Safe and sound

It's been a week since I've arrived back in the comparatively arctic city of Toronto. It's cold here, real cold, but it's the Toronto-in-winter I know. I'm happy to be back.

I've had a bit of difficulty trying to bring the blog - that is, my India experience - to a close that can be summed up in one post. I could probably write a post everyday about the pervasive influence of the stories and lessons learned from the trip. A lot of people were worried that I was going come back an entirely new person, maybe like, totally devoted to the cult of the limp left hand or something, sportin' a shaved head and a t-shirt that says "Do Not Disturb - I'm Precious." Surprise! I'm still me. Awesome and supercool me. All I did was level up. In one more level I evolve into an entirely new pokemon. Poophandrea. I'M SO CLOSE.

It's hard to say whether anything's "changed." Somehow that word is profoundly static. You've CHANGED. Oh god! You've changed and there's no going back, it's a done deal and everything is DIFFERENT now. What actually happened, so far as I can tell a week later, is validation - of my ideas, values, and the way I've chosen to live my life. I feel like nature gave me a big high five and said, "Yeah man! Touch your butt! If it feels good, do it!" And what felt good was heat, and sashaying around the house in a "nighty" with the other women, and watching geckos, and beating laundry, and eating fresh food - particularly bananas. Every morning I made a concerted effort to eat a banana. If you know my history with the very phallic fruit, it may come as a total shock that I was able to consume bananas without wincing or making scenes of indignation or slapping people around for my own amusement. Real life.

I'll reveal the roots of my banana woes. When I was younger, maybe around pre-school age, I went to camp. As part of a complete breakfast I had a banana packed for me, but that day I wasn't feeling it. A camp counselor, a female, asked me to eat the banana. I told her that I didn't want to eat the banana. Well, Camp Abuse counselor Janet McBitch took it upon herself to peel the banana for me and shove it down my throat! I threw up immediately. No more bananas after that.

Well, this summer it was actually Nitya who got me to eat my first consensual banana. When I told him I never ate them, he was shocked - "we grow them at my house," I remember him saying. "We eat them everyday." He happened to have a couple sitting in his kitchen. He took one for himself, and one for me. I looked at it for a while. I wanted to get over it, this deep-seated trauma that had prohibited me from enjoying all that potassium and fiber-y goodness. It was time. I took a bite. I disliked the texture. I disliked the taste. I wish it tasted more like banana medicine (sometimes I would wish to get sick so I could get some more of that florescent yellow deliciousness) or banana popsicles, or banana bread, all of which I could eat without a problem. But I ate the whole thing. I had eaten maybe two more after that, before India.

It was true what he had said. There were banana trees all over the property, and I figured that if there was any ideal environment to condition my body to enjoy bananas, it was here. Fresh off the tree and free of charge. It was perfect. So I took advantage of it, of course. I think my training went well. I ate bananas like it was nothing - like I'd been eating them my whole life. I'd say that's a good change.

The cool thing that I gathered from life in India was the immediate connection people had to others and to themselves. By eliminating toilet paper and forks, we eliminate layers that detach us from certain sensual realities. Food is different when it's squished in the fist before stuffed in the mouth. The hand says hello, how's it going, you're pretty cool, wanna go on a psychedelic journey into my buddy the MOUTH and feel yourself transform into goo of all different sorts, then maybe into a smelly brown substance (if the Dukoral allows it) where we can meet again? Well not me, ol' Righty, but my counterpart, Lefty. He'll treat you real nice, see you on your way out. Then who knows where you'll go. You've got a whole life ahead of you! We should keep in touch. Do you have Facebook?

Forks are so cold and perverted. I won't even get into that conversation.

When people who haven't read the blog ask, "so, HOW WAS IT?" my general response is "pretty cool." "Pretty cool, she says! That's all you can say about INDIA!?" That's all I can say in a couple of words. I think it's pretty clear by my never-less-than-2000-word posts that a couple of words just doesn't cut it for me. I've articulated the experience as best I can here, and I hope you've all gotten a kick out of the journey too. Thanks for coming along! Maybe we can do this again sometime. Wink wink.

:)

Back in Brussels

I've been trying to figure out if I like flying. I like being in the air. And sometimes sitting in airports is nice, like in Cochin. Every variety of Indian is located in the domestic flights section of Cochin Airport. The really really dark people and the really really light people. There were these women wearing silk sarees, older women, maybe early sixties, Indian women with the lightest skin I've ever seen. Now these were precious women, it was obvious. I was totally rapt by their appearance. They looked stately, royal, and most of all, really really rich. Their skin screamed it. It's crazy! Been there less than three weeks and I'm totally affected by a culture's paradigm. It's true though. They were also wearing very ornate silks.

The whole time I was confused. I was really confused. My ticket said I'd be departing India at 8PM the 21st, and arriving in Toronto at noon on the 22nd. Me and Nitya both racked our brains at this fact. I couldn't understand it and he gave up trying so we decided to just see what would happen. But as I sat alone in the airport I couldn't help but worry about it - if it's 8PM here, it's already 9AM there, so I'm supposed to get there in three hours? Still. Don't. Get it. I had 15 rupees left so I took a chance and made an STD call to Graeme telling him I think the airplane people made a mistake, that I must be coming in at midnight. He said, "Well, I assumed you were coming in tomorrow - the 22nd." You mean, it's 9AM on December 21st? "Yes." Well. That explains everything. Okay, well, I love you good bye! My phone call cost 40 rupees. I uh um I'm sorry sir I only have 15 rupees it's all I have left is that okay? He shook his head - that means yes - and I thanked him profusely and went back to my seat.

