Story time: Jerks in India

Noted jerk: Django, my host's dog

Sometimes when I am traveling (or living in general) something very extraordinary or hilarious and awful happens to me and I have no one to tell, so I just mull over it for ages and stew it like so much fine chutney. I often think I can't blog about something because so much time has passed and a blog should be like a some kind of current events show. This is nonsense. Actually a blog is a highly self-indulgent piece of loveliness and I can do what the hell I want, so, without further ado - 

A TRUE STORY: I was boarding my plane in Kolkata, India and I couldn't help but notice three very loud, obnoxious other tourists. There were two guys and one girl. One guy was wearing ali baba pants (urgh), the girl was wearing an incredibly skimpy singlet top and a bandana combo (fine, but not fine in India) and the other guy was wearing A FEDORA. It was like the holy trinity.

Anyway, they had been yelling around and generally making a scene, as western tourists in developing countries are wont to do. I had been trying to avoid them, in the time honoured tradition of white people everywhere (avoiding other white people), but my plane was boarding right beside them so there I was. Pretty much everyone else on my flight was Indian, and noticeably uncomfortable in the presence of such openly hostile, badly dressed westerners. We were lining up and Fedora guy yells out : "HEY, nice shoes!" indicating a young Indian man in front of me in pointy, shiny business shoes. The Indian man smiled and shuffled awkwardly. As he turned away, Fedora guy mouthed the words "NOT!" to the group, and winked at me, and then the all three of them fell into loud, bullying laughter. The Indian guy shrank into the floor.

I gave them all my strongest, meanest look, but I couldn't bring myself to say anything because I wasn't 100% sure the young Indian man had noticed and I didn't want to draw the bullying to his attention if he hadn't. 

Gah! Anyway. FEDORAS!* 

* Some people who wear fedoras are nice. Sometimes they look good. However, 90% of the time it's this (and I challenge anyone to make the deadly combo of cargo shorts and a fedora work). 

Wasn't that story disgusting? Allow me to cleanse your palate with these pictures of a walk Django took me on through the betelnut orchard. He led me to a house where the people made me tea and we all sat around smiling at each other (since we did not have a shared language). 

Also, here are some supremely non-jerky people I hung out with in Gorubathan. I miss them. The first girl, pictured, is Puja and she was probably my favourite person in the whole village. She wasn't one of my students, but her family ran the only cyber cafe, so naturally they saw me pretty much everyday. I even had to sleep at their house one time due to storms. 

When I came to say good-bye she cried and, then, so did I. 

Puja with her siblings

Four dresses and a skirt in PRACHUAP

Promenade and monkey temple hill

So, I went op-shopping in Chumphon and had one of those miraculous days where almost everything I tried on fit me perfectly. This is especially weird given I am size XXXXXXL (or something) in Thailand, and old stuff is usually even smaller. Maybe the Gods were hangin. 

Anyway, here is your tour of the beautiful sea-side town of Prachuap Khiri Khan, featuring me and my new clothes in my most self-absorbed post to date. 

The promenade

At the weekend night market, on the shore front

At this little limestone mountain by Ao Manao where spectacled langurs live and love

This mom let us pat her

The famous temple on the hill
- we went at dusk so the resident troop of horrible monkeys were too tired to follow

To me, a dress becomes ten times cooler once it has pockets

In CIAO PIZZA - an adorable Italian restaurant 

Finally - that Chris - knocking back wine and soda and watching RUSSIA TODAY.
p.s. Chris took all the photos and is the most lovely.

Trang weekend food market

Trang is the epitome of a 'station town', in the best possible way. In the South of Thailand, Trang is a stop-over point for many western backpackers on their way to somewhere else (islands, like Koh Muk where I had just spent a glorious week) and a refueling point for locals who live in rural areas or islands and need to buy more supplies. In any case, all this conglomerating of people makes for one rightly famous and vibrant food market; a place where dreams are made for a food dork like me. 

Here's a small sampling of the delights centred around the pretty old train station on your average Friday or Saturday night in Trang. 

Dragon-fruit (pink skin, white flesh with black seeds) has the best aesthetic

Tiny eggs

Fluro sweets

Angry birds sushi

Western fare: burgers like your dad makes them (if your dad isn't very good at it...)

Self-shaken ice pops (15 minutes of shaking by hand)

Suburban India: Vizag

Ram watching cricket. As usual. 

After four months in a village of about one thousand people (according to the locals - I still think it must have been more), I took a train down to Vizag (Vishakapatnam) to visit my dear old friend and room-mate Ram. One of the first witty comments Ram made to me, after we picked our way through the hordes of homeless people living at Vizag station, was that foreigners seem to like to come to India to take photos of poor people. I said 'yeah, pornography of poverty' and then proceeded to take lots of photos of him and his life. Middle-class India says hi.

Beetroot rice. One of the best ideas ever. 

