since excercise will give your muscles striations that humans do not find particularly toothsome - until one day your owner will come along, slit your throat, hang you upside-down to bleed out, cut you into many pieces and ship you to a local butcher. Like your cousin the dairy cow, you will not be shown any gratitude, though perhaps someone sitting in an expensive restaurant in Toronto will congratulate the resident chef for his delicate preparation of your chateaubriand.
On the other hand, if you are a cow, and you live in India, then I would suggest that you stop reading this post immediately and take a moment to count your lucky stars - because you, my steaky friend, are on Easy Street.
Cows are sacred in India. It is written in Hindu doctrines that the Lord Shiva, one of the Holy Trinity of gods, had cows in his care and even rode around on a bull who was also a god. As such, cows are revered by all Hindu people, and it is forbidden to eat them, harm them, or restrict their movement in any way. India is therefore a country full of cows who do whatever they Damn well feel like.
Picture this: you are a Canadian (person, not cow). You get up in the morning, open your curtains, and find three cows asleep on your lawn, with two more eating the petunias in your flower garden. You get ready for work, hop in your car and head out. Not far from home, there is a sizable traffic jam, not caused by an accident or black ice but by a group of cows who have congregated in the middle of the intersection and aren't moving.
Further up the road you pass a row of parked cars, one of which is being used by a cow as a makeshift scratching post. You notice that, in relieving her painful itch, the cow has knocked off the rearview mirror and is scratching the paint job with her horns.
You stop at Starbucks for a latte. In the parking lot there are two cows fornicating, one eating cardboard coffee cups from the garbage, and a dozen-or-so more loitering about the entrance, making it difficult for customers to enter and exit the establishment. You grab your coffee and go.
You arrive at work on time, but there is a cow in your parking space, and though you try to urge it away with your horn it remains still, chewing its cud and completely ignoring you. Relegated to finding another spot, you drive to the opposite end of the lot, park, get out of the car and SPLAT! You step into a Himalayan pile of fresh cow shit.
Get the idea? This is what India is actually like! Cows are a ubiquitous presence here, and no matter how annoying or destructive they are, Indians can't do a thing about them. Causing bodily harm to a cow would be heretical (hence why potating them is out of the question), and many locals even feed the animals. It is a ceremonial event, wherein the person administers the food directly into the cow's mouth, rubs the cow's head, then gestures to the Heavens in search of a blessing.
These cows are living in the matrix - and believe me, they are taking full advantage. Last week in Pushkar I watched a shopowner look on helplessly as a cow ransacked his showroom full of precious wood carvings. Earlier that morning there had been a wedding procession through town, and any cows absorbed by the parade were being adorned with necklaces and sprinkled with flower petals.
But hands down, the "Most Benevolent" award goes to a particular cow that I have named Darius Kasparitis. I saw Darius at the Jaipur Ghat in Pushkar, where people assemble at dusk to watch the sun descend over the temples surrounding the sacred lake. There was a group of Swedish girls sitting close to us, and they were being pestered relentlessly by a 7-year-old beggar girl who had ensconced herself in their presence and was demanding rupees. The Swedes were becoming agitated and made signs to leave, when all of the sudden a cow, appearing out of nowhere, passed by and absolutely steamrolled the little girl. Stuck in the back by the cow's skull, the bite-sized rapscallion flew through the air in a massive arc, landing a few feet away amidst a pile of other tourists. For a second my heart sank, but the kid got up, dusted herself off and began to laugh uproariously. The cow just continued on its merry was as if nothing had happened. Watch out for Darius! I warn you!
Yep, Holy Cows. In India, the expression comes to life. I do think it's rather cool, allowing an animal to more or less have the run of the world, but in the end, I'll stick with Canadian cows. Alberta beef, baby. Props. One love. Respect. And don't forget to pass the BBQ sauce.
If you are a dairy cow, then the duration of your existence will be spent living in an enclosure. Each morning a haggard old man will wake you up before dawn, place his hands precariously close to your private parts, and proceed to thieve all the milk that you spent the night producing for your calves. Said milk will be spirited away in a bucket, and for your donation you will receive not one word of thanks.