Since I had been waiting there since 4 o'clock, I missed dinner and I was getting hungry. No more rupees though, and I wasn't quite yet willing to dip into my Visa reservoir. So I waited. I did have $15 CDN in my wallet so I figured I'd give asking the stewardess on the plane a shot to see if she'd take my funny money. She came to me and I asked. "Oh no sweetheart, we only take rupees, I'm so sorry." She bent clsoer to me. "Was there something you wanted to buy, though?" "Yes," I responded, "because I'm hungry, I haven't eaten in a while but it's okay." "Well I think I can go to the back and grab you some biscuits or something, just don't mention it." She winked. I was pretty happy. Free biscuits! Yippee!

Fifteen minutes passed and I still hadn't received my biscuits. I was even hungrier since I expected I'd be getting some sustinance. I was getting bitter. Then, one of the two stewardesses (they looked so alike it was crazy) came to my seat and said, "You're hungry? Come with me please." Hmmmmm? Okay. I had been nodding off to sleep so my eyes were kinda teary and I was generally frazzled so I stumbled up and followed her to the back. There I saw a hot ceramic dish covered in alumininum foil with a label that said "vegetarian." I knew what it was - an in-flight meal! "Shhhhh!" She said, "It'll be our little secret." And they sat me down on a little metal box, and there I sat, hidden away from everyone else and eating a hot delicious meal - because they really do make delicious in-flight meals - and I was so happy, so blessed, so fucking precious and I didn't even care. I felt so good. It really was the best. "Miss, if you could please hurry, we are landing in five minutes." I felt so good.

I'm back at Brussels now, ready to hop onto another big flight. Last night from Chennai was 10 hours sitting in the same seat and I didn't sleep well. It's alright. The worst is over. They're calling my flight over the PA! Gotta go! See you on the other side!!!

Precious

As the days march closer and closer to my return to Canada, the details of the journey - my memories in conjunct with logic - are melding together, fading away. At the beginning it was all so new, I could remember everything. Now I know feelings and overpowering moods, discomfort and flashes of eyes.

Fanny and I parted ways the day before last and the goodbye was short and quick. We hugged at the bus stand and I hopped onto my bus back to Chalakudy where a rickshaw would be waiting to take me back to the village. The buses don't stick around for long and they don't wait for anybody who's doddling. That goes for getting on and getting off. I sat on the government bus for about an hour and a half which was nice, but when we got to the Chalkudy bus stand it seemed the bus hadn't even stopped but was only passing through, and because I had expected it would stop I was still sitting when it left the station. I was down the street when I said I had to get off, so the bus stopped in the middle of the road and I didn't know how to open the door and I could hear the sighs from the back as I struggled, with all eyes on me, and then I opened it, slammed the door and walked back to the station where I'd spotted Nitya with a bright pink shirt on. The experience frazzled me a bit but I was fine. Just one of those things.

I feel like I've lost a supreme all-knowing guardian. Fanny really took care of me and inspired me with her courage. To travel around India for months without a guidebook, taking public transit (which tourists rarely do), and relying on the kindness of others even when so many lie - that takes guts. Fanny's an amazing lady and I hope one day I can get to her level. Right now though, I am scared on my own.

Since I'm moving into my NEW APARTMENT (so exciting) not even 10 days after I get back to Toronto, I figured India would be the best place to buy some wicked kitchenware. I'm not sure about the rest of the country, but the big thing in Kerala is metal. Cups, plates, pots, ladles, everything: metal. I wanted to lynx me some of that metal action so Nitya arranged for a rickshaw driver to pick me up from here and take me around Chalakudy to buy the best in metalware, and anything else I wanted. I could have taken the bus, on my own, with everybody else... but I was scared, so I agreed to the rickshaw. Afraid of interaction, afraid of being stared at, afraid of being alone in an unknown country, even though I've been here for a while. Just generally uncomfortable by myself.

So I took the rickshaw. Never had I felt so precious. "Precious" was the word Fanny used to describe what Indians felt about their lighter-skinned kin, that they never had to work a day in the sun, that they were worth something more because hard labour had escaped them. Precious. I felt stupid and precious alone in the rickshaw, going from town to town to the city having people look at me and my white skin with wide eyes and surprise.

I felt precious when he dropped me off at a giant silverware store and followed me in, and basically acted as my bodyguard. The thing is, employees here don't understand the concept of "just looking" in a store. Someone will follow you around expecting that you're "just looking" for something in particular that they can get for you. I miss the detachment and indifference in Canadian store employees, who don't give a damn whether you buy or you don't. They're making minimum wage anyways, so just come up to the counter when you're ready, k?

Sometimes I feel like a ghost. A visible ghost too, the worst kind. Invisible and yet, everyone can see me. They're pointing like I don't see them, like I'm not there. I feel very sensitive on my own. With Fanny the staring didn't bother me and I tended to giggle and wave back and lap it up. It's fun when I feel protected, but on my own I am scared and unveiled. I am transparent, disgustingly obvious. I am a white girl, and I am here to buy. They know this, I know this. I even have a personal driver to take me around so I don't have to interact with these oriental heathens. There is me and there is them. I feel stupid and precious.

