Istanbul

Hi all,

I realise I have been very slack on the blog front, and I don’t even know if people are still reading.  Since leaving India, internet has been harder to get because I am moving around so much.

To update, I am now in Istanbul, Turkey.  Turkey is very different to what I expected.  For some reason, I expected the chaos and pushiness of India, but it’s not like that at all.  Flying into the airport over the Bosporus was quite the amazing sight, the city is actually stunningly beautiful, and if my keen eyes of observation are correct, Turkish people really like cable TV.

I wanted to come to Turkey for two reasons.  One, the food.  Falafel, hommous, tabouli, babaganoush etc.  Well, guess what? Apparently, these are not actually Turkish foods.  They are Arab, and I don’t think I’m going to be heading that way anytime soon.

The second reason was to see Gallipoli.  After studying history for four years, with my favourite subject (and this is a bit weird) being war history, it’s a bit of a dream come true for me.  A really cool thing is that my friend Jen has given me a copy of her granddad’s diary that he wrote while he served at Gallipoli.  I am going to read it on the five-hour bus ride departing 6.30am tomorrow morning.

Whirling Dervishes, doing their twirly thing

So, that’s that.  I have just come from a performance by Whirling Devishes.  I didn’t really know what to expect, other than that they spin around a lot.  After seeing the show I can report that they do, in fact, spin around a lot.  I think it’s some form of meditation.  It got a bit boring towards the end.

Right, it’s late (10.06pm) and I have an early start so must away.

London

Some of the ex-Nova crowd: Me, Stevie T, Jon, Jules, Rob, Tom and Stu

Well, I have to say, I am rather enjoying the unemployed bum’s life.  I was on the bus home this evening with all the poor sods who have spent the day doing whatever at the office thinking that I don’t miss it at all (not that anyone ever really enjoys catching peak-hour public transport).

Just to update – I’m in London now.  I like London, I don’t love it.  It’s pretty crowded, pushing is normal and no

Me with Olivier, the coolest French guy in the world.

one helps a struggling Kiwi to carry a heavy suitcase up subway stairs.  I spent today looking at portraits of rich people – who were all really pale – at the Tate Britain Museum.  I actually aimed to go to the Tate Modern but got my museums mixed up.  Whatever.  I then met up with Tim who is visiting from America for the wedding (this past weekend) and we climbed up Tower Bridge.  Nice views of the Thames from up there.

Top row L to R: Stevie T, Doug, Tim Fox, Richard, Jon, Matt... then me, Jax, Jules, Imo and Tim

Tomorrow, more sightseeing with Tim and maybe a few other guys from the wedding.  It’s nice just wandering around and checking out the city.  By the end of the week I will have spent more time getting to know London than I ever spent getting to know Sydney.

Matt and Imogen

As for the wedding of Imogen and Mathew van Benschoten in Watford this past weekend, well, what an event!  Overall, there was a massive bunch of us that made the trek to catch up with all the ex-Japan crowd and it was so great getting to see everyone again.  As per usual, I got made fun of a lot of the time by all the guys but I have less tolerance for such behaviour now.  Apparently I sound just like Murray from Flight of the Conchords.  Whatever.  I don’t think so.  The whole affair lasted about 12-hours all up and some of the Harry Hardcores managed to head out to an Australian-themed club called ‘The Walkabout’ after.  I am not a Harry Hardcore.

In London, I’m staying with the lovely Marianne and her husband Byron.  I hadn’t seen Mary for three-and-a-half years before heading here.  The last time I saw her was in Sydney for a few days in 2006 on my way to Japan.  It’s been great catching up with her and so nice to jump back into easy conversation like no time has passed at all.  Mary and Byron have a brilliant apartment right on the river Thames and I can see ‘The Gherkin’ from the lounge room window.  Mary is also a brilliant cook, so not only am I enjoying being lazy, I am getting all my meals cooked for me.  Don’t worry, I’m not being ungrateful.  Oh, my peppermint tea has arrived.  Time to sign off.

Observations from India

This is my last post from India so I thought I would sum up my experience with some observations I’ve made on Indian life, culture and people.

The moustache is the upper lip adornment of choice for the discerning Indian man.

Should you wish to transport a calf or small cow from point A to point B, the best and easiest way is to throw the animal over the seat of a motorcycle or scooter as to have its legs hanging over each side.  For safety reasons, you should then add a person to the front and rear of the seat to hold the animal in place.  Cows love to ride.  Moo.