Perhaps you are a beef cow? In that case, you're going to live out the rest of your days cooped up in a pen - not in a pasture, since excercise will give your muscles striations that humans do not find particularly toothsome - until one day your owner will come along, slit your throat, hang you upside-down to bleed out, cut you into many pieces and ship you to a local butcher. Like your cousin the dairy cow, you will not be shown any gratitude, though perhaps someone sitting in an expensive restaurant in Toronto will congratulate the resident chef for his delicate preparation of your chateaubriand.
On the other hand, if you are a cow, and you live in India, then I would suggest that you stop reading this post immediately and take a moment to count your lucky stars - because you, my steaky friend, are on Easy Street.
Cows are sacred in India. It is written in Hindu doctrines that the Lord Shiva, one of the Holy Trinity of gods, had cows in his care and even rode around on a bull who was also a god. As such, cows are revered by all Hindu people, and it is forbidden to eat them, harm them, or restrict their movement in any way. India is therefore a country full of cows who do whatever they Damn well feel like.
Picture this: you are a Canadian (person, not cow). You get up in the morning, open your curtains, and find three cows asleep on your lawn, with two more eating the petunias in your flower garden. You get ready for work, hop in your car and head out. Not far from home, there is a sizable traffic jam, not caused by an accident or black ice but by a group of cows who have congregated in the middle of the intersection and aren't moving.
Further up the road you pass a row of parked cars, one of which is being used by a cow as a makeshift scratching post. You notice that, in relieving her painful itch, the cow has knocked off the rearview mirror and is scratching the paint job with her horns.
You stop at Starbucks for a latte. In the parking lot there are two cows fornicating, one eating cardboard coffee cups from the garbage, and a dozen-or-so more loitering about the entrance, making it difficult for customers to enter and exit the establishment. You grab your coffee and go.
You arrive at work on time, but there is a cow in your parking space, and though you try to urge it away with your horn it remains still, chewing its cud and completely ignoring you. Relegated to finding another spot, you drive to the opposite end of the lot, park, get out of the car and SPLAT! You step into a Himalayan pile of fresh cow shit.
Get the idea? This is what India is actually like! Cows are a ubiquitous presence here, and no matter how annoying or destructive they are, Indians can't do a thing about them. Causing bodily harm to a cow would be heretical (hence why potating them is out of the question), and many locals even feed the animals. It is a ceremonial event, wherein the person administers the food directly into the cow's mouth, rubs the cow's head, then gestures to the Heavens in search of a blessing.
These cows are living in the matrix - and believe me, they are taking full advantage. Last week in Pushkar I watched a shopowner look on helplessly as a cow ransacked his showroom full of precious wood carvings. Earlier that morning there had been a wedding procession through town, and any cows absorbed by the parade were being adorned with necklaces and sprinkled with flower petals.
But hands down, the "Most Benevolent" award goes to a particular cow that I have named Darius Kasparitis. I saw Darius at the Jaipur Ghat in Pushkar, where people assemble at dusk to watch the sun descend over the temples surrounding the sacred lake. There was a group of Swedish girls sitting close to us, and they were being pestered relentlessly by a 7-year-old beggar girl who had ensconced herself in their presence and was demanding rupees. The Swedes were becoming agitated and made signs to leave, when all of the sudden a cow, appearing out of nowhere, passed by and absolutely steamrolled the little girl. Stuck in the back by the cow's skull, the bite-sized rapscallion flew through the air in a massive arc, landing a few feet away amidst a pile of other tourists. For a second my heart sank, but the kid got up, dusted herself off and began to laugh uproariously. The cow just continued on its merry was as if nothing had happened. Watch out for Darius! I warn you!
Yep, Holy Cows. In India, the expression comes to life. I do think it's rather cool, allowing an animal to more or less have the run of the world, but in the end, I'll stick with Canadian cows. Alberta beef, baby. Props. One love. Respect. And don't forget to pass the BBQ sauce.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Aux Chameaux
Earlier this week, I broke a promise that I'd made to myself long ago.
Actually, I did much worse than that. I also broke a vow I'd made to just about every known deity in the Heavens, including God, Jesus, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, Confucius and L. Ron Hubbard.
