Four disheveled travelers climb out of the Jeep taxi from Manali and ignoring the locals' advice to just walk into town, we heave our bags onto 2 auto rickshaws to drive us there. 15 seconds later, we arrive at our hotel. Next morning, we set out to explore MacLeod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama, many other exiled Tibetan refugees and countless foriegn hippies who just can't seem to leave. Dalai's temple is full of monks in maroon robes and shaved heads, who you see all over town talking on cell phones and eating at nice restaurants. The rooms inside the temple have these ornate Buddha decorations interspresed with earthly offerings on display such as Oreos, packaged soup mix, biscuits and other cheap general store staples that alter the mood of the shrine from holy to kitschy. The temple also has these giant bronze prayer wheels that you get to spin in a row as you walk by. Almost like the big wheel people spin to get to the Showcase Showdown on the Price is Right, except these spin horizontally and have Tibetan symbols instead of dollar signs. More people at the temple tried to take pictures of us than vice versa.
Later, Beau & I attended a yoga session where the teacher was singing all the parts of the body and telling us to relax our kidney, however one does that. Beau boycotted the cooking lesson later that evening. Michelle, Lija and I showed up to class, which turned out ot be run by a couple of Tibetan refugees in their ratty apartment. They didn't seem particularly prepared or qualified to run a cooking course. Like, for example, they only had 1 knife. And they'd run off to go cook something without showing us. Nevertheless, we shredded carrots and potatoes by candlelight (as the power kept cutting off) and watched as they pointed and laughed at our poorly formed momos (dumplings) that tasted really bland, by the way. I kept trying to talk about Tibet, their families there, when they are going back as Lija is elbowing me, whispering: "Spred, shhhh. They are refugees, they aren't allowed to go back!"
Soon, it became time for us to return to hellhole Delhi so Lija could catch her flight. Michelle stayed behind, missing the absolutely insane rollercoaster "luxury" bus ride back. As we careened down almost vertical drops against a cliff, I was almost certain the driver was drunk and that the brakes must have failed. I had to push so hard against the footrest not to fly forward that my legs were sore the next morning. Instead of doing any sightseeing whatsoever with our remaining time in Delhi, Beau, Lija and I stayed glued to the pool at the Sheraton for the entire day, only leaving for our last dinner (which was brought out on flaming swords). In fact, on the comments card after the meal, I requested "more flaming swords", to which the manager chased after me as we were leaving to find out exactly what I meant.
With Lija and Michelle gone, it became time for Beau and I to continue fumbling through India just the two of us...
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Manali
Manali is the town where all the hippie stoners go to smoke charras all day, wear parachute pants (the ones where the crotch area falls below the knee), eat German baked goods and do yoga on rooftops. Michelle, Lija, Beau and I arrive in the pouring rain and huddle into this tiny little restaurant with pillows on the floor. Soon, more patrons enter the restaurant, each one more hippified than the next. Israelis smoking out of a marble pipe shaped like a snake, a few Brits decked head-to-toe in hand woven Tibetan garb with ridiculous hats, some robed white guy with his head completely shaved except for a thick tail of hair on the nape of his neck, one fully dreadlocked, shoeless white rastafarian eating a large bowl of spaghetti and talking to no one. The four of us in our Patagonia outerwear and Nike sneakers, asking where we can buy charras, do not quite fit in. Turns out one can buy charras at the laundromat, the chai stand, the convenience store, in fact, you might be hard-pressed to find a place in Manali that does not sell charras.
We wake the next morning to absolutely beautiful weather and Manali is becoming heaven. Even the street dogs are cute and fluffy. All the souvenir shops lining the streets actually sell awesome stuff, like $5 stylish coats they stitch to fit you perfectly on the spot. Views are spectacular. Bedazzled yaks roam the streets. Food is deliciously non-Indian.
