Try as I might to shove the punt down into the backwaters of memory, the process whereby I learnt to eat with a knife and fork has not been quite washed away from my conscious mind. A high premium was placed on manners at the family table; maladroit as I am, correct use of utensils was a lesson it took me a long time to pass. Now, however, I’m quite comfortable with cutlery. Knives, forks, spoons, I can use them all. A little too well, perhaps. Here in India, I’m discovering that after my long and arduous struggle against instinct, I’ve forgotten how to eat with my hands. Pleased as my parents would have been with this breakthrough, it’s causing me some problems in restaurants where there is simply no cutlery to be had.
The proliferation of breads on Indian menus is making more and more sense. Roti, chapatti, naan, paratha, even pappadums, they all help to scoop up rice and curry. Eating rice and curry without bread in a public place is still pretty much beyond me, I must confess. The thing is, not only are you deprived of a knife and fork when you tackle your thali, your left hand should also stay off the table. Try tearing a piece of naan big enough to use as a scoop with one hand. It is a very difficult business. Using it then to grab and sop up slippery pieces of curry is still more challenging.
This is where the dhosa comes in. Pancakes are far more malleable than bread and the dhosa arrives already wrapped around the filling. A good dhosa is soft and crisp and thus easy to tear and manoeuvre. Last night I managed simultaneously to devour a masala dhosa one-handed and to chat to the mother and daughter who sat down opposite me in matching pink saris about engineering courses in Australian universities. The masala dhosa was a gorgeous dish, eyeball and tastebud-wise but as, alas, the photo didn’t work out I’ll note that it was served on a banana leaf, stuffed with spicy yellow mashed potato, accompanied by a little bowl of sambar and a dollop each of coconut pickle and unidentified green goodness. The meal was made only more delectable by the fact that I was able to eat almost all of it with my left hand on my lap, proud as a spoon-enabled four year old.
I selected my dhosa-house on the recommendation of my Madras correspondent’s father (both, sadly, out of Chennai now) and his appraisal that it was a very clean place. Rightly so. I’d add that it is also cheap and delicious and further, that pomegranate juice, that extraordinarily restorative beverage, is on the menu. If you are in T.Nagar, Chennai and just happen to be walking down Bazullah Street, go to Sangeetha’s and don’t expect a fork.
Monday, January 14, 2008
The Prawn of a New Era
Arch and buckle, o, fractured temporal plane. We’re back in Kerala, last week. Life slowed down amazingly there.
Wait for an hour and a half at the Baywatch restaurant on Cherai beach, and this is what you get.
Tiger prawns as big as kittens, split and rubbed with oily garlic and spiced and grilled. Marvellous and messy with the sea rolling away just behind us. The only time I’ve ever otherwise seen prawns this big is at Doyle’s at the Sydney Fish Markets, one of my favourite places in the world. The tiger prawns stuffed with chutney ingredients and pine nuts have been on the menu there for donkey’s years; unlike the spicy grilled prawns at the Baywatch, they are a dish I’d advise nobody to order. The consumption of prawn heads has recently been a theme of both my reading and correspondence. Delicacy these may be, I’ve been lead to understand; the sisters Pike nevertheless left the prawn heads untouched.
While we’re on the subject of Keralan cuisine, cooks there use coconut oil rather than ghee as their fat of choice. I, however, was rubbed with spiced ghee and put into a steam cupboard to cook whilst in Kerala. Ayurvedic healing takes you to some strange places. The strangest place I’ve found myself in quite some time is sitting locked in a nineteenth century style steam cabinet with only my head poking out, wearing a cotton loincloth, dripping with aromatic, therapeutic ghee. True story.