It all dates back to the summer of 2002, when I was traveling by camel across the remote nether-regions of Southern Morocco, in search of fine-woven tapestries, crystalline geodes of amethyst, and of course frankincense. The trip took two days, and not long into the journey I decided that riding a camel was one of the most painful forms of transportation imaginable. By sunset on the second day, the pain in my inner thighs was so intense that I could barely walk, my once-manly strut having been reduced to the awkward stumble of a drunken sailor, or the pathetic stagger of a newborn fawn struggling to retain its balance during life's first steps. Not long after my final dismount, I swore to all the celestial bodies that I would never, not ever, climb atop one of those animals again.
6 years on.
Well, it seems that I'm no wiser for my added years, because when I arrived in Jaisalmer (a town once famous for the silk trade and now a tourist hotspot blah blah blah), I decided that it would be a good idea to make a second attempt. This time? A 3-day, 2-night camel safari in the Great Thar Desert, near India's Western border with Pakistan. It would be my chance to prove myself that back in Morocco, I was just being a wuss.
But let's not go insulting camels. There is nothing inherently wrong with them at all. No. In fact, they are the ideal beasts of burden, built perfectly for the harsh conditions of the desert. Able to travel for several days with no food or water, they will quite happily transport a large amount of cargo, human or otherwise, through hot, barren landscapes, all the while maintaining that goofy grin on their camel-y faces.
Moreover, they are also very docile, and will tolerate being decorated in the traditional manner, whereby colourful bits and bobs are placed all over their noses, necks and bodies. Pimp my camel. Those rice-rocket owners back in Canada would approve.
My camel, Charlie, was a fine specimen indeed. Of the nine on our trip, he was the most handsome by a longshot, much like his (extremely modest) rider. Young and stealthy, he exhibited a respectable top speed and good acceleration, though his stamina was certainly in need of improvement.
The race began on the morning of the first day. We set out from a Hindu temple just North of Jaisalmer, heading due West on a loop that would take us over many kilometres of sandy dunes and rocky salt flats. A Lithuanian rider, his camel race-seasoned and strong, immediately took the lead, leaving us all in his wake. Charlie didn't seem too phased by this early display of ambition, but as time passed by, it was clear that the lead camel would be tough to catch.
The race progressed, but Charlie seemed reluctant to make for the pole, preferring instead to lead the camel peloton. I tried my very best to motivate him, coaxing him with sweet nothings and giving him gentle lashes with a stick, but after two days we were still placed in the middle of the group.
Then, on the afternoon of the last day, while the sun shone hot from its pedestal in the sky, Charlie suddenly found his wind, and together we made a push for the finish. There was a lot of ground to be made up, and as we approached the finish line (a bit of sand near the side of the road where a jeep was waiting to pick us up), Charlie exploded with a kick and finished a respectable 2nd. All Ethiopean marathon runners would be proud. I know I was.
Okay, okay. I know it wasn't a race. Really, I'm not crazy, but when you do nothing but sit on a camel and stare at 360 degrees of yellow sand for three consecutive days, you need something to keep you occupied. Call it my competitive nature.
I'm sad to announce, however, that the whole experience was, in general, still very painful. To ride a camel pain-free, you need the flexibility of the average pre-pubescent female Romanian gymnast, and since I'm none of those things, I suffered. Still, you have to hand it to our safari guides. Each one of them was an unschooled local, yet they all spoke respectable English and tended to our every demand. The food they prepared was excellent (if you like spicy potato and cauliflower for 9 meals in a row), their care for the camels was attentive, and the beds they prepared for us were comfortable. There was even a guy who would walk 6km each night from his village to bring us cold beer.
As Charlie and I pushed for the finish line, I had one of those surreal moments that I only seem to get when traveling in strange places. One of the guides, striding along beside me, erupted into a traditional Rajasthani folk tune, his scratchy voice resonating through the hot air, bouncing off the horizon and reflecting off the sky, such that the whole world seemed filled with the piercing, tranquil notes. I didn't understand a single syllable of what he was saying, but the pain in his voice seemed to indicate a lost love, or perhaps a thousand lost loves, remorseful moments of a life spent in a remorseful place.
I lost my watch in the desert. Fitting. Out there, time is meaningless anyway.
Dear Vishnu: I promise I won't ride a camel for another 6 years. But if I do, I want it to be Charlie.
Actually, I did much worse than that. I also broke a vow I'd made to just about every known deity in the Heavens, including God, Jesus, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, Confucius and L. Ron Hubbard.