After all this eating, smoking, sitting around doing nothing, we decide we are in dire need of full body massages. We step into the little ramshackle parlor and all goes downhill from there. The temperature in the room is ice cold. The masseur is slathering cold oil on my goosebumped skin and like, swishing her hands back and forth quite rapidly. Thunderous construction noises ensue right outside. There is a fly buzzing around my face the majority of the time. Michelle chose the fancy massage option, which included getting about 5 gallons of warm oil poured down her head. I think her choice was better than ours, until we get back to the room and realize there is no hot water. We are all a bit greasy...Michelle is like slick, shiny and probably highly flammable. Having to wait for showers, we decide to eat lunch at our hotel and give the Indian food a try. A few hours later, Beau & I are in a bad, bad way. The food poisoning lasts about 24 hours, our newfound hatred of chicken tikka masala will probably last a lifetime.
Amazingly, we manage the long (gorgeous) ride through the Kulu valley to Dharamsala without projectile vomiting out the car window. Dalai Lama, here we come.
We wake the next morning to absolutely beautiful weather and Manali is becoming heaven. Even the street dogs are cute and fluffy. All the souvenir shops lining the streets actually sell awesome stuff, like $5 stylish coats they stitch to fit you perfectly on the spot. Views are spectacular. Bedazzled yaks roam the streets. Food is deliciously non-Indian.
After all this eating, smoking, sitting around doing nothing, we decide we are in dire need of full body massages. We step into the little ramshackle parlor and all goes downhill from there. The temperature in the room is ice cold. The masseur is slathering cold oil on my goosebumped skin and like, swishing her hands back and forth quite rapidly. Thunderous construction noises ensue right outside. There is a fly buzzing around my face the majority of the time. Michelle chose the fancy massage option, which included getting about 5 gallons of warm oil poured down her head. I think her choice was better than ours, until we get back to the room and realize there is no hot water. We are all a bit greasy...Michelle is like slick, shiny and probably highly flammable. Having to wait for showers, we decide to eat lunch at our hotel and give the Indian food a try. A few hours later, Beau & I are in a bad, bad way. The food poisoning lasts about 24 hours, our newfound hatred of chicken tikka masala will probably last a lifetime.
Amazingly, we manage the long (gorgeous) ride through the Kulu valley to Dharamsala without projectile vomiting out the car window. Dalai Lama, here we come.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Indian Rug Burn
Beau and I make it to Delhi just in time to pick up Lija from the airport, who had enough Starwood points to get us into one of the most posh hotels in Delhi...the Sheraton! I promised Lija I would plan the most amazing vacation for us. Once she arrives, I can tell she's suspicious of the fact I've done next to no planning and have nothing booked. Despite that, I manage to get us to the Taj Mahal pretty comfortably. After a minor temper tantrum at the front gate because they won't let us bring in Lija's nut mix, we are slipping on our little white booties over our shoes and feasting our eyes on one of the 7 wonders of the world and the symbol of love. Slightly ruined by the fact that Beau & I are bickering and the stone inlay on the building is supposed to glow at sunrise (which is why we woke up at 5am) but it is too overcast so we are all a little bummed. Once we leave the Taj, my lack of planning really sets in when we realize our only way back to Delhi at a reasonable hour is sitting in the lowest class on the train. We're squeezing into this cattle car, with a million people already inside, all telling us we're in the wrong section. "Only for locals!" I try to assure them that yes, unfortunately we are in the right section. Beau & Lija have to climb up and sit in what appears to be the luggage rack, while I am stuck down below, sharing a bench that is meant for 3 people with literally 10 people, one of which is sleeping on me. We finally arrive in Delhi about 4 hours later than I was hoping, which makes our connection onto Manali (which I haven't yet booked) next to impossible. Especially considering we have another friend (my friend Michelle from Seattle) waiting for us at the Smyle Inn in Delhi.