The titular allusion to new eras provides a flimsy pretext for a reference to a new era in French presidential romance. I’m behind the times and I’m shocked. I just found out that Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni have become encoupled in a maelstrom of love. It’s way too late for l’esprit de l’escalier. I’m shocked. I know that I’ve intoned loudly in the past that the private lives of public figure should not be the topic of hysterical response and scrutiny. Still, smiling, nip, tuck, slash, burn, all in the name of progress sharks like Sarkozy and quasi-bohemian guitar strumming supermodel heiresses like Bruni should not even be allowed to meet. Je n’aurais jamais cru…
Wait for an hour and a half at the Baywatch restaurant on Cherai beach, and this is what you get.
Tiger prawns as big as kittens, split and rubbed with oily garlic and spiced and grilled. Marvellous and messy with the sea rolling away just behind us. The only time I’ve ever otherwise seen prawns this big is at Doyle’s at the Sydney Fish Markets, one of my favourite places in the world. The tiger prawns stuffed with chutney ingredients and pine nuts have been on the menu there for donkey’s years; unlike the spicy grilled prawns at the Baywatch, they are a dish I’d advise nobody to order. The consumption of prawn heads has recently been a theme of both my reading and correspondence. Delicacy these may be, I’ve been lead to understand; the sisters Pike nevertheless left the prawn heads untouched.While we’re on the subject of Keralan cuisine, cooks there use coconut oil rather than ghee as their fat of choice. I, however, was rubbed with spiced ghee and put into a steam cupboard to cook whilst in Kerala. Ayurvedic healing takes you to some strange places. The strangest place I’ve found myself in quite some time is sitting locked in a nineteenth century style steam cabinet with only my head poking out, wearing a cotton loincloth, dripping with aromatic, therapeutic ghee. True story.
The titular allusion to new eras provides a flimsy pretext for a reference to a new era in French presidential romance. I’m behind the times and I’m shocked. I just found out that Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni have become encoupled in a maelstrom of love. It’s way too late for l’esprit de l’escalier. I’m shocked. I know that I’ve intoned loudly in the past that the private lives of public figure should not be the topic of hysterical response and scrutiny. Still, smiling, nip, tuck, slash, burn, all in the name of progress sharks like Sarkozy and quasi-bohemian guitar strumming supermodel heiresses like Bruni should not even be allowed to meet. Je n’aurais jamais cru…
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Retroactive Rajasthani
I loathe anachronism. Mismanagement of temporal linearity which is not oriented towards precise narrative effects makes me jumpy. Too brief commentary makes me worry that something has been left out. Still, I've a wad of photos from Rajasthan already aging. I've been learning about the interwebs (a term which will never strike me as le mot juste) from someone who could barely read when the term information superhighway was hot. I've been getting tutorials in 733tspeak. Damn, I'm forgetting all my lessons. Clearly a noob.
Anyway. Time is passing. I'm out of touch and this blog might be getting out of date. These are like, last week's photos. Three thousand word's worth.
The blue blue houses of Jodphur.
Udaipur floats on a lake in the mountains.
It's the Venice of Rajasthan. I've been to the Venices of Asia (Bangkok and Phnom Penh), the Venice of East Africa (Zanzibar - a long shot) and now the Venice of Rajasthan.
The city floats on the lake and we floated by on a boat, a safe haven for taking voyeuristic photos of beautiful women in bright saris washing their clothes and themselves.
Time was passing. It's stopped in the present. I'm in Chennai now and spending the next week or so in Tamil Nadu. Once my ticket back to Sydney is in my pocket, I'm heading north again. I don't have much time left in India so I will be earnestly looking to make connection with my spiritual side. I'm doubling my stake: Varinasi and Allahabad; Bodhgaya, Sarnath and Kushinagar. Uplife. Awaits.
Anyway. Time is passing. I'm out of touch and this blog might be getting out of date. These are like, last week's photos. Three thousand word's worth.
The blue blue houses of Jodphur.
Udaipur floats on a lake in the mountains.
It's the Venice of Rajasthan. I've been to the Venices of Asia (Bangkok and Phnom Penh), the Venice of East Africa (Zanzibar - a long shot) and now the Venice of Rajasthan.