It all dates back to the summer of 2002, when I was traveling by camel across the remote nether-regions of Southern Morocco, in search of fine-woven tapestries, crystalline geodes of amethyst, and of course frankincense. The trip took two days, and not long into the journey I decided that riding a camel was one of the most painful forms of transportation imaginable. By sunset on the second day, the pain in my inner thighs was so intense that I could barely walk, my once-manly strut having been reduced to the awkward stumble of a drunken sailor, or the pathetic stagger of a newborn fawn struggling to retain its balance during life's first steps. Not long after my final dismount, I swore to all the celestial bodies that I would never, not ever, climb atop one of those animals again.
6 years on.
Well, it seems that I'm no wiser for my added years, because when I arrived in Jaisalmer (a town once famous for the silk trade and now a tourist hotspot blah blah blah), I decided that it would be a good idea to make a second attempt. This time? A 3-day, 2-night camel safari in the Great Thar Desert, near India's Western border with Pakistan. It would be my chance to prove myself that back in Morocco, I was just being a wuss.
But let's not go insulting camels. There is nothing inherently wrong with them at all. No. In fact, they are the ideal beasts of burden, built perfectly for the harsh conditions of the desert. Able to travel for several days with no food or water, they will quite happily transport a large amount of cargo, human or otherwise, through hot, barren landscapes, all the while maintaining that goofy grin on their camel-y faces.
Moreover, they are also very docile, and will tolerate being decorated in the traditional manner, whereby colourful bits and bobs are placed all over their noses, necks and bodies. Pimp my camel. Those rice-rocket owners back in Canada would approve.
My camel, Charlie, was a fine specimen indeed. Of the nine on our trip, he was the most handsome by a longshot, much like his (extremely modest) rider. Young and stealthy, he exhibited a respectable top speed and good acceleration, though his stamina was certainly in need of improvement.
The race began on the morning of the first day. We set out from a Hindu temple just North of Jaisalmer, heading due West on a loop that would take us over many kilometres of sandy dunes and rocky salt flats. A Lithuanian rider, his camel race-seasoned and strong, immediately took the lead, leaving us all in his wake. Charlie didn't seem too phased by this early display of ambition, but as time passed by, it was clear that the lead camel would be tough to catch.
The race progressed, but Charlie seemed reluctant to make for the pole, preferring instead to lead the camel peloton. I tried my very best to motivate him, coaxing him with sweet nothings and giving him gentle lashes with a stick, but after two days we were still placed in the middle of the group.
Then, on the afternoon of the last day, while the sun shone hot from its pedestal in the sky, Charlie suddenly found his wind, and together we made a push for the finish. There was a lot of ground to be made up, and as we approached the finish line (a bit of sand near the side of the road where a jeep was waiting to pick us up), Charlie exploded with a kick and finished a respectable 2nd. All Ethiopean marathon runners would be proud. I know I was.
Okay, okay. I know it wasn't a race. Really, I'm not crazy, but when you do nothing but sit on a camel and stare at 360 degrees of yellow sand for three consecutive days, you need something to keep you occupied. Call it my competitive nature.
I'm sad to announce, however, that the whole experience was, in general, still very painful. To ride a camel pain-free, you need the flexibility of the average pre-pubescent female Romanian gymnast, and since I'm none of those things, I suffered. Still, you have to hand it to our safari guides. Each one of them was an unschooled local, yet they all spoke respectable English and tended to our every demand. The food they prepared was excellent (if you like spicy potato and cauliflower for 9 meals in a row), their care for the camels was attentive, and the beds they prepared for us were comfortable. There was even a guy who would walk 6km each night from his village to bring us cold beer.
As Charlie and I pushed for the finish line, I had one of those surreal moments that I only seem to get when traveling in strange places. One of the guides, striding along beside me, erupted into a traditional Rajasthani folk tune, his scratchy voice resonating through the hot air, bouncing off the horizon and reflecting off the sky, such that the whole world seemed filled with the piercing, tranquil notes. I didn't understand a single syllable of what he was saying, but the pain in his voice seemed to indicate a lost love, or perhaps a thousand lost loves, remorseful moments of a life spent in a remorseful place.
I lost my watch in the desert. Fitting. Out there, time is meaningless anyway.