To top it all off, Delhi is literally a sauna. Even the breezes feel like a hot engine blowing your skin off. And when carrying a 50 lb. backpack down Pahar Ganj main bazaar, with people up in your face trying to sell cheap sunglasses, searching for the Smyle Inn, any opportunity to get the hell out of Delhi ASAP sounds like a good one. So when the smylie man at the front desk of Michelle's hostel told us we could easily hop on the next luxury bus to Manali, leaving in just an hour, we were so relieved, we threw our money at him and followed his lackey all the way to the Old Delhi railway station, where we sat down in the middle next to a "spiderman", crusty homeless guys laying in their own piss and other such company, waiting for the lackey to fetch us our tix for the 6pm bus. And when he hasn't returned by 5:55, we all look at eachother and realize what a bunch of fools we are! At 6:10 or so, lackey actually shows up and tells us just wait 5 more minutes, the bus is late. This time, Beau follows him around like a hawk and he finally motions us over to our bus...a piece of shit, dilapidated government bus. No air conditioning, seats falling apart, petty theft practically a given.
Up until this point, I've been the psycho stress ball on the trip, flipping my shit every time a taxi driver tries to overcharge us by 50 cents. This time, its Beau's turn. He corners the lackey on the bus so he can't run away, and yells in his face "This is bullshit! We each paid 900 rupees for a luxury bus with air conditioning!" Beau grabs the tickets out of his hand and finds out the bus we're about to ride only cost 350 rupees each, and the luxury bus left 30 minutes ago. Lackey won't refund us our money, but Beau won't give up and forces him to give up his cell phone. Shitty bus engine revs up and we reluctantly take our seats, waving the cell phone at the lackey, who is standing on the curb claiming he doesn't have the money to refund us and begging for at least his sim card back. Shitty bus takes off and we depart with the lackey's phone, clutching our luggage and popping Ambien for the 16 hour bus ride from hell. I can tell at this point everyone is steaming at my lack of planning. Lija is visibly miserable. Lackey's phone keeps ringing. I literally shove the bus conductor guy for trying to make me move Beau's huge backpack out of the center aisle.
We finally get to Manali and its pouring rain. But don't worry, it starts to get better...
To top it all off, Delhi is literally a sauna. Even the breezes feel like a hot engine blowing your skin off. And when carrying a 50 lb. backpack down Pahar Ganj main bazaar, with people up in your face trying to sell cheap sunglasses, searching for the Smyle Inn, any opportunity to get the hell out of Delhi ASAP sounds like a good one. So when the smylie man at the front desk of Michelle's hostel told us we could easily hop on the next luxury bus to Manali, leaving in just an hour, we were so relieved, we threw our money at him and followed his lackey all the way to the Old Delhi railway station, where we sat down in the middle next to a "spiderman", crusty homeless guys laying in their own piss and other such company, waiting for the lackey to fetch us our tix for the 6pm bus. And when he hasn't returned by 5:55, we all look at eachother and realize what a bunch of fools we are! At 6:10 or so, lackey actually shows up and tells us just wait 5 more minutes, the bus is late. This time, Beau follows him around like a hawk and he finally motions us over to our bus...a piece of shit, dilapidated government bus. No air conditioning, seats falling apart, petty theft practically a given.
Up until this point, I've been the psycho stress ball on the trip, flipping my shit every time a taxi driver tries to overcharge us by 50 cents. This time, its Beau's turn. He corners the lackey on the bus so he can't run away, and yells in his face "This is bullshit! We each paid 900 rupees for a luxury bus with air conditioning!" Beau grabs the tickets out of his hand and finds out the bus we're about to ride only cost 350 rupees each, and the luxury bus left 30 minutes ago. Lackey won't refund us our money, but Beau won't give up and forces him to give up his cell phone. Shitty bus engine revs up and we reluctantly take our seats, waving the cell phone at the lackey, who is standing on the curb claiming he doesn't have the money to refund us and begging for at least his sim card back. Shitty bus takes off and we depart with the lackey's phone, clutching our luggage and popping Ambien for the 16 hour bus ride from hell. I can tell at this point everyone is steaming at my lack of planning. Lija is visibly miserable. Lackey's phone keeps ringing. I literally shove the bus conductor guy for trying to make me move Beau's huge backpack out of the center aisle.