There was a Christmas parade down Main Street in Chalakudy when I was there. I know it was for Christmas because at the beginning of the procession were two or three very stern-looking priests wearing long white robes. Especially stern when they looked at me - I smiled at them, and I got nothing in return. They were walking behind a held banner. Behind them came the real spectacle: a man dressed like Jesus, in a blue sari, painted light brown skin and a wig. A woman dressed like Mary too. But she didn't look as convincing as the Mary I saw in the nun soap opera I saw on TV - who had painted light brown skin, painted yellow hair under the blue scarf on her head, and as a nice touch, blue coloured contacts. She was having a conversation with an extremely comical Satan, who writhed and looked incredibly pained by the Virgin Mary's every word. She was in heaven, he in hell, and when she finished a sentence he would yell, AHHHHH! or UUGGGH! or NOOOOOOO!! I wish I understood Malayalam. It seems like a pretty entertaining show.

Religion is pretty big here, and Christianity has a particularly strong influence in central Kerala. In 52 AD Thomas, the disciple of Jesus otherwise known as "Doubting Thomas," brought the word of the Lord to a port city near Cochin - yes, where I was a couple days ago. His ministry set up eight churches in Kerala spanning from the north to the south where followers are sometimes known as St. Thomas Christians or Nazarinis, but most popularly as Syrian Christians. The couple that helped me out at Chennai airport mentioned they were Syrian Christians and I said, "Oh! Like decedents from the Portuguese Catholic settlers in India?" No, they laughed. Syrian Christians have been around a lot longer than the Portuguese missionaries who arrived in Kerala in 1498. In fact, the Portuguese were quite surprised to find Christians here in the first place!

Hinduism is pretty big too, obviously. There's also a bit of Islam in the mix, but not many where I am. In Fort Cochin there is a neighbourhood called "Jew Town" (my first thought being, "Hey! You can't say that!") which has long been deserted by any actual Jewish people and is now, ironically, the Muslim neighborhood. We walked through there by accident looking for the ferry. I saw many goats. Goats sleeping in the street, goats in trucks, goats walking around. Muslims eat beef and the smell of raw freshly killed cow wafted through the air. It's kind of gross, but nothing I haven't seen in Chinatown. I actually felt kinda weird because we were walking with Fanny's mom's friend who didn't get the memo about dressing appropriately - I mean, a short dress, high heels and sunglasses works in the tourist area, but outside of it - especially in a Muslim neighborhood, I mean... it was a little weird. She didn't seem bothered though, and that's a good thing I guess. I wish I could be unbothered by stares.

In the village here they are building a giant church dedicated to St. Anthony. That guy is a big deal here. He has as many churches as Mother Mary, or, Mary Matha. I had hoped I could take a picture of its construction - they're almost done - because it's kind of spectacular but the batteries died before I could. The church is located at the base of a mountain. At the top of that mountain, with a path that starts beside the church, is another church. Me and Fanny decided to walk the "very difficult" (according to the locals) path to see this mountain-top church.



Along the way there are pictures outlining the stations of the cross. Jesus' burden of the cross after being sentenced by Pontius Pilate is a metaphor for the person taking up the burden of waking this steep and dangerous path to the top. I tried to remember how many stations of the cross there were. Twelve, I decided. At every station we knew we were getting closer. At about the forth station Fanny sped off in front and I was left with my slow self to trudge along alone.

It was tiring. I was so thirsty and sweaty. I paused many times, both for bodily recovery and to catch the view. At the fifth station I could see everything, the coconut trees and the smoke from about eight houses burning their garbage. At the eighth station I was in the realm of birds and thermals. At the tenth, I saw from the view of an airplane - greenery without its details, plots of land and blobs of water. I was at the 11th station and 12 was in view. I was almost there! Almost at the top! I got to 12... and saw 13. THIRTEEN!?! How many more damn stations are there? 13 is where Jesus' family takes him off the cross. Well, great. Then what happens?

I trudged along to 14. They are putting Jesus in his tomb. I begin to see big wooden crosses, and a tin roof, and tassels blowing in the wind. I'm at the top. It is glorious. The wind is strong and my thirst subsides. The "church" is a small area under a roof. No one is up there, but I assume Fanny is around. I take off my shoes and sit down by the edge overlooking the other side of the mountain. It's beautiful and I feel like I could sit up there for years and still not see everything. The wind is so cool. Everything feels good. I get up and walk around and eventually bump into Fanny. We gush about how awesome this church is, but reluctantly agree that we have to turn back because there are no lights on the trail, and neither of us want to be stuck on the mountain in the dark. On the way down I look at the sun, and it is a big orange ball in the sky. I start yelling because part of me really really wishes I could have taken a picture, and the other part knows it's not possible, that only I have had this experience, that it can only be described, and that it's with me and in me. I'll only remember the feeling and the orange ball.

It's Sunday here and that means everyone is just chillin' the F out. I should do the same for a while. I am leaving tomorrow. I need to let some feelings settle. India's crazy! I friggen love this shit, the ups and the downs. Gimme more. The solitary confinement of not knowing the language is okay - at least I'm back here, in this wonderful home with this wonderful food. And soon, back home. Not sure if I'm more afraid of direct interaction or of snow. We'll have to see!

Traveler or tourist?

I've slept and talked to some loved ones this morning so I feel better than I did last night. I wanted to write yesterday night, and yesterday morning, but whenever I'd try and use the internet at my little hotel here, the connection was defunct. Yesterday I bought two packs of batteries, brought them to my room, tried them in my camera - both were dead. I splurged on some rechargeable batteries then, upon the suggestion of some men at the Kodak store around the corner. They said they were the only batteries that would work. I got the batteries and the charger for 500 rupees, which is ridiculously expensive, but I'm in a tourist town so I have to accept the price. Man there said it'd be eight hours to fully charge the batteries. I did this - and when I excitedly put the batteries in my camera, there was nothing. The camera wouldn't turn on. Sadness.