Dear Vishnu: I promise I won't ride a camel for another 6 years. But if I do, I want it to be Charlie.
Monday, February 11, 2008
2 Purs & A Gadh
I've recently visited three Indian towns that are of interest. I doubt any of you really care what I did in any of them, so I'll just provide you with a selection of anecdotes about each.
JUNAGADH
What was meant to be only an overnight stop between bus trips managed to attract my attention for a couple of days. The town itself is very unassuming, but it lies in the shadow of a large mountain that is peppered with temples right up to the peak. Many of said temples are Hindu, but the real attraction is the Jain temple that sits perched at the very apex of the slope. To get there, you climb a set of stairs - 5000 of them - that switch back up the rocky cliffs of the mountain face.
This was no picnic. I made it to the top after climbing stairs for two hours, and as I sat staring at the holy ashram though the misty shroud in front of me, all I could think about is that 5000 steps is a shitload.
Fortunately, the path is littered with things to keep you entertained for the duration of your vertical slog. Monkeys inhabit the lower slopes, affording children the opportunity to throw rocks at them. At various intervals, there are Hindu and Jain pilgrims resting, adorned in their traditional costumes for a day of peaceful prayer. I even found a cow sitting on the 4000th step.
Getting down is much more forgiving than the ascent, but by the end I was parched and in need of a beer. Then, as I approached the exit gate I saw a man in clothing so tattered that it failed to even remotely cloak his meat-and-two-veg, and I decided that he needed a beer as well, and I needed about 8.
My plans, however, were vanquished by the local government. Junagadh is in the province of Gujarat - a dry province, meaning no beer. No beer, no 1983 Chablis, and certainly no 25-year-old Macallan Cask Strength.
Thirst-perpetuating brutes! Who ever decided that this would be a good idea? Prohibition is worse than purgatory!
Someone call in the US Army. This country needs new leaders.
UDAIPUR
Perhaps one of the most beautiful places I've seen in months, Udaipur is a town positioned around a large lake, set in the arid hills of the province of Rajasthan. Its principal attraction is the Lake Palace, a majestic, whitewashed, princely estate built by the local Maharaja in 1764. Each night, as the sun sets over the hills, the palace lights up and the city basks in its tranquil splendour. Then, all the useless hippies staying at your hostel start playing their guitars and singing Phish tracks, and your Kodak moment gets ruined.
Happily, there is something fun to do in Udaipur after sunset: Octopussy. Don't get too excited guys, because all I am referring to is the James Bond film starring Roger Moore, which was shot here in the 1970s. Udaipurians evidently relish this fact, because every (and I mean EVERY) bar and restaurant in the city feels obliged to show the film on their television sets each night.
If you're like me, then this is a blessing. I love Bond flicks. However, if you'd prefer instead to make your own visual entertainment, then I suggest you try sipping a bhang lassi and waiting, oh, say 45 minutes.
Feel free to look that one up. I admit nothing.
JODHPUR
Yet another town in Rajasthan, yet another awe-inspiring palace. Jodhpur is a big town, but the entire thing is dwarfed by a ridiculously over-the-top fortress that never once was successfully invaded in its history. I especially liked the front gate of the place, which was bejeweled with iron spikes to prevent rival armies attacking with elephants. I miss the good old days when people didn't have tanks. Back in the 1700s, wars were way more fun.
Jodhpur is known as the Blue City, and for good reason. Practically every second house is painted in aquamarine, and as you peer down at the town from high up on the castle ramparts, it's almost as if you are seeing a crystal clear oasis in the middle of a sandy desert. Mirages! Great fun!
The castle has a tour that comes complete with cheesy audio guides. For the most part, what you're seeing is a bit soporific, but I did like the explanation given for a beautiful carved wood and ivory jewelery box, in the style typically used by Indian maidens 300 years ago. The guide explained how the women prepared themselves for a "night out". I paraphrase:
"To begin, intricate floral patterns are painted on her hands and feet with henna. Kohl is used to accentuate her eyes, beeswax softens her pouty lips, and a tikka is drawn on her forehead with the traditional drop of vermilion. Precious jewels are placed about her body, and soon she glistens in tones of silver, gold, ruby, sapphire and emerald. Her hair is combed with saffron oil, and her wrists and ankles are adorned with sparkling bands that clang like tiny cymbals, such that when she walks, a soft music follows her every step. She is draped in intricately-woven fabrics, a vibrant display of bright colours to accentuate her mocha skin. Her breath is freshed with the exotic fragrance of cloves. Then, she is ready for love..."