We finally get to Manali and its pouring rain. But don't worry, it starts to get better...
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Goodbye Koraput, Hello Beau
The moment finally arrived - the end of my placement and the arrival of Beau to India! I wake up at 4am for the 5-hour drive to Visakhpatnam, where I have about 8 hours to kill before Beau's flight gets in. I go to this fancy salon for an ayurvedic facial and emerge with some kind of skin rash. I'm sweating bullets and hop into this insanely overpriced taxi to the airport, where I scream at the taxi driver for about 30 minutes and try to pay him with torn rupees. Beau's flight is miraculously only 10 nail-biting minutes late and we start making out in public (which I think is a federal crime in India for un-married couples). We arrange for a legit, pre-paid taxi and I learn the price of my ride over actually was right. Oops. The next day we make our way to Koraput on this slow government bus, with people hanging off the top and cows speeding ahead of us.
In Koraput, Beau gets to experience all the interesting and annoying things I've sort of taken for granted, including waking up at 6am for a trip to the field, only to discover that no one is ready to take you there until 4pm. Or the obligatory visits to everyone's home, stuffing you to the brim with bony meat dishes and lukewarm lentils. And the bright green paddy fields that stand out against the deep red dirt. And the pooris for breakfast, which are big puffed up round doughboy-ish things.
My going away party was epic, with jello shots, homemade chicken pakoras, ridiculous dancing and one of the girls from the office getting too drunk (again). When it was finally time to pack before an early wake-up call, we lost all power. In the pitch black, I tried to search around my apartment with a candle deciding whether or keep or toss items like my large rotating dolphin light, girl & dog figurine, tribal saree, dirty baskets, etc. I pretty much got rid of everything except this one frying pan that has been quite annoying to lug around Manali and Dharamsala. More to come on those adventures, stay tuned...
In Koraput, Beau gets to experience all the interesting and annoying things I've sort of taken for granted, including waking up at 6am for a trip to the field, only to discover that no one is ready to take you there until 4pm. Or the obligatory visits to everyone's home, stuffing you to the brim with bony meat dishes and lukewarm lentils. And the bright green paddy fields that stand out against the deep red dirt. And the pooris for breakfast, which are big puffed up round doughboy-ish things.
My going away party was epic, with jello shots, homemade chicken pakoras, ridiculous dancing and one of the girls from the office getting too drunk (again). When it was finally time to pack before an early wake-up call, we lost all power. In the pitch black, I tried to search around my apartment with a candle deciding whether or keep or toss items like my large rotating dolphin light, girl & dog figurine, tribal saree, dirty baskets, etc. I pretty much got rid of everything except this one frying pan that has been quite annoying to lug around Manali and Dharamsala. More to come on those adventures, stay tuned...
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Ohhhmmmm-y God
I always thought of yoga as a way to reach the ultimate zen, where all your stresses disappear. I decided to become the hard-core Zen-master by attending 5am yoga every morning for the past 2 weeks. I've dragged my ass out of bed to head over to the Ram temple when its still dark outside. There are about 10 middle-aged men and women who are regulars, sitting Indian-style on 2 separate sides of the room, doing deep belly breathing when I arrive. I join in to find everyone quick to point out what I'm doing wrong, even when I'm doing nothing wrong at all. I try to relax, but can't stop wondering why we are still breathing through alternating nostrils for 20 minutes straight. I keep checking the clock, which is on the wall next to countless tacky Hindu posters with cartoon gods, except for 1 poster of Sai Baba, this orange-robed Indian guy with a Jew-fro who looks like a motivational speaker and taunts me all through class. Anyway, the teacher keeps repeating, "Always smiling face...Always smiling face..." and I sort of want to sock him.