Vegetarianism is considered normal.  Finally, I feel like I fit in.

Male public urination is common and can be done facing any direction at any location.

Pre-teen boys  have no come back to the age-old question of “what is your name?” if you tell them your name is Jarvid Miandad or another famous Indian cricket player.

A man should not feel emasculated by riding a pink or purple scooter.  All colours are accepted.  During celebratory times, dress it up even more with tinsel.

Talking loudly on the phone at 4am, chanting at 5am or letting off fireworks at 6.45am are all totally acceptable practices.  Be loud and proud.

Mum, dad, and the kids can all enjoy a ride to the shops on a motorbike. Babies should sit at the front and hold on by leaning forward in a crouching fashion.

It is fun and interesting to see how many people you can fit inside a rickshaw. Extra points are awarded per limb hanging out the side.

There is no recourse of action when  a male youth actions a bicycle drive-by boob grab on your person except to shout “you little f*cker!”

When driving, it is normal to weave erratically between lanes. Should traffic stall or be too slow for the driver’s liking, using the equally busy oncoming lane to get ahead is always a good option.

Don’t look a monkey in the eye, this is a threatening gesture.  Situation will be much worse should you also be carrying bananas at the time.

Indian people are very inquisitive. Your marital status, salary, age and any personal information are all up for questioning.

If you want to post a package in India, allow a few hours to first have your parcel sewn up in cloth by a guy in a back alley.

The cow is king of the road. Traffic will avoid the animals at all costs without a hint of annoyance. The same may not be said for pedestrians.

The gesture of pointing your middle finger straight up in the air in a somewhat menacing fashion is lost on certain irritating Indian youth.  It seems that the concept of ‘up yours’ is not a common Indian expression, unless of course they are talking about “your business” because they are all up in that.

When purchasing cosmetics such as moisturiser, sunscreen and body wash a shopper should expect the attention of four to six sales staff.  Be firm when you tell them you do not want whitening cream, or just look at them with your pasty white face while wearing an “as if I need that” expression.

Expect to pay $A3 a head for a wonderful Indian restaurant meal.  Don’t expect to be told if certain items of your order are unavailable until you enquire as to their whereabouts later.

While surfing the web at an internet café, it is totally acceptable to have music video noise wars with the other customers.  Singing along is also encouraged.

Do not worry if your power gets cut off many times a day.  It will come back on, eventually.

And finally, if you opt to study yoga in India, realise that the advertised “beginners course” is not actually for beginners but those with considerable experience.   Failing this, be prepared to feel the pain.

I came, Mysore, I conquered

It’s all over.  Done and dusted.  On Friday I completed my one month intensive yoga course.  It wasn’t all sunshine and roses, in fact, hardly any of it was.  This was made worse in my final week by me getting really sick.  Wednesday morning I went to class as usual, but once the practice started my stomach was having none of it.  I ran to the bathroom at high speeds a couple of times, not pretty.  I then couldn’t make the next two classes because I was dizzy, sore head, sore throat and all round not good.

Vinay told me this was all part of the process.  Something to do with the glands changing the way they work due to receiving more air through yoga.

Anyway, I’m fine now, feeling like freaking Superwoman, and in Goa!  I just came from lunch with a charming Indian man who owns the pizzeria on Mandrem Beach – where I’m staying – who asked “you wanna have a spliff?”  Because I am a square, I declined.  He then went on to tell me all the reasons why Goa is good, and the rest of India is f*cked.  He likes to swear a lot.

I arrived in Goa on Saturday afternoon and my friend Lalit, who I know through Priya, hooked me up with accommodation at a beach hut.  I was picked up at Goa airport by a lovely man called Sada, who treated me to lots of English pop hits during the drive.  It was a weird time singing ‘Sexy Back’ together as we cruised the lush Goan countryside.

Anyway, my original beach hut accommodation  could have been nice if it weren’t for the dirty sheets, mosquitoes (and no mosquito net) and the mangy dogs that decided to howl at the moon all night last night causing me to get about only three hours sleep.  Thanks to Lalit, I have now relocated accommodations, and am much more suitably placed, as a lady of leisure should be.

Mandrem beach is lovely and there’s hardly anyone here.  My new place has a balcony that overlooks the beach and is there anyone on it?  No.  I will attempt a beach expedition tomorrow, but must remember to slip, slop, slap…. so basically hide my pasty white flesh from the sun or face the lobster-like consequences.