I might be heading into whiny territory, so please bear with me. It's all part of the "India Experience." I was told I'd feel this way at some point. Frustrated, angry - at others and myself, and sad. But, what can you do. (Said with a sigh and a shrug, when it's not even a question but a statement. You know.)

Nitya's lovely home is located in the village of Mechira, located in central Kerala. The two closest cities are Chalakudy to the south and Kodakara, where Nitya's wife Regha is from, to the north. For the first ten days of my trip, I had not seen another white person. It was only when we went to the waterfalls that I saw a group of oddly dressed French people prancing around, being all weird and touristy. They were wearing jeans, tight wife beaters, and sunglasses. They immediately annoyed me.

On the 15th Fanny and I took a rickshaw and three buses to Fort Cochin, a little city on the Arabian Sea. Driving through Cochin was interesting because it was huge and bustling with people, much like other cities I had visited. People were being helpful as usual.

We get there. By the time we arrive it is dark. We find our B&B - yes, a bed and breakfast, which should have been an indication of what was to come - meet the host, and admire our room. It's pretty beautiful. It's worth the 700 rupees a night, I think. We're staying here because Fanny's mom's friend arrived from France last night and is staying at the same "home stay" - did you know France is only three hours away? It's crazy, and it explains why there are so many French here. So so so many French.

On our first night we decided to explore. It was much to our surprise to see not one, not two, but HUNDREDS of white people, walking around, being white. Culture shock is not living with a group of loving people who speak another language and wipe their butts with their hands. Culture shock is walking down a street in India and hearing Bob Dylan. Or going to an Italian restaurant and eating pizza, which is what we decided to do. Go big or go home, I guess.

Who are all these people? These people in their skimpy outfits, drinking wine on a patio, getting drunk like they were at home or in Goa. Why come to India and just do what you do at home, only in a different place?

Not only do the tourists bother me, but the merchants too. The "Fort" is a tourist area and Indians make their money by scamming "rich" white people. Everything is overpriced. Yes, 200 rupees is roughly $2, but a pen for that much? No. Not anywhere but here. 900 rupees for a decent shirt? Only if you're white. The first night I made a joke of it - they hassled me so I hassled them. They stand at their doors and beg you to come in (at restaurants as well) if you so much as make eye contact with them, and maybe if you look at a pashmina in the window they'll say, "many more inside, come inside." It's like they've read a guidebook on how to get white people to buy shit.

The thing is, everything they're selling is basically what I've wanted to buy for myself, my friends, and my new apartment. How did they know I wanted a scarf like that, or a wall covering in that style? How did they know? Because I'm white and a sucker like the rest of them. They know what white people want. White people want crafts and nick-nacks for their homes, and fancy flowing clothing that screams "I WENT TO INDIA AND PAID 1200 RUPEES FOR THIS STUPID WRAP SHIRT." Twelve-hundred rupees for a damn shirt! I bought two Punjabi suits, two shirts, a house-dress (called a "nighty"), and three bracelets for 1200 rupees in Kodakara. That is the Indian price. In fact, most stores outside the tourist area have fixed prices on their merchandise, usually a sticker on the garment that says "Maximum retail price: rupees: #" so nobody gets cheated.

I'll tell you what happened to me. Near our home stay is a "cottage arts and crafts" store called Krishna Kripa that has some pretty nice stuff. I saw a necklace there that screamed the name of a certain person so I asked the price. One-fifty. Hmmmm, I think, and I switch into haggle mode. I see another necklace I like - two-fifty, he says. How about both for 300? I ask. He looks at them and he says, no, no I can't do that, this is worth more. I wait until Fanny gets there so I can ask her what she thinks because I am new to this game and I have no idea what the actual worth of a necklace is here. We walk into the back of the store - where we are followed by the way, these merchants don't give you any space whatsoever. I even asked him to give us some privacy and he laughed and acted like he didn't understand - or he did understand but didn't feel like leaving. So Fanny says that the one necklace doesn't look like it's worth more than 80 rupees. Well. I put the necklaces down and we walked away.

I came back the next day on my own. I couldn't resist. I thought the necklace was perfect for my friend (ooooooh, mystery gift, who's it gonna be?!?!) so I went back into the store and browsed some more. I found some pants I really liked - they're a style that is popular for yoga that I haven't seen in Toronto. Not that I've actually looked, but still. Fanny gave me her pair because she didn't like the material. The same man trying to sell me the necklaces was now trying to sell me the same cheap pants with the same cheap material. For 150 - which is cheap, but I'm not getting quality. He then showed me the same style but with a thicker, heavier material, for an extra 150 rupees. I thought it was worth it so I decided to get them. How about 250, I said. 275, he responded. We went back to the necklace. All together it would be 400. 300, I said. First he said no, then he went over some things in his head, and I just watched him for a while do this, rolling his eyes to the back of his skull with flickering eyelids and shaking his head from side to side, and then the decision: yes! My assumption is that if he's going to let me haggle him down to that price then I'm probably still grossly overpaying. I was definitely right.