Then we come to the pose that is 'only for gents,' where the ladies have to wait by laying down on our stomachs with our elbows on the ground, cupping our heads in our hands like we're 1950's pin-up dolls. I can't take it. So I start to do the 'man pose,' prove to them that women can do anything! They all point at me and yell, "Gents only! Gents only!" I hold the pose as long as possible and then sink into defeat, fuming, mind racing. Perhaps I should get up and just walk out! Or maybe keep coming to class and doing the man pose every time and see what they do. Or maybe after class I should go home and do the damn pose for at least an hour! How dare they tell me what I can or cannot do?? Finally after class I confront this sexist yoga teacher and ask him WHY that pose is only for gents. He replies, "Because it is not good for the ovaries."
The more yoga I do, the more irritable I become. In class the next day, I nonchalantly grab a spot on the men's side of the room. They all stare and start pointing and yelling 'Your side! Your side! Move to YOUR side!' I reply, "NO." They give up and continue stretching. I'm feeling quite smug...but still irritable. Later that day, I'm sitting on a bus with an extremely horn-happy driver. The honking is giving me a splitting headache, not to mention there is a woman standing next to me holding a chicken about 2 cm away from my face and laughing. I start yelling, to no one in particular, "Stop hoking the god damned horn! You are a HUGE fucking bus! People can see you from miles away! They all know you're here! Enough with the horn! Horn, NO. Horn, NO!" This tactic yields zero results.
Back at the office, it is 5pm and a couple coworkers ask me to help design their annual report...due in 1 hour. Typical. I tell them I will only work on it if they sit with me so they can learn what I'm doing. Reluctantly, one agrees. He pretends to pay attention for a while, but then starts trying to rush me, saying he needs to leave at 5:30. We don't finish by then, since the so-called 'annual report' is comprised of 7 separate nonsensical documents, none of which utilize any helpful formatting techniques, such as PARAGRAPHS. My coworker asks if I'll just finish it without him and send it to the Secretary. To which I reply, "NO!" The other guy walks in from probably a power nap and a fat cup of chai and asks if we're finished yet. To which I reply, "NO." I get the hell out of the office, fall fast asleep at 8pm and 12 hours later, I wake up relieved to have slept through morning yoga and finally feeling at peace.
Then we come to the pose that is 'only for gents,' where the ladies have to wait by laying down on our stomachs with our elbows on the ground, cupping our heads in our hands like we're 1950's pin-up dolls. I can't take it. So I start to do the 'man pose,' prove to them that women can do anything! They all point at me and yell, "Gents only! Gents only!" I hold the pose as long as possible and then sink into defeat, fuming, mind racing. Perhaps I should get up and just walk out! Or maybe keep coming to class and doing the man pose every time and see what they do. Or maybe after class I should go home and do the damn pose for at least an hour! How dare they tell me what I can or cannot do?? Finally after class I confront this sexist yoga teacher and ask him WHY that pose is only for gents. He replies, "Because it is not good for the ovaries."
The more yoga I do, the more irritable I become. In class the next day, I nonchalantly grab a spot on the men's side of the room. They all stare and start pointing and yelling 'Your side! Your side! Move to YOUR side!' I reply, "NO." They give up and continue stretching. I'm feeling quite smug...but still irritable. Later that day, I'm sitting on a bus with an extremely horn-happy driver. The honking is giving me a splitting headache, not to mention there is a woman standing next to me holding a chicken about 2 cm away from my face and laughing. I start yelling, to no one in particular, "Stop hoking the god damned horn! You are a HUGE fucking bus! People can see you from miles away! They all know you're here! Enough with the horn! Horn, NO. Horn, NO!" This tactic yields zero results.
Back at the office, it is 5pm and a couple coworkers ask me to help design their annual report...due in 1 hour. Typical. I tell them I will only work on it if they sit with me so they can learn what I'm doing. Reluctantly, one agrees. He pretends to pay attention for a while, but then starts trying to rush me, saying he needs to leave at 5:30. We don't finish by then, since the so-called 'annual report' is comprised of 7 separate nonsensical documents, none of which utilize any helpful formatting techniques, such as PARAGRAPHS. My coworker asks if I'll just finish it without him and send it to the Secretary. To which I reply, "NO!" The other guy walks in from probably a power nap and a fat cup of chai and asks if we're finished yet. To which I reply, "NO." I get the hell out of the office, fall fast asleep at 8pm and 12 hours later, I wake up relieved to have slept through morning yoga and finally feeling at peace.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Oohs, Ahhs and Ouches in Puri
Puri is a religious beach town and home of Lord Jagganath, the Hindu God that looks a lot like a South Park character. It also has a lot of foreign tourists, espresso and legal marijuana. Obviously the ideal choice for a weekend get-away.