The city floats on the lake and we floated by on a boat, a safe haven for taking voyeuristic photos of beautiful women in bright saris washing their clothes and themselves.Time was passing. It's stopped in the present. I'm in Chennai now and spending the next week or so in Tamil Nadu. Once my ticket back to Sydney is in my pocket, I'm heading north again. I don't have much time left in India so I will be earnestly looking to make connection with my spiritual side. I'm doubling my stake: Varinasi and Allahabad; Bodhgaya, Sarnath and Kushinagar. Uplife. Awaits.
Table service
More booze.
According to second hand reports of hippy pilgrims to India, back in the day, all alcoholic beverages served in India were served in teapots. Such an absolute statement struck me as immediately dubious – in spite of the Troubles, I’m sure a few glasses were left over from the Raj – nonetheless, the image of a teapot full of beer was one I found charming. In Cochin, we were indeed charmed by beer served on the sly in teapots. Family harmony will be disrupted if I open the albums and reveal a sister mid-pour. Here instead is an abridged artist’s impression of beer poured from a teapot into a mug by a blood relative of mine.
Enchanting, non? And great for table banter. ‘No milk with that, thanks!’ Chortle chortle. ‘Hmmm, refreshing!’ ‘Tikkety boo!’ We know how to have fun.
Sadly I myself was unable to pose for a photo with a frothy teapot full of beer having been at the time afflicted with some strange fever-bug which killed both my appetite and capacity to consume even mild liquors. These extremely serious symptoms were made a bit more interesting by some remarkable nocturnal hallucinations. I was honestly convinced my limbs were made of cheese. Happily, the delirium was brief and mild: it was over by daybreak and, as it was pointed out to me, did not transform my room-mates into hungry mice.
Incidentally, I have reason to believe that my malaise was due to an ill-considered chicken sandwich at an establishment named the Tea Pot in Fort Cochin. Cursed by a chicken sandwich, how damnably prosaic. The death by chocolate cake had been struck of the menu, the doughnuts looked like death, the staff claimed to be fresh out of samosas… I ate a chicken sandwich and paid the price. This blog’s style counsellors appraised the Tea Pot thus: 5 stars for ambience and decor (teapots hanging from the roof – catchy) and half a star cumulatively for service, food and germ warfare. And it was the Tea Pot which deprived me of my chance to drink beer out of a teapot. Don’t go there.
According to second hand reports of hippy pilgrims to India, back in the day, all alcoholic beverages served in India were served in teapots. Such an absolute statement struck me as immediately dubious – in spite of the Troubles, I’m sure a few glasses were left over from the Raj – nonetheless, the image of a teapot full of beer was one I found charming. In Cochin, we were indeed charmed by beer served on the sly in teapots. Family harmony will be disrupted if I open the albums and reveal a sister mid-pour. Here instead is an abridged artist’s impression of beer poured from a teapot into a mug by a blood relative of mine.
Enchanting, non? And great for table banter. ‘No milk with that, thanks!’ Chortle chortle. ‘Hmmm, refreshing!’ ‘Tikkety boo!’ We know how to have fun.Sadly I myself was unable to pose for a photo with a frothy teapot full of beer having been at the time afflicted with some strange fever-bug which killed both my appetite and capacity to consume even mild liquors. These extremely serious symptoms were made a bit more interesting by some remarkable nocturnal hallucinations. I was honestly convinced my limbs were made of cheese. Happily, the delirium was brief and mild: it was over by daybreak and, as it was pointed out to me, did not transform my room-mates into hungry mice.
Incidentally, I have reason to believe that my malaise was due to an ill-considered chicken sandwich at an establishment named the Tea Pot in Fort Cochin. Cursed by a chicken sandwich, how damnably prosaic. The death by chocolate cake had been struck of the menu, the doughnuts looked like death, the staff claimed to be fresh out of samosas… I ate a chicken sandwich and paid the price. This blog’s style counsellors appraised the Tea Pot thus: 5 stars for ambience and decor (teapots hanging from the roof – catchy) and half a star cumulatively for service, food and germ warfare. And it was the Tea Pot which deprived me of my chance to drink beer out of a teapot. Don’t go there.