Jeez Louise. And you thought YOUR girlfriend took a long time to get ready!
...
FYI: Until further notice I will be traveling alongside Dominic, a French-Canadian guy who is simply hilarious. Example? He wanted to visit a town in the Punjab that, according to the Lonely Planet, is famous for its resident Asiatic wild asses. I felt awful having to inform him that, in fact, this meant nothing more than donkeys who don't live in the confines of an enclosure.
In the next post: CAMELS!
JUNAGADH
What was meant to be only an overnight stop between bus trips managed to attract my attention for a couple of days. The town itself is very unassuming, but it lies in the shadow of a large mountain that is peppered with temples right up to the peak. Many of said temples are Hindu, but the real attraction is the Jain temple that sits perched at the very apex of the slope. To get there, you climb a set of stairs - 5000 of them - that switch back up the rocky cliffs of the mountain face.
This was no picnic. I made it to the top after climbing stairs for two hours, and as I sat staring at the holy ashram though the misty shroud in front of me, all I could think about is that 5000 steps is a shitload.
Fortunately, the path is littered with things to keep you entertained for the duration of your vertical slog. Monkeys inhabit the lower slopes, affording children the opportunity to throw rocks at them. At various intervals, there are Hindu and Jain pilgrims resting, adorned in their traditional costumes for a day of peaceful prayer. I even found a cow sitting on the 4000th step.
Getting down is much more forgiving than the ascent, but by the end I was parched and in need of a beer. Then, as I approached the exit gate I saw a man in clothing so tattered that it failed to even remotely cloak his meat-and-two-veg, and I decided that he needed a beer as well, and I needed about 8.
My plans, however, were vanquished by the local government. Junagadh is in the province of Gujarat - a dry province, meaning no beer. No beer, no 1983 Chablis, and certainly no 25-year-old Macallan Cask Strength.
Thirst-perpetuating brutes! Who ever decided that this would be a good idea? Prohibition is worse than purgatory!
Someone call in the US Army. This country needs new leaders.
UDAIPUR
Perhaps one of the most beautiful places I've seen in months, Udaipur is a town positioned around a large lake, set in the arid hills of the province of Rajasthan. Its principal attraction is the Lake Palace, a majestic, whitewashed, princely estate built by the local Maharaja in 1764. Each night, as the sun sets over the hills, the palace lights up and the city basks in its tranquil splendour. Then, all the useless hippies staying at your hostel start playing their guitars and singing Phish tracks, and your Kodak moment gets ruined.
Happily, there is something fun to do in Udaipur after sunset: Octopussy. Don't get too excited guys, because all I am referring to is the James Bond film starring Roger Moore, which was shot here in the 1970s. Udaipurians evidently relish this fact, because every (and I mean EVERY) bar and restaurant in the city feels obliged to show the film on their television sets each night.
If you're like me, then this is a blessing. I love Bond flicks. However, if you'd prefer instead to make your own visual entertainment, then I suggest you try sipping a bhang lassi and waiting, oh, say 45 minutes.
Feel free to look that one up. I admit nothing.
JODHPUR
Yet another town in Rajasthan, yet another awe-inspiring palace. Jodhpur is a big town, but the entire thing is dwarfed by a ridiculously over-the-top fortress that never once was successfully invaded in its history. I especially liked the front gate of the place, which was bejeweled with iron spikes to prevent rival armies attacking with elephants. I miss the good old days when people didn't have tanks. Back in the 1700s, wars were way more fun.
Jodhpur is known as the Blue City, and for good reason. Practically every second house is painted in aquamarine, and as you peer down at the town from high up on the castle ramparts, it's almost as if you are seeing a crystal clear oasis in the middle of a sandy desert. Mirages! Great fun!