Later we took the ferry to the main city of Cochin. It was a nice ride, we even saw dolphins flippin' their tails in the water. I honestly have NO IDEA how any life form can live in the water, there is so much garbage floating around, it's unbelievable. But off in the distance, some dolphins. Shit's crazy. So! we get to Cochin, only a fifteen minute ferry ride. Suddenly we're back in India. We spent the afternoon there and I saw NO WHITE PEOPLE! None! We're back to crowded streets and honking horns and maximum retail prices - no white people. We ended up on a strip of wholesale stores. One store caught my eye. There were necklaces hanging from racks at the front, one of which looked DISTINCTLY FAMILIAR. It was the same necklace! How much, I asked. Sixty rupees the man responds. KJFJKDGLJGJKDFH! is how I felt, but what a valuable lesson to learn.

India is difficult. It's not easy to be yelled at continuously to buy crap you don't want - that's not done in smaller, less tourist-oriented cities. Or to be yelled at in general. "Hey miss, hey miss, hey miss," while a man is following close behind. I was ready to crack skulls last night. I was mad. One guy was following me so I slowed down and started to follow him. He didn't like it. "Hey, hey, where are you from? You study? What study?" and "Come into my store, come in, do you like this? More inside. I'll give you the best price." No no no no no. Leave me alone. Or even better: "We have beer, do you want beer?" Yes, give me beer... to block the yuppies out... must... kill... everybody...

Waterfalls

Kathakali in action

I suppose a spiritual transformation is due on any trip to India. I was beginning to suspect that it wasn't going to happen to me - the much fabled "reaction" to this place, i.e. crying on arrival, breaking down in hotel rooms, or going completely crazy. None of these things have happened. I feel pretty comfortable here - many things are familiar about where I am, like the daily television consumption and use of the internet. Some things are new, yes, but I can easily adapt to the reasonable practice of washing my bum with my hand and eating with the other, or taking a crowded bus and not being able to get through the wall of people and missing my stop... I can adapt. Nothing the TTC hasn't prepared me for. And then, amidst the immersion, it happened.

I was watching music videos on the TV. Well, I'm not sure what I was watching - it was like a short movie with background music, or a really long trailer. But the film quality looked old. The background music was constant but not dominant. The story unfolding was the main focus. It was about a boy and his mother, and their playful and loving relationship. I was rapt.

The first half of the mini-film consisted of their games and tricks and kisses, with shots of them running around being cheeky together. In one scene the boy has a clay bowl with the Kathakali face painted on the bottom, and he's walking bent over, swaying to and fro, with the bowl over his face. In the second half there is a man, not a boy. Now I don't know for certain, but my feeling watching the events unfold was that the man was the boy as an adult. It looks like he's searching for something, or perhaps running away. He wanders a rocky cliff, and the wind blows through his hair. He sits and reflects. Then, there's an old man. The old man is sitting inside at a table. On it there are little rectangular wooden pieces on a board - looks like a game. The old man gets frustrated and picks up the pieces as best he can and throws them to the floor. He breaks down with his head in his hands. Cut to a scene of the young man reflecting on the rock, who is now crying into his Kathakali mask. Then, another scene of the little boy walking up stairs to his mother at the top. She has her back to him. Last scene is the man crying.

I ran upstairs and cried my eyes out. The feeling overtook me. I could feel it in my gut, and outside of my gut, and in my gut's gut, where the words "Greece, Turkey, fertile crescent" bounced off it's walls in darkness, and I thought about the blog, and telling all of you what had finally happened, and the darkness went away, and I begged for it to come back, but it was gone. It wasn't coming back. I could only replay the memory over and over again.

And that's what happened.

Earlier that day Fanny and I had been walking up the mountain, and to top off our little journey we decided to pay another visit to the temple. We were standing at the gate - we had agreed we didn't want to relive the last experience and get home after dark - when we talked about places we'd like to go. Maybe I said, "there's so many places I want to see," to which Fanny immediately responded, "yeah, like GREECE!" It hit me like a shot in the heart. I'd never thought of Greece. I said, "yes, and Turkey." I had thought about going there. "That's the second place I was going to say!" she said. I got so excited I could hardly contain myself. The experience just made the desire explicit. An indefinite period of time (that was the darkness) will be spent in those places. I know it, I can feel it.

Some further context regarding the mother-son dynamic. In January, I'm giving a presentation on the Great Mother archetype to my Jung class. I've been reading "The Great Mother" by Erich Neumann during my stay here, and I realized by the second day that India is probably the best place to get in touch with the archetype. The veneration of cows is one example of the value that is placed on the mother (what with being female and producing milk, symbolizing fertility, life, sustenance, etc.). On that second day I found a shop that solely sold framed pictures of gods and goddesses (including a plethora of Jesus and Mother Mary photos) when I saw Kali. She was immediately purchased and placed in a very visible spot in my bedroom.

A few days ago, I bought my second picture of a goddess: Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge, music and the arts. In my version (which I couldn't find on the internets), at her feet is an open book. On one page there is the symbol of Om, and on the other a swastika. It is going clockwise. The day before yesterday I was trying to remember whether the Nazi's perversion of the ancient symbol went counter-clockwise or in the same direction. I was also trying to figure out what it meant in the first place. But then I went out, took the bus, ate dinner - that is, I forgot.

Later that night Smitha (one of the matriarchs of the house) did a little henna on my left hand. She started on the bottom right corner, and worked her way diagonally to the tip on my index finger. She did my thumb, and my middle finger, and my ring finger, but when she got to my pinky she pondered. Hmmmm, I could hear. She had run out of ideas. Then...



swastikas! She drew four swastikas! I was surprised - obviously - not only because I had been thinking about them earlier, but what the reaction would be if the henna lasted until I got back. I'm not a nazi, I swear it! I did look forward to explaining its significance though.