A Good Drink is Hard to Find*
It’s not as easy as it should be to order a drink in India.
We stayed at an Ayurvedic retreat near Cochin, a place where consumption of alcohol in the public gaze was verboten. Chakra disorientation or something. Thousands of years of clean living make it a habit. Maybe that is why Hindi culture has lasted so many thousands of years. Anyway, there was no alcohol on the menu whatsoever. Calling room service, however, changed the story. Not only were the staff ready to deliver beer to the door of our bungalow, they were prepared to charge into town and purchase any booze we wanted, as long as it was drunk behind closed doors.
We traipsed through Fort Cochin looking for cocktails with zero success. Here’s Lucy and Laura on the hunt.
Two wine bars and one very seedy bar called XL, a non-option, were all that we turned up. Later, over dinner, a Dutch woman whose manner seemed innocuous and credible informed us that all the waiters at these establishments had hidden cocktail menus in their pockets, hard liquor licenses being too expensive. All we needed to do was turn on the old nudge-nudge, wink-wink, what-have-you-got-in-your-pocket, and we’d be showered with margaritas and martinis and, ahem, pina coladas. This prompted several days worth of suggestive, significant looks and hopeful queries. ‘Do you have any, you know, other drinks?’ ‘There wouldn’t be another drinks menu, would there? Something harder?’ The responses ranged from bafflement to giggles to offended refusal. Not once were we able to procure either a hidden menu or a civilised mixed drink. Was this an example of the fabled Dutch sense of humour?
The rest of the family left India this morning. There was a bar at our hotel in Chennai last night so plans were laid for final drinks and some moral debt wrangling and settlement via games of chance. My sisters and I set upon a pre-dinner reconnaissance mission to Grammy, described as ‘a sensual and intimate cocktail bar, with stimulating music.’ Although Grammy was a cocktail bar, nothing on the cocktail list looked drinkable. My days of blithely considering the merits of a drink which combines beer and whiskey are gone. The door seemed to disappear behind us as we entered the bar, an unventilated pit. Apart from an early nineties triptych of Madonna sucking her thumbs, we were the only women in a very full bar. It was neither sensual nor intimate and there wasn’t any music to offset the tranquillising smoke of four hundred Classic cigarettes. To make matters worse, the cricket was screening and if the headlines are anything to go by, being Australian in India is a bit of a liability at the moment. We drank our G&Ts very fast and bolted. There were no cocktails. End of story.
* And, with further apologies to Flannery O’Connor and decorum, a Hard Drink is Good to Find.
In an effort to salvage a modicum of high-mindedness, I enthusiastically commend O’Connor’s story ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find’ to everyone to whom bleakness, Faulkner, the South, observation of the similitude of skulls and cabbages, the literature of the heinous mother-in-law, and clean-lined, hard-headed late Modernist short stories appeal. There.
We stayed at an Ayurvedic retreat near Cochin, a place where consumption of alcohol in the public gaze was verboten. Chakra disorientation or something. Thousands of years of clean living make it a habit. Maybe that is why Hindi culture has lasted so many thousands of years. Anyway, there was no alcohol on the menu whatsoever. Calling room service, however, changed the story. Not only were the staff ready to deliver beer to the door of our bungalow, they were prepared to charge into town and purchase any booze we wanted, as long as it was drunk behind closed doors.
We traipsed through Fort Cochin looking for cocktails with zero success. Here’s Lucy and Laura on the hunt.