The castle has a tour that comes complete with cheesy audio guides. For the most part, what you're seeing is a bit soporific, but I did like the explanation given for a beautiful carved wood and ivory jewelery box, in the style typically used by Indian maidens 300 years ago. The guide explained how the women prepared themselves for a "night out". I paraphrase:
"To begin, intricate floral patterns are painted on her hands and feet with henna. Kohl is used to accentuate her eyes, beeswax softens her pouty lips, and a tikka is drawn on her forehead with the traditional drop of vermilion. Precious jewels are placed about her body, and soon she glistens in tones of silver, gold, ruby, sapphire and emerald. Her hair is combed with saffron oil, and her wrists and ankles are adorned with sparkling bands that clang like tiny cymbals, such that when she walks, a soft music follows her every step. She is draped in intricately-woven fabrics, a vibrant display of bright colours to accentuate her mocha skin. Her breath is freshed with the exotic fragrance of cloves. Then, she is ready for love..."
Jeez Louise. And you thought YOUR girlfriend took a long time to get ready!
...
FYI: Until further notice I will be traveling alongside Dominic, a French-Canadian guy who is simply hilarious. Example? He wanted to visit a town in the Punjab that, according to the Lonely Planet, is famous for its resident Asiatic wild asses. I felt awful having to inform him that, in fact, this meant nothing more than donkeys who don't live in the confines of an enclosure.
In the next post: CAMELS!
Monday, February 4, 2008
Curry Got Me Worried
Now I may be just your average Canadian WASP, but I still consider myself an authority when it comes to Indian food. That's why I've elected to make it the topic of today's discussion, despite the fact that I've spent less than two weeks in this country to date.
I'll begin by saying that I love Indian food. I always have. It is the epitome of grassroots cooking, wherein a few simple, subtle ingredients are combined to form an extravagant marriage of flavours. No complicated culinary techniques or pricey condiments are required; all you need to get started is a handful of fragrant spices and some hot oil. The focus is on taking a normally bland ingredient and bringing it to the forefront with the calculated addition of something vibrant. That's why plain-Jane vegetables such as potato and cauliflower often play a starring role on the Indian palette.
Indian food (like the Indian immigrant) has become commonplace in most parts of the world. Many cities in the West now have at least one Indian eatery, and we've all been there to try such popular items as lamb rogan josh, butter chicken, aloo gobi and of course naan bread and cucumber raita. I'd even hazard to say that most of us have tried cooking an Indian dish once or twice, although if you're like me then you've probably been left wondering why the egg biryani you produced wasn't half as rich or savoury as the one being served at the curry house down the street. Yeah I know... it ain't easy being White.
So do you crave cardamon and popadoms as much as I do? Then I invite you to make a pilgrimage to India, my friend. When you get here, you'll be able to sample an infinite number of local specialties, from the familiar dhal soup to the more exotic prawn vindaloo. Here are a few that I recommend:
-Masala Dhosa: a thin, crispy pancake filled with fried potatoes and cumin, typically served in the morning with a steaming cup of chai.
-Paneer Palak: perfect for the closet vegetarian, this curry combines spinach and the spongy, meaty Indian paneer cheese. Cool electric green colour to boot.
-Mutton Afghan: goat meat braised in a sweet tomato sauce with pineapple and grapes.
-Capsicum Jalfrezi: a spicy dry curry of peppers, onion and green chili.
Okay. By now I've made it clear that Indian cuisine is excellent and that the best of it is served right here in India. Yeah? Good. But we're only half-done. So now, I'd like you all to begin clenching your sphincters and holding your breath, because for the remainder of this dissertation I will be talking about diarrhea.
Q: What do you get when you take someone who is used to a benign Western diet of Corn Flakes, tuna sandwiches and spaghetti bolognese, and let them loose in a country where even the breakfasts are spicy?
A: The dreaded 'Delhi Belly'. Or, as they say in the medical field, 'Ass Volcano'.
I managed to last a week. A week of eating fire three times a day before my stomach finally gave up and raised the alarm. From there on in, your life begins to revolve around the toilet, which in India is simply a rather odiferous hole in the floor. This experience often lasts 2-3 days. For me, one of those days was my birthday.