One of the best things about staying at Ram's house was the food, and that was one of the best things because Ram's mom is a genius. Just look at that rice above! It was so good I could have eaten that alone and called it a meal, but no, it came with all the stuff below (not to mention a fridge stocked full of treats). Apart from being a culinary genius, Usha (his mom) is one of the kindest and most generous hosts I've ever stayed with. Ram said "Indian generosity" and she replied, quickly, that she thinks she'd be like this even if she wasn't Indian.

With malai kofta, anchovies (deepfried) and cucumber salad.

Drinks in 'the Park'

Ram himself was the perfect host - taking me on long drives (I love being a passenger in a car), taking me to beautiful local beaches and then leaving me alone on the days where I simply wanted to play on the internet in a quiet place. All of this was bliss, peppered with the aforementioned meal interruptions and cold beers. One morning I went to yoga with Usha and nearly died - it wasn't 'hot yoga' per se, but it was in India, so it basically was. And it was 'power yoga', so very fast and repetitive. On the way back we stopped at a British supermarket and bought treats and I felt my suburban retreat was complete.

More incredible food - curry with a side of mango/ coriander salad. Swoon.

One day I found the little guy pictured below and caught him for Ram. We hung out with him for a while, but then put him back in Ram's room - hoping he grows up big and hungry for mosquitos.

One of the main/ only conventional touristy 'sights' of Vizag is this submarine, which functions as a museum of life inside the sub during the war for East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). Ram and I chose a suitably storming, monsooning evening to go there and were well soaked by the time we dripped our way through the cramped, spooky intestines of this old beast. My heart leapt nearly every time I turned a corner to come face to face with one of the mannequins engaged in some 'typical' marine activity.

On the day I was supposed to take my train to Kolkata, I was still recovering from another bout of 'Delhi belly' and Usha insisted I cancel my train ticket and fly up a few days later. She also insisted on buying me the flight. It was one of the kindest, most ridiculously generous events in my life ever. I can't wait to be settled in Ha Noi and able to send her a package full of gratitude.

Puri-tanical

I boarded the train in Siliguri angry with India. I didn't have a good reason, apart from being tired and sick of being lied to. I yelled at someone for my first time in India, and I felt like that hysterical white lady. "Give me back my 200 rupees now" I yelled at the obstinate liar in front of me. It's four dollars in New Zealand, and admittedly it was 8am and maybe I wasn't seeing things in their true proportion.

In any case, a soldier saw me yelling and practically gave me his nod of approval, and the obstinate guy caved when he could see he was dealing with a live wire. 

Twenty-four hours and two state lines later, I stumbled from the train into the hottest place I ever been. The ground is dry. The air is like a fan heater. The auto-rickshaw drivers on the platform smirk at me and offer me proposterous rates. I have too many bags. I sit down and scowl at them. I'd rather sit here than pay you I tell them with my eyes. They tell me, back 'and now what?' - and, of course, they're right.

I gather up my things and tell them all "you guys must live in gold houses, with gold sheets on your beds, at these prices, my gods!" and they all laugh, warm to me and offer me the normal fare.

Puri. It's a place for pilgrims and fishermen and Hare Krishna's and maharajas on holiday. I came because I miss the ocean. I intended, valiantly, to stay only three days and carry-on to my friend Ram's house in Vishakapatnam on the train I had already booked. After one and a half days in my hotel the manager offered me a deal: I stay for 5 days, 'manage' for him and stay for free with air-con and free meals, but I couldn't leave. This hotel California situation suited me fine, since I had to write my thesis and nothing short of house arrest would achieve that. 

Besides, the hotel is a babe. 

The town is sprawling and crumbling and beautiful. The young man above asked me to take "one snap, please miss", so I naturally took two - one to see his gorgeous face and another to see the jungle surrounding him and the coral pink building. The building below is not a particularly strong example, but Puri is full of what look to be old manors which have fallen down. I understand this is sad, but it is also an aesthetic I find extremely becoming. Obviously, I prefer it when said building is loved and restored (as it was at Z Hotel; an old maharajas home), but jungle taking back the land also pleases me.

There are many extravagant drive-ways in Puri which lead to ruins.

As your guide book will tell you, Puri is no beach paradise. The beach is rough and polluted. Nevertheless, it's a great place to watch people - many of whom have come from all over India on a religious pilgrimage/ a journey to the sea. Many people are seeing the ocean - 'the black water' - for the first time. And they are terrified. That woman sitting above is not an anomaly; most women sit in the very shallow part, or stand in circles gripping each other's hands lest someone get pulled away.

Then there's new Puri, like this holiday resort, which made me vaguely dizzy to look at. I realised why once I noticed the man on the roof - all the proportions are wrong. The building is pretending to bigger than it is. India.

In any case, in the ground floor to the right there is a bakery selling ice-cream. I was going to get a scoop of tiramisu flavour, but the enthusiastic waiter insisted I try every flavour, especially salty peanut.

Salty peanut? Really? Yep. It was the best ice cream I ever had.