Two wine bars and one very seedy bar called XL, a non-option, were all that we turned up. Later, over dinner, a Dutch woman whose manner seemed innocuous and credible informed us that all the waiters at these establishments had hidden cocktail menus in their pockets, hard liquor licenses being too expensive. All we needed to do was turn on the old nudge-nudge, wink-wink, what-have-you-got-in-your-pocket, and we’d be showered with margaritas and martinis and, ahem, pina coladas. This prompted several days worth of suggestive, significant looks and hopeful queries. ‘Do you have any, you know, other drinks?’ ‘There wouldn’t be another drinks menu, would there? Something harder?’ The responses ranged from bafflement to giggles to offended refusal. Not once were we able to procure either a hidden menu or a civilised mixed drink. Was this an example of the fabled Dutch sense of humour?The rest of the family left India this morning. There was a bar at our hotel in Chennai last night so plans were laid for final drinks and some moral debt wrangling and settlement via games of chance. My sisters and I set upon a pre-dinner reconnaissance mission to Grammy, described as ‘a sensual and intimate cocktail bar, with stimulating music.’ Although Grammy was a cocktail bar, nothing on the cocktail list looked drinkable. My days of blithely considering the merits of a drink which combines beer and whiskey are gone. The door seemed to disappear behind us as we entered the bar, an unventilated pit. Apart from an early nineties triptych of Madonna sucking her thumbs, we were the only women in a very full bar. It was neither sensual nor intimate and there wasn’t any music to offset the tranquillising smoke of four hundred Classic cigarettes. To make matters worse, the cricket was screening and if the headlines are anything to go by, being Australian in India is a bit of a liability at the moment. We drank our G&Ts very fast and bolted. There were no cocktails. End of story.
* And, with further apologies to Flannery O’Connor and decorum, a Hard Drink is Good to Find.
In an effort to salvage a modicum of high-mindedness, I enthusiastically commend O’Connor’s story ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find’ to everyone to whom bleakness, Faulkner, the South, observation of the similitude of skulls and cabbages, the literature of the heinous mother-in-law, and clean-lined, hard-headed late Modernist short stories appeal. There.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Blogger’s holiday
Most of the folks we’ve met offering guidance to tourists have repeated the slogan of the Indian Tourist Authority more than once: ‘You are now in in-crrrred-ible In-dia.’
And so we are. Long eared cows placidly block traffic.
There are not one billion Indians but one thousand million. Multi-purpose homeopathy is advertised on television. Hungry cows stick their heads into houses looking for food. Sideways.
Buses and rickshaws are garlanded. Every single form must be completed in triplicate. It is not just possible but quite normal to eat pickles with curry for three meals a day. There are over a hundred different types of traditional sweets and I can name about four of them. An embarrassment of temples litter the landscape. There are over thirty thousand Hindu deities with whom to become acquainted. Krishna had over sixteen thousand wives. I’ve played cricket. Rickshaws communicate via an amazing variety of beeps and toots. It was freezing cold up there in the north and it’s hot and sticky down here in the south. Spelling errors abound in public places. The road home is beginning to loom. Or rather, my shadow is beginning to loom over the road. There has been no shortage of faaabulous material for this blog. And in just one month, I'll be back in Sydney and all I'll be able to post is poached eggs and breakfast martinis. And yet.
Eldest siblings usually blame younger siblings for things that go off track in their life. I haven’t been updating my blog because I’ve been traipsing around with two of my little sisters. I blame them. Oh, but the fun! Honestly, we should have made a documentary about all the larks. Trying to find pina coladas in coastal towns without cocktails. Wacky! Valiantly making small talk with taxi drivers. Opportunities lost…
We are staying in a bungalow on Cherai Beach near Kochi which just happens to be part of an Ayurvedic retreat. As all the street signs tell you, Kerala is God’s own country. Where we’re staying claims to be His Permanent Address. Down the road, another resort locates itself at the point where the backwaters play hide and seek with the sea. Slogans are big news here and I’m all for them. There will be more.
And so we are. Long eared cows placidly block traffic.
There are not one billion Indians but one thousand million. Multi-purpose homeopathy is advertised on television. Hungry cows stick their heads into houses looking for food. Sideways.