And that's my interior landscape at the moment. Let's go back to India, shall we?

Yesterday Fanny and I took a bus ride to the waterfalls, which is a burgeoning tourist spot in Kerala. For good reason too, it's pretty breathtaking. But no batteries means no pictures so you'll just have to take my word for it.

I had to tinkle so I went to a nice porcelain hole a bit off the beaten path while Fanny walked down to the water, some ways away from the falls. When I was feeling free and relieved, I walked out and saw her at the bottom of the rock face. I followed her. I watched as she put her bag aside, take her scarf off, and walk straight into the water. I waited for her to come back before I did the same. I will follow someone off a cliff as long as they come back to watch my stuff, know what I mean?

The great thing about being in a hot place is that drying off in the sun after being completely drenched takes only twenty minutes. We laid there like starfish in the oven (accept this analogy or DIE). Unfortunately I was a little OVER DONE and realized I was burnt on the way home.



I'm wearing an overpriced Ayurvedic face "pack," k. It's for the better because I'm looking a little Ronald McDonald anyway.

I will try my best to take more pictures of landscapes and people who aren't me. Fanny and I are renting out a hotel for two nights tomorrow in Cochin, which is probably an hour-long bus ride from here. Hopefully there will be batteries and more adventures to be had there. And maybe internet! I hope everyone is good back in the T-Dot!

OH! The people in this house and also the house we visited think I look like this lady:



With a little make up I think I could convincingly pass as a North Indian. What do you think?

Colour, hands, and poop

Sweetest village boy

I think my experience in India is pretty unique. I'm not backpacking about with a guidebook in my hands, not knowing where I'll lay my head for the night. I am very secure here, in a beautiful home, full of very loving and wonderful people, in a nice neighbourhood with nice neighbours who take us into their houses and feed us and show us their school pictures and play with our hair and paint our nails and give us flowers and touch our skin and look around and say "smooth!" and make us promise to come back in the evening, we have to, you promised, please come back, come meet our grandmother...

Yesterday was intense. We finally followed a few of those children to their family home. Inside, it felt like we had been captured by sirens who tell us we're beautiful over and over again, touch us all over, adorn us with jewellery... time is lost in these houses. We had planned to go to Thrissur that day. How easy it is to forget when you are made perfect.

I'd like to flesh out something about Indian culture that bothers me a bit. The TV is completely ridden with ads staring white women, or Indian women who are practically white. In most print ads and billboards as well - I saw one yesterday where the model had been bleached to the point of blending into the white background, with a couple facial features preserved along with the blindingly-red sari the company was attempting to advertise. I know some North Indians look like white people - in fact, an Indian man at a restaurant yesterday asked me if I was a North Indian, with my dark hair and light skin. But this is the South. Most everyone is dark here, or as they call themselves, "black."

It's frustrating for me to see "white beauty" being advertised as the be all and end all of everything - intelligence, looks, and overall value. It's unfair that Southerners are subjected to some unattainable level of whiteness, unless they actively bleach their skin, which some do.

At the house we visited yesterday morning, there are three kids between the ages of six and 12. The youngest one is a boy, totally adorable and charming (proof above). The middle child is a beautiful bright young girl of maybe eight or nine. The eldest is also beautiful - and completely light-skinned. It became obvious inside the house that this family puts a lot of faith in their white child.

Both of the girls do traditional dance. Their mother comes out of a back room with an award in each hand, one that the younger girl had won, and one that the whiter girl had won. I was impressed, and said, "wow, you must be very good!" to both of them, but their mother said, "she only has one, this one," her lighter-skinned daughter, "has so many awards, she wins so many, so many, she is so good."

I could see the fading smile on the young girl's face. I held her hand. I looked at the older girl and said, "wow, very nice." Later the matter of colour was explicitly discussed. "My daughter is very light," her mother said with a big thankful smile, like she had been blessed from above with a white-skinned daughter. "My other daughter, she is black," she uttered, apologetically. I rubbed her daughter's skin and told her she was beautiful, and she softly said thank you.

There is definitely a problem with me coming into this culture with my Western don't-ever-discriminate and everyone-is-equal views and sensitivities and calling the whole society racist for its emphasis on white beauty. I think it's a really complex issue. The narrative I just wrote is coming from a perspective that is seeing things in one way, and THAT'S not fair either. It's time for me to unstick my nose from the subject and call it a day. It is what it is.

They're burning garbage in the backyard. Just sayin'.

I haven't pooped in four days. Just sayin'.

There is lots, of course, that I like about living here. I like the food, and I like the way it's eaten. No cutlery. I have always felt more comfortable eating with my hands anyway. I'm sure my mom could tell a story or two of my mythical pre-vegetarian glory days when I ate steak with my hands right down to the bone. I'm not that archaic anymore - or am I? With my vegetables, perhaps. Violate them carrots! Rape those potatoes! Slaughter every celery! Eat them right down to the end of the stalk! HEAVY METAL! \m/



I appreciate the food when I'm squishing it in my hands. Rice and chickpeas and coconut all up in my fist, right up into my mouth, the smell rising to my nose, the texture between my fingers. It will be hard to give it up! Oh, and always with the right hand. You know what the other hand is for.