The incessant use of chili isn't the only catalyst though- there are myriad other factors that contribute to your intestinal volatility just as much. Take the tap water for instance. It is so full of harmful parameciums that you shouldn't even use it to rinse your toothbrush - and yet all Indian restaurants cook with it. Strike one. Strike two? People wipe their behinds with their left hand here, meaning that the guy who's rolling the dough for your chapati bread probably isn't as Zestfully clean as you'd like him to be. Finally, the food itself is suspect - especially the meat. Sure, that goat curry might taste like a dream, but when you consider that most goats roam freely and eat garbage on the roadsides here, that dream quickly becomes a nightmare. Strike three. You're out. Prepare your left hand.
They say that what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger. I'll be in India 6 more weeks. If by then I'm not dead due to stomach ulcers, then I'll celebrate with a tuna sandwich. If the curry does finish me off, however, then I'd like my epitaph to read:
I'll begin by saying that I love Indian food. I always have. It is the epitome of grassroots cooking, wherein a few simple, subtle ingredients are combined to form an extravagant marriage of flavours. No complicated culinary techniques or pricey condiments are required; all you need to get started is a handful of fragrant spices and some hot oil. The focus is on taking a normally bland ingredient and bringing it to the forefront with the calculated addition of something vibrant. That's why plain-Jane vegetables such as potato and cauliflower often play a starring role on the Indian palette.
Indian food (like the Indian immigrant) has become commonplace in most parts of the world. Many cities in the West now have at least one Indian eatery, and we've all been there to try such popular items as lamb rogan josh, butter chicken, aloo gobi and of course naan bread and cucumber raita. I'd even hazard to say that most of us have tried cooking an Indian dish once or twice, although if you're like me then you've probably been left wondering why the egg biryani you produced wasn't half as rich or savoury as the one being served at the curry house down the street. Yeah I know... it ain't easy being White.
So do you crave cardamon and popadoms as much as I do? Then I invite you to make a pilgrimage to India, my friend. When you get here, you'll be able to sample an infinite number of local specialties, from the familiar dhal soup to the more exotic prawn vindaloo. Here are a few that I recommend:
-Masala Dhosa: a thin, crispy pancake filled with fried potatoes and cumin, typically served in the morning with a steaming cup of chai.
-Paneer Palak: perfect for the closet vegetarian, this curry combines spinach and the spongy, meaty Indian paneer cheese. Cool electric green colour to boot.
-Mutton Afghan: goat meat braised in a sweet tomato sauce with pineapple and grapes.
-Capsicum Jalfrezi: a spicy dry curry of peppers, onion and green chili.
Okay. By now I've made it clear that Indian cuisine is excellent and that the best of it is served right here in India. Yeah? Good. But we're only half-done. So now, I'd like you all to begin clenching your sphincters and holding your breath, because for the remainder of this dissertation I will be talking about diarrhea.
Q: What do you get when you take someone who is used to a benign Western diet of Corn Flakes, tuna sandwiches and spaghetti bolognese, and let them loose in a country where even the breakfasts are spicy?
A: The dreaded 'Delhi Belly'. Or, as they say in the medical field, 'Ass Volcano'.
I managed to last a week. A week of eating fire three times a day before my stomach finally gave up and raised the alarm. From there on in, your life begins to revolve around the toilet, which in India is simply a rather odiferous hole in the floor. This experience often lasts 2-3 days. For me, one of those days was my birthday.
The incessant use of chili isn't the only catalyst though- there are myriad other factors that contribute to your intestinal volatility just as much. Take the tap water for instance. It is so full of harmful parameciums that you shouldn't even use it to rinse your toothbrush - and yet all Indian restaurants cook with it. Strike one. Strike two? People wipe their behinds with their left hand here, meaning that the guy who's rolling the dough for your chapati bread probably isn't as Zestfully clean as you'd like him to be. Finally, the food itself is suspect - especially the meat. Sure, that goat curry might taste like a dream, but when you consider that most goats roam freely and eat garbage on the roadsides here, that dream quickly becomes a nightmare. Strike three. You're out. Prepare your left hand.
They say that what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger. I'll be in India 6 more weeks. If by then I'm not dead due to stomach ulcers, then I'll celebrate with a tuna sandwich. If the curry does finish me off, however, then I'd like my epitaph to read:
Here Lies Mike Hudson
Decent Enough Guy
I Regret Nothing
Go Oilers
Decent Enough Guy
I Regret Nothing
Go Oilers
And please don't bury me on the Indian roadside. I don't want the goats to eat the flowers.
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