Buses and rickshaws are garlanded. Every single form must be completed in triplicate. It is not just possible but quite normal to eat pickles with curry for three meals a day. There are over a hundred different types of traditional sweets and I can name about four of them. An embarrassment of temples litter the landscape. There are over thirty thousand Hindu deities with whom to become acquainted. Krishna had over sixteen thousand wives. I’ve played cricket. Rickshaws communicate via an amazing variety of beeps and toots. It was freezing cold up there in the north and it’s hot and sticky down here in the south. Spelling errors abound in public places. The road home is beginning to loom. Or rather, my shadow is beginning to loom over the road. There has been no shortage of faaabulous material for this blog. And in just one month, I'll be back in Sydney and all I'll be able to post is poached eggs and breakfast martinis. And yet.Eldest siblings usually blame younger siblings for things that go off track in their life. I haven’t been updating my blog because I’ve been traipsing around with two of my little sisters. I blame them. Oh, but the fun! Honestly, we should have made a documentary about all the larks. Trying to find pina coladas in coastal towns without cocktails. Wacky! Valiantly making small talk with taxi drivers. Opportunities lost…
We are staying in a bungalow on Cherai Beach near Kochi which just happens to be part of an Ayurvedic retreat. As all the street signs tell you, Kerala is God’s own country. Where we’re staying claims to be His Permanent Address. Down the road, another resort locates itself at the point where the backwaters play hide and seek with the sea. Slogans are big news here and I’m all for them. There will be more.
A lovin’ humpful
Camels are the new giraffes and anthropomorphism is my new favourite game. They have huge gorgeous eyes with which they gaze into the languid middle distance. Camels have attitude; they are as cool as early eighties breakdancers, the smug kings of Nerdistan refusing to fix your computer.
The best way I’ve yet discovered to ride off into a sunset symposium is loping the lope on the back of a camel.
Better, when camels aren’t chewing and mooching around, they’re smiling.
I’ve got a video of a camel chewing close-up and when the technology is right, I’m going to make my contribution to the happiness of the world and post it on YouTube. It is a thing of joy. Witnessing a camel standing up and sitting down is like being part of a piece of edgy stilted performance art, particularly if you happen to be wedged behind the hump. I’ve also got a video of my sister balancing precariously atop a camel as he leans forward into the sand to sit down. To even consider posting that on YouTube would provoke a family feud.
The best way I’ve yet discovered to ride off into a sunset symposium is loping the lope on the back of a camel.
Better, when camels aren’t chewing and mooching around, they’re smiling.
I’ve got a video of a camel chewing close-up and when the technology is right, I’m going to make my contribution to the happiness of the world and post it on YouTube. It is a thing of joy. Witnessing a camel standing up and sitting down is like being part of a piece of edgy stilted performance art, particularly if you happen to be wedged behind the hump. I’ve also got a video of my sister balancing precariously atop a camel as he leans forward into the sand to sit down. To even consider posting that on YouTube would provoke a family feud.
Infantile Intoxication
It is snide to chuckle at orthographical lapses. Still, it’s comforting to know that the alcoholic peccadilloes of the English are catered for in northern India.
You can buy Child Beer outside the miraculous fort city of Jaisalmer which sits above an ancient artificial lake in the middle of the desert in Rajasthan.
You can buy Child Beer outside the miraculous fort city of Jaisalmer which sits above an ancient artificial lake in the middle of the desert in Rajasthan.
Hogmanay
The family troupe stopped in Rajasthan to celebrate an unprecedentedly weird New Year. There were fireworks that exploded very close by into booms that sounded like they had been concocted in somebody’s garage. A man in a turban with a mighty moustache, the hotel major-domo, took advantage of the darkness to enthusiastically kiss my sisters and I a merry 2008. I bothered my near relatives with the plentiful, indeed, endless opportunities for self-help couplets the year 2008 offers: Motivate! Great! Higher state! Ameliorate! I don’t think they realised how much they’d missed me till then. All bodes well for a year full of lame puns.