Another thing we do by hand: laundry. Shocking! I've done laundry here twice, and I'm definitely due for a third time at the round but the smoke is so strong back there, with all the garbage burning and all. Body washing and clothes washing is generally an everyday practice here. I should be doing it more often but, you know, the laziness. I do shower everyday though, which I never ever ever do in Toronto because I never see the point. Here though, if I don't shower I am in a world of pain and smelly suffering. One trip on the big-windows-no-glass bus is enough to cake my skin with a nice thick layer of dirt, and if I'm standing during rush hour, other people's sweat. Yum! No thank you.

Me smack-smackin' the rock

Laundry is done by soaking the garment in soapy water and beating the living shit out of it. Not kidding. We've got that round rock thinger there, and with a flick of the wrist, the masters just SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! their clothing. It's incredible, and very effective. Then we wring it out and let it dry. Drying in the hot sun takes 10 minutes. Naw, it's not that quick, but give it an afternoon and the laundry is completely dry. Shock and amazement! Technology what?

PS: Just pooped. I feel great!

Not feeling so hot, but getting better

The river that leads to Nitya's place. Look closely, and you'll see a cow in yonder water.

Ah, the sick experience in India. I'm feeling it. Luckily the sickness is in my head and not in my bowels. You've done your job, Dukoral!

I have a head cold. I just had an orange so I feel lucid enough to type. Last night was awful. I was so full of mucous I let my nose drip drip drip onto my chin and shoulder. I brought toilet paper, yes, but that stuff quickly makes a nostril raw raw raw. When I pull all-nighters to finish sub-par papers my bones tend to feel like powder, or at the very least, a rusty machine in dire need of oiling. This morning I felt like both, plus leaky and dizzy. Can you feel my pain yet?

So far, being sick here has been relatively pleasant. The ladies of the house (Nitya's wife and Nitya's brother's wife) have been making me coffee spiked with ginger, black pepper, and cardamom, as I've indefinitely sworn off chai. I had five glasses yesterday! FIVE! That is so much milk. Milk = mucous. That much milk for a former-vegan is super (they love that word here - "soop-her!") dangerous.

A note about the chai here. It's not very fancy - basically black tea and a lot of milk. That's it! None of this cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, black pepper, clove STUFF. I thought it tasted like orange pekoe at first, particularly with a little Carnation Milk, like my gramma makes. Turns out it's not too far off.

Nitya just told me a little bit about drinking coffee here. It is a very helpful drink when a person is sick because it induces sweating - a very easy thing to do in India - and gets the ailment out. In Canada, because we don't sweat as much (unless we're physically exerting ourselves, like bun-burning at the gym), coffee makes us wired and energetic - our body is just looking for a way to sweat! He also said that drinking coffee will make a sick person tired. This was certainly the case for me this morning, as I drank a bit and fell into my bed immediately. Ah.

If my writing reads a little strangely, in a way that is not quite English, blame it on the Munglish, as Nitya calls it. The language on the TV is mostly Malayalam, but there are many English words and phrases sprinkled in. It's interesting, but Munglish is quicky becoming my internal narrative voice. I also find that I speak in sounds, and in faces.

Kanan hiding on the shelf

Kanan and I communicate with sneezes and general yelling. He is a very sweet boy, very warm and affectionate, but like Nitya is a verifiable trouble maker. I was sneezing like crazy last night, and from another room he began "Ahhh, ahhh, ahhh, AHHH CHOO!" So I did the same, from the other room, but louder. Of course. You wanna play? BRING IT. So we did this for a while, and this morning too while he, Fanny and Nitya painted the hallway upstairs. I was mostly in my room, but I came out to watch them work - it's my stuffy-face holiday, okay - which resulted in further games between Kanan and I. He pretended to throw a rag at me, and I pretended (but failed) to throw water at him (because it ended up all over me).

They painted the room/hall bright green. Yesterday we painted a front bedroom pink. It looks surprisingly good! I had never sweat so much until yesterday afternoon, painting that room. The painters at work:



The batteries of my camera are donezo and apparently working batteries are hard to come by here. So, here are a couple photos from the past couple days since I can't take any new ones.

My first Punjabi Suit purchase, complete with a sessy after-shower pose (I have since splurged on many more):



And the ladies' excursion to the well down the road:





I feel better already!

"Black beauty, seven beauty."

A somewhat impromptu temple ritual

Last night was hilarious. All nights have been great, but yesterday was particularly amazing.

Fanny and I took a walk to town because we wanted some bottles of water. New batteries for my camera would be nice too. We got these things, though the batteries turned out to be bunk which I found out at an inconvenient time. We did get a bunch of other stuff, like scrunchies and unintentionally funny notebooks. I will be giving some away. They are great.

Though it was getting late in the afternoon, we decided to check out the local temple. It was a very nice walk, but it started to get dark fast. The thing about this area, and probably many others in Kerala and in India, is that when it gets dark, it gets pitch BLACK. There are no street lights around here - maybe a couple. A flashlight at night is a necessity.

We get to the temple. It is outside. That is to say, there are two erect walls on the north and west sides, and the rest is held up by slender metal poles. From the ceiling (which is a tin roof), there are pipes, and from these pipes hang strung marigold flowers. They grow in abundance here, in bushes - orange, pink, and yellow varieties. The centerpiece was a mini-temple housing a gold-cast Shiva surrounded by a bunch of other business. Well, like, snakes, and tiger faces and stuff, with long tongues, and two other figures. There were many lit candles - no, they weren't candles proper, but lit pieces of fabric. Yes. They douse slim pieces of fabric in an oil, and light them on fire, as seen in the photo above.