As far as Goa goes, it is nothing like the India I came to know in Mysore.  Everyone here is very chill and there is no staring/leering which  I love.  I wish I had more time to spend here but unfortunately I’m off early on Tuesday morning for the cold climes of London.  Jules has advised me that it is bloody cold.  I am not sure I am ready for it – especially clothes-wise.  My suitcase has already put on 2kgs in weight somehow and I even offloaded stuff in Mysore (go figure)!  Am going to have to be ruthless.

Just like a circus

I finally made it to the circus! It was my first one ever.  I liked it mostly.  There wasn’t too much animal cruelty as most of the show relied on the talents of the performers.

After being in India for a wee while now, it was weird to see so many people of different ethnicities performing.  There was the (what I imagine were) Ukrainian, or at least Eastern European family, who threw their son in the air with what seemed like reckless abandon.  Two blonde nephews, both with mullets and the mother wearing heavy eye make up and no smile, ever.  Really, Eastern Europeans are not known for their amiable demeanours.

Then we had the African dancers/yoga maniacs.  These dudes were all muscle and so unbelievably strong.  After doing hard-core yoga for nearly a month, I really appreciated their abilities.  At one point from our “first class” (read: plastic chairs near the front, sat on dirt) seats, Priya turned to me and said, “are those Africans flirting with us?”  I said, “I dunno, I thought I was just imagining it”.  “You’re not imagining it”, she said “I think we’re the only blondes in this whole tent”.

There were scary clowns, and midgets – which I’m not sure is politically correct – a girl who could do amazing things on a bicycle, plus elephants, pelicans, dogs, birds and camels (oh my!)

When they brought out an elephant with a cricket bat that was hitting soccer balls into the crowd, Priya and I wondered whether this was a good idea.

The final act of the show was a high-wire scenario where the acrobats were supported from falling head-first to the ground by some very dubious, and quickly assembled netting.  The overall safety standards of the show were highly suss.

So that was the circus.  As for yoga, not long now my pretties!  Only three-and-a-half days.  The unnerving thing is now that Jo is gone, my back-bending night classes are down to just me and Vinay.  I fear for my life.  He is going to kill me.

Diwali

Late last week, what I thought was a new shanty town began construction on the corner of the street where my yoga shala is.  “Oh wonderful” I thought, another shanty town to compete with the already established shanty town infested with beggars on the opposite side of the street.  I have learnt to avoid that side of the street because the woman who lives there with her 200 children is always harassing me for money.  Anyway, getting to the point, the sheds were not to house Mysore’s depraved, but to sell masses of fireworks.

Then comes Saturday morning.  The one day off I am guaranteed all week where I don’t have to rise at 6.30am to attend yoga classes where I get bitch-slapped sideways.  So, I was lying in bed – asleep – enjoying my down time when, at 6.45am the fireworks started.

Yep, 6.45am.  The Indians were letting off fireworks when it was light outside.  Now people, what is the first rule of fireworks? That’s right, you let them off when it’s dark. Well, apparently not.  There are other rules to do with fireworks too, like standing back after you light them, and not putting them in animals arses, but that’s a lesson for another time.

The locals seem most keen on ones which make loud bangs – like gunshots, or cars backfiring.  Seriously, I thought I had woken up in Baghdad this morning.  In fact, as I sit here in my internet bunker, I’m hearing what sounds like sniper fire outside.  It’s all a bit Chk-Chk Boom really.

Lakshmi, the goddess of sleep disturbance.

The uproar is all in celebration of yet another Indian festival, this one being Diwali.  Diwali celebrates Lakshmi, the goddess of light and wealth and I guess the fireworks are meant to encourage the goddess into the house.  Run Lakshmi, run.  These people are crazy.

To add insult to injury, in the midst of the firework debacle, the man selling apples decided to holler as he walked around the neighbourhood.   Then of course there is the constant noise of monkeys screeching, cars tooting and cows mooing.

After about an hour of cursing loudly at no one in particular with pillows over each of my ears, I decided that when in India, do as the Indians do.  So, I plugged my laptop into my massive speakers, opened itunes, turned up the volume to its loudest point and added the Pussycat Dolls to the chorus of the neighbourhood.  Jai Ho feckers!

Parb!

Well, I guess it had to happen.  Wait, let me rephrase that – I guess it had to happen… to me.

It was a normal yoga class, and we were doing the abdominal series of exercises when, from out of my butt and totally unannounced came a distinct sound, the likes of which Dirty Bertie would be proud.