Anyway, the details:
Where: In a sandstone fort outside Jaisalmer, ninety kilometres from the Pakistani border. Where: In a tent. Tents have been involved in previous NYE celebrations but none of them were hung with thousands of bright flags and lanterns.
With: Two sisters; one aunt; two cousins; one poor lass who has committed to marrying into my family.
Wearing: a Punjabi suit and bindi.
What doing: dancing, dancing, dancing to bhangra remixes of Ricky Martin, Shakira and the Backstreet Boys, being upstaged by my cousin who was invited up onto the stage to dance.
With: Random tourists and wealthy Indians.
Listening to: Eating: Selections from a ninety-nine course buffet, including no less than SEVEN pickles courses (ie. eight pickles).
Resolutions: Go dancing more; make a habit of wearing red lipstick; avoid buffets; pickle up. Amongst others.
Anyway, the details:
Where: In a sandstone fort outside Jaisalmer, ninety kilometres from the Pakistani border. Where: In a tent. Tents have been involved in previous NYE celebrations but none of them were hung with thousands of bright flags and lanterns.
With: Two sisters; one aunt; two cousins; one poor lass who has committed to marrying into my family.Wearing: a Punjabi suit and bindi.
What doing: dancing, dancing, dancing to bhangra remixes of Ricky Martin, Shakira and the Backstreet Boys, being upstaged by my cousin who was invited up onto the stage to dance.
With: Random tourists and wealthy Indians.
Listening to: Eating: Selections from a ninety-nine course buffet, including no less than SEVEN pickles courses (ie. eight pickles).
Resolutions: Go dancing more; make a habit of wearing red lipstick; avoid buffets; pickle up. Amongst others.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Happy 2008!
Merry happy bravo neues Jahr yah yah yaaaah.
Wireless internet access just dried up for a few weeks there. Rajasthan - a technology desert, I tell you. It's almost a week into the new year and the entry log for January is lamentably bare. The caravan Pike trailed through the north of India, leaving no samosa a safe haven. The group has split for a while: Lulu, Laura and I are bouncing between massages, beach wallowings and meals in Kerala. The backwaters can be tough. Postings of camels and banquets and pickles (joy) and temples and ladoo are all to come. Tomorrow. With pictures. As soon as I've had another circulation-imporivng massage and the wifi is back in action.
In the meantime, I'm still surprised by my decision to come back to Sydney for...drum roll...Semester One, 2008! Yes, it's ruby slippers time. Fickle folly, thy name might be Catri. Alternatively, hurrah! Sydneyspiders, I'll be seeing you in a couple of weeks for Compulsory Cocktails. If anybody hears of a wonderful housing situation into which I can easily slide, just whistle. A light filled studio at the top of a building in the Cross. A beach house that needs sitting for four months. A sharehouse balcony room with a small bevy of charming, sensitive, outrageous and yet well behaved types. Or anything really...
Wireless internet access just dried up for a few weeks there. Rajasthan - a technology desert, I tell you. It's almost a week into the new year and the entry log for January is lamentably bare. The caravan Pike trailed through the north of India, leaving no samosa a safe haven. The group has split for a while: Lulu, Laura and I are bouncing between massages, beach wallowings and meals in Kerala. The backwaters can be tough. Postings of camels and banquets and pickles (joy) and temples and ladoo are all to come. Tomorrow. With pictures. As soon as I've had another circulation-imporivng massage and the wifi is back in action.
In the meantime, I'm still surprised by my decision to come back to Sydney for...drum roll...Semester One, 2008! Yes, it's ruby slippers time. Fickle folly, thy name might be Catri. Alternatively, hurrah! Sydneyspiders, I'll be seeing you in a couple of weeks for Compulsory Cocktails. If anybody hears of a wonderful housing situation into which I can easily slide, just whistle. A light filled studio at the top of a building in the Cross. A beach house that needs sitting for four months. A sharehouse balcony room with a small bevy of charming, sensitive, outrageous and yet well behaved types. Or anything really...
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