Ali & I boarded the 14-hour train and 1-hour bus ride and arrived on Saturday afternoon. First, we ordered beers in this restaurant with a garden courtyard. Beers in public! Ahh! We kept spotting white tourists and couldn’t help but stare. I kept smiling at them and trying to get them to talk to us but none were taking the bait. It seemed all the other foreigners (dreadlocked, barefoot, dazed and confused) were there to get ‘immersed’ in India and ignore our invitations to sit at our table.
We did manage to befriend Sabir, a Kashmiri who worked in one of the antique shops and was dating a French girl named Eva. The four of us hung out every night, eating gigantic prawns, pizza and making mojitos on their rooftop.
They recommended we go to ‘Madustan Healing Center’ for the best massage in Puri. It took us forever to find and it looked like some sort of shut-down prison. We entered and walked in on the middle of a ‘laughing yoga’ session. Indian gurus, foreign hippies and children were sitting on mats with self-induced hysterical laughter. Ali & I were sort of hiding in the corner, feeling really awkward and not sure whether to stay or leave. After the yoga was over, we tried to inquire about massages but it was really weird and the guy said we could come back tomorrow for an appointment with the famous acupressure doctor.
So we left and instead went to this ‘unofficial’ massage parlor, where this man and his wife were doing discount oil massages in this really shady hotel. It seemed pretty sketchy at first, I had to lie down on this hotel bed that was flush against the wall in this dingy little room. But soon I forgot where I was as the wife started kneading my feet and calves. She was incredible. Then she proceeded upward. I won’t go into details. Lets just say she massaged literally every square inch of my body. It was a bit odd. I booked an appointment for another one the next day.
Other adventures include our trip to Konark, home of the Sun Temple and supposedly the birthplace of Kama Sutra. After an hours worth of bargaining with 4 different gatekeepers to let us in for the Indian price of 10 rupees (versus the 250 rupee fee for foreigners), I finally succeeded…I am my mother’s daughter after all. The Sun Temple had these carvings all over it and if you look closely, you see all these erotic scenes – like orgies of men, women and children. Blowjobs, handjobs, men doing it while holding the woman upside-down. Two men embracing each other while 2 women where on their knees blowing them. A pretty ridiculous contrast to the sexual repression and conservatism in today’s India.
Back in Puri, we returned to Madustan to get in on the yoga, acupressure and hopefully score that famous massage. The yoga session started with standing on these wooden boards with spikes. It killed. People started actually jumping up and down on the spikes. It seemed like the torture would never end. Then there was some chanting and afterward, animalistic growling. Then we had to walk around in circles with our fingers on our nostrils blowing out snot. Before we got to the laughing part, the doctor was ready for our acupressure session. I thought the wooden spikes hurt until I had acupressure. They were pressing so hard, cracking, bending. I was worried they were going to break something. Then the doctor starts pulverizing every section of my hand, asking which sections hurt. Everything hurt. And each section of the hand apparently reveals the status of a different area in your body, like the tip of your pinky finger is your kidney, and the skin between your thumb and forefinger is your pituitary gland, etc. etc. Soon the doctor uncovered what is wrong with me…I am not a vegetarian. He proceeded to imitate a goat, bah-ing sweetly, and then made gestures that he was getting his throat slit and started screaming and crying like a wounded goat. He warned me to never eat goat, egg or fish again and my health would be restored. That lasted for about 4 hours until I had fish curry for dinner.