Dirty Bertie, a wonderful children's book about, well, farting.

OK, before you all start thinking it was a massive potato and gravy type squelchy fart noise, let me put you straight.  It was a short, sharp and not at all loud, PARB!

You know when stuff like this happens and you think, “maybe it was quiet enough that only I heard it” so you look around the room to check?  I looked over the other side of the room at Priya and her face was red and contorted into muffled laughter while balancing her legs and arms in the air, doing the upper ab workout pose.

So, everyone heard it.  Thankfully I guess, everyone else in the class chose to ignore it.  But I couldn’t.  I started laughing so loud, then I couldn’t complete the rest of the postures because I was rolling around on the floor (literally), laughing at myself.

I must say, it brought me great entertainment to an otherwise regular (but still mega intense) yoga class.

Better out than in I guess.

In other less disgusting news, my friend Jo finishes classes tomorrow.  I will be very sad to see her go as she was my first proper friend in Mysore and she helped me out with heaps of stuff.  She’s also the star of the class, is mega buff and puts the rest of us to shame.  Bye bye lovely Johanna.

DISCLAIMER

It has come to my attention that certain people of the parental persuasion may be reading my blog who are not within the target audience.  I thought about stopping blogging, but that’s just stupid.  I thought about censoring my thoughts, but again, when have I ever done that?  So, mum and dad, if you are going to continue to read, be prepared to read things you might not find “appropriate”.  The next post will test your conservative and polite sensibilities.

Also, mum, this means that you now have pretty much full disclosure of my trip and will no longer feel the need to ask me a thousand questions when I return to Wellington.  Having read this, you already know far too much anyway.

Sincerely

Your daughter.

Mega Hardcore

I hate to tell you all, but going to the circus didn’t happen.  It was an arse-sweltering day and none of us felt the desire to sit in a big tent and die of heat exhaustion.

So, instead there was lots of food eaten and I discovered my new favourite restaurant in Mysore.  Going against the grain, their speciality is North Indian curries – the type of which I am more accustomed – and I got myself a very delicious aloo gobi.  Mmmmm, gobilicious.

Christine Marinoni and Cynthia Nixon

I haven’t been doing much of anything else except yoga.  Last night I couldn’t sleep because I dreamed that I was being Facebook stalked by Cynthia Nixon’s ginga gay lover.  It was mightily terrifying, have you seen the face on this wo/man?

This week is my first full six-day week of yoga.  On Monday, Vinay (the yogi) decides to up the tempo of the class and went all mega hardcore on us (as opposed to just his usual hardcore).  There are only four of us in the morning class at the moment and the only person who seemed able to keep up was Jo who has been here the longest and is also a part-time yoga instructor from Hawaii.  By the time classes were over on Monday I felt like I’d been bitch slapped sideways and I have somehow pulled an arse muscle… apparently it’s possible.

My other classmates are Perry from Colorado, who has lots of semi-ging curly hair + beard and Priya, the Indian loving hypnotist who lived in India for four years before she was told she had to go back to Holland for six months before they’d let her in again.  I love Priya.  This is not her real name by the way, she was given this Indian name by a guru sometime after a voice in her head told her to go to the polluted Ganges river and dunk her head underwater three times.  She’s a crazy hippy after my own heart (if I was a crazy hippy).

The Unfriendly Foreigner

Put on a t-shirt and shorts you jackass.

There’s this chick who I see around Mysore who really bugs me.  The first time I saw her at the grocery store, I gave her a little smile, which was met with a cold, blank stare.  The second time I saw her, at a cafe, same thing.  She wears Indian style clothes but is so not Indian.  She’s one of those foreigners who think they are too immersed in their own little cultural experience to bother acknowledging another foreigner.

I saw her again at the internet cafe on Wednesday.  Same situation.  She looks like a freaking jackass too with all her Indian attire on.  Nice clothes but the sour expression does nothing for the ensemble as a whole.

I’ve come across such unfriendly foreigners before.  They think that because they’ve been in a place a long time, they are practically native.  They can’t be bothered wasting time with freshies like me who remind them that they are not what they think they are.

I, on the other hand, am always friendly.  I even enthusiastically waved at this girl on a scooter the other day cos I thought I knew her.  Nup, total stranger.  Oh well.

Tomorrow I’m off to an Indian Circus!  Should be interesting, if not a giant display of animal cruelty.  Will let you know.