On our last day, Ali & I went for a swim in the Bay of Bengal. We tried to avoid the section where the men defecate in the water. I had to go in with all my clothes on because none of the women in Puri wear bathing suits. It didn’t matter though, the water was the perfect temperature and felt so good since it was scorching hot outside. (Sorry for wearing your clothes in the water, Ashley. And sorry I keep wearing this damn outfit every day.)
Heading back to Koraput, we tried to measure our expectations for the trip against the outcomes. We didn’t get to have many exciting new conversations with Westerners, but we did have quite a few drunken rambles with each other, one revealing Ali’s desire to give people true happiness by washing their feet. We didn’t do any all-night bonfire dancing ragers on the beach, but we did do some bizarre moves with the morning yoga crowd. And last, Ali didn’t get to make-out with an Indian girl like he was hoping, but he did get his ass felt by a male masseuse.
Ali & I boarded the 14-hour train and 1-hour bus ride and arrived on Saturday afternoon. First, we ordered beers in this restaurant with a garden courtyard. Beers in public! Ahh! We kept spotting white tourists and couldn’t help but stare. I kept smiling at them and trying to get them to talk to us but none were taking the bait. It seemed all the other foreigners (dreadlocked, barefoot, dazed and confused) were there to get ‘immersed’ in India and ignore our invitations to sit at our table.
We did manage to befriend Sabir, a Kashmiri who worked in one of the antique shops and was dating a French girl named Eva. The four of us hung out every night, eating gigantic prawns, pizza and making mojitos on their rooftop.
They recommended we go to ‘Madustan Healing Center’ for the best massage in Puri. It took us forever to find and it looked like some sort of shut-down prison. We entered and walked in on the middle of a ‘laughing yoga’ session. Indian gurus, foreign hippies and children were sitting on mats with self-induced hysterical laughter. Ali & I were sort of hiding in the corner, feeling really awkward and not sure whether to stay or leave. After the yoga was over, we tried to inquire about massages but it was really weird and the guy said we could come back tomorrow for an appointment with the famous acupressure doctor.
So we left and instead went to this ‘unofficial’ massage parlor, where this man and his wife were doing discount oil massages in this really shady hotel. It seemed pretty sketchy at first, I had to lie down on this hotel bed that was flush against the wall in this dingy little room. But soon I forgot where I was as the wife started kneading my feet and calves. She was incredible. Then she proceeded upward. I won’t go into details. Lets just say she massaged literally every square inch of my body. It was a bit odd. I booked an appointment for another one the next day.
Other adventures include our trip to Konark, home of the Sun Temple and supposedly the birthplace of Kama Sutra. After an hours worth of bargaining with 4 different gatekeepers to let us in for the Indian price of 10 rupees (versus the 250 rupee fee for foreigners), I finally succeeded…I am my mother’s daughter after all. The Sun Temple had these carvings all over it and if you look closely, you see all these erotic scenes – like orgies of men, women and children. Blowjobs, handjobs, men doing it while holding the woman upside-down. Two men embracing each other while 2 women where on their knees blowing them. A pretty ridiculous contrast to the sexual repression and conservatism in today’s India.
Back in Puri, we returned to Madustan to get in on the yoga, acupressure and hopefully score that famous massage. The yoga session started with standing on these wooden boards with spikes. It killed. People started actually jumping up and down on the spikes. It seemed like the torture would never end. Then there was some chanting and afterward, animalistic growling. Then we had to walk around in circles with our fingers on our nostrils blowing out snot. Before we got to the laughing part, the doctor was ready for our acupressure session. I thought the wooden spikes hurt until I had acupressure. They were pressing so hard, cracking, bending. I was worried they were going to break something. Then the doctor starts pulverizing every section of my hand, asking which sections hurt. Everything hurt. And each section of the hand apparently reveals the status of a different area in your body, like the tip of your pinky finger is your kidney, and the skin between your thumb and forefinger is your pituitary gland, etc. etc. Soon the doctor uncovered what is wrong with me…I am not a vegetarian. He proceeded to imitate a goat, bah-ing sweetly, and then made gestures that he was getting his throat slit and started screaming and crying like a wounded goat. He warned me to never eat goat, egg or fish again and my health would be restored. That lasted for about 4 hours until I had fish curry for dinner.
On our last day, Ali & I went for a swim in the Bay of Bengal. We tried to avoid the section where the men defecate in the water. I had to go in with all my clothes on because none of the women in Puri wear bathing suits. It didn’t matter though, the water was the perfect temperature and felt so good since it was scorching hot outside. (Sorry for wearing your clothes in the water, Ashley. And sorry I keep wearing this damn outfit every day.)
Heading back to Koraput, we tried to measure our expectations for the trip against the outcomes. We didn’t get to have many exciting new conversations with Westerners, but we did have quite a few drunken rambles with each other, one revealing Ali’s desire to give people true happiness by washing their feet. We didn’t do any all-night bonfire dancing ragers on the beach, but we did do some bizarre moves with the morning yoga crowd. And last, Ali didn’t get to make-out with an Indian girl like he was hoping, but he did get his ass felt by a male masseuse.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Girl Next Door
I'm the most popular kid on Rangbalikhumbha Road. I don't know how this happened but all the neighborhood children gather around my house and wait for me to come home every night from work yelling 'Debbie deedee!' as soon as I pull up. Last Sunday (my only day off) I was doing some much-needed sleeping in, when hordes of them started banging on my gates screaming 'Debbie deedee!!! Debbie deedeee!!' Over and over again until I grumpily got out of bed. We played Snakes & Ladders, Caram board (this Indian game that is sort of a cross between pool and checkers) and this lame card game where each person is dealt one card and the winner has the highest card. When there is a tie, everyone just shrugs and looks at me as if I'm supposed to know what to do. The little boy named, "Honey" is the biggest cheater I ever met in my life and he starts crying whenever he's not winning. I started teaching them poker but they all had to leave for lunch. I feel sort of like an unpaid babysitter. They are pretty cute though.
Another hoodrat is Kalyani, a bit closer to me in age (19 years old). She and her mother accost me every time I pass by their house, insisting I come in for some chai and rock-hard bread. Their house is also a bread factory but for some reason they keep giving me the stale bread instead of the fresh bread. I went there last night for dinner and brought my sketch pad to do their portraits. I was about to start drawing and couldn't find the rubber eraser I'd brought with me. I'm feeling around the bed (which doubles as a couch) asking if anyone's seen my rubber. Kalyani flips through my sketchbook and finds a condom I had tucked in there that I got as a gift at Burning Man. That was awkward.
Then they seat me in the special chair and serve me dinner and watch me eat. We put the TV on and I was so excited because 'Darjeeling Limited' was playing on Star Movies. We are watching and I'm trying to explain the plot to them when suddenly, the scene in the movie is showing one of the Americans having sex with an Indian woman in the train bathroom. Kalyani turns beat red, her mother looks confused and before I know it, movie is shut off and we are watching a horrendously cheesy DVD of the latest family marriage.
Another hoodrat is Kalyani, a bit closer to me in age (19 years old). She and her mother accost me every time I pass by their house, insisting I come in for some chai and rock-hard bread. Their house is also a bread factory but for some reason they keep giving me the stale bread instead of the fresh bread. I went there last night for dinner and brought my sketch pad to do their portraits. I was about to start drawing and couldn't find the rubber eraser I'd brought with me. I'm feeling around the bed (which doubles as a couch) asking if anyone's seen my rubber. Kalyani flips through my sketchbook and finds a condom I had tucked in there that I got as a gift at Burning Man. That was awkward.
Then they seat me in the special chair and serve me dinner and watch me eat. We put the TV on and I was so excited because 'Darjeeling Limited' was playing on Star Movies. We are watching and I'm trying to explain the plot to them when suddenly, the scene in the movie is showing one of the Americans having sex with an Indian woman in the train bathroom. Kalyani turns beat red, her mother looks confused and before I know it, movie is shut off and we are watching a horrendously cheesy DVD of the latest family marriage.
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