We asked the priest if we could come in. He was the only one there. He looked young. He wore only a white cloth from the waist down to his knees. I guessed he was around my age. He said, "yes, come," so we took off our shoes and proceeded toward the center.

I followed Fanny's lead. She sat on her knees so I sat on my bum a couple meters away. Then she got up to look around so a minute later I did the same. It was getting really dark at this point, and we'd have to walk all the way home. "Did you want to go?" she whispered. "Well," I said, "it's not going to get any darker." So we stayed. Then, a truck pulls into the lot outside the temple. Out comes the second priest, the same one who did a ceremony a couple days ago at someone's in-house temple across the street: four men were embarking on a pilgrimage to an ancient temple far away, so they were conducting a service to the local deity, Ayappa (third son of Shiva, god of destruction) to bless their journey. He was happy to see us, I think.

He began the ceremony for Shiva - this was Shiva's temple after all - and after some pleasantries, he crawled into the mini-temple housing the deity cast in gold, and closed the door. When he sat in there, we could see through a crack only see his arm ornamentally flailing about - his hand movements were graceful and beautiful. He poked his head out.

"Om nama Shivaya - do you know?" Fanny and I looked at each other. Yes, we knew. "Please stand, in prayer." He said, "close your eyes. Om nama Shivaya sing, stop when he" - he points at the other priest standing in front of us with a rope in his hand attached to a bell on the ceiling - "makes the sound." The instructions sounded pretty straight forward. "OK. Close your eyes." He closed the doors to his little temple and we began chanting.

From inside he chanted something fast and different from what we said outside. With the bell-bearer chanting, and our slightly self-assured attempts to follow him, our voices reached a fever pitch and the rope was pulled over and over again and the sound rang through my ears and the door of the mini-temple burst open and in his hand was a gold receptacle of fire, moving gently through the air, filling all the space between Shiva and himself, in the air and to the ceiling, everywhere. The other priest took the fire and brought it to us. We put our hands close and brought the smoke to our faces and heads. The priest inside sprinkled water on himself, his other, and on us. Then, we did it again, with a different chant - om namo narayanaya.

As we shut our eyes, he closed the doors. When he opened the doors, we opened our eyes. Fire, then water.

Time for sacred face and body painting. The four of us surround a small table with 3 metal bowls. One contains a fragrant grey ash, another, red powder, and the other is mustard yellow goo. The younger priest points to the grey ash, then to his forehead. So, I dunk my finger in and press the space between my eyes. Same with the red and yellow. Then the other priest, fresh out of the mini-temple oven, puts a dab of grey powder in the palm of our left hands. Water is sprinkled on top. He rubs his hands together, and we do the same. With the grey mud in our hands, we begin another ritual.

With the right ring finger, draw a triangle in the center of the left palm. Inside this triangle. draw the symbol of om. Not lifting this finger, say "om nama Shivaya" eight times. Then the triumvakum mantra three times. Tucking in the right pinky, take three fingers into the mud and streak across forehead, then shoulders, feet - on the "joints," the older priest said, a total of 14 places. "Muscles," the younger one added, flexing his arms and posing like a big strong man. I broke out in laughter. Thus we began the silly portion of this night ritual.

The younger priest led us around the mini-temple. Being so wrapped up in the wonder of the experience I failed to see a step and totally tripped my balls off. He laughed to himself. Whenever we had to move about this step, he always reminded me of its existence. Ha, ha, ha. VERY FUNNY. I see it, OKAY. Anyway. At each side of the mini-temple we put our hands together to pray, then as it sufficed, we moved to the next side. Oh, we also had to leave at one point, for five minutes, about five meters away. I forgot about that.

Earlier that day during morning yoga class, Nitya rolled over and said, "Say 'endande'." "Endande," I said. He wanted me to say it to his nephew Kanan, when he came home from school. What does it mean? "What is it?" or, better translates, "What is this?" He wanted me to say it surprised, but I vouched for angry.

At the temple I decided to try out my new word. "Endande!" I said, kind of like Eureka! because I was having trouble remembering the actual word. They gasped and laughed for a long time. They were so surprised! To be honest, I had no idea what I was saying, but I thought they'd appreciate some Malayalam. Looks like they did! (Nitya later told me that 'endande' is a reprimand directed toward a boy - the priest even asked him later if I thought he was doing something wrong!)

We sat and ate prasad, which is a food offering to a deity (here, Shiva) that is then blessed, and eaten by the temple-goers at the end of the ceremony. The younger priest made the meal. It was so delicious! He was very proud of himself. We ate from banana tree leaves which can just be tossed away after we've finished. Who needs real dishes when you can eat from LEAVES! Yeah! Our first course was popped rice and hard chunks of sweet stuff, like sugar or something. Who cares what it was, it tasted like heaven! The second course was a sweet rice porridge, also mind-blowingly tasty. With our meal we got flowers, which we put into our hair. That's what you're supposed to do, it's not only pretty but an ancient practice. So awesome.

So the four of us sat and "talked." Most of my communication consisted of faces and failed attempts at Malayalam. Many laughs were had.

It can be hard to gauge a person's age in another culture. Fanny had guessed earlier the older priest to be 24. I didn't even try. So, they wanted to know how old we were. Fanny said hers (I'll spare disclosing the number just in case) and I said 20. The younger one put his hand over his mouth. He was surprised. How old were they? The older one was in fact 24 - a perfect guess on Fanny's part. The other? 18. No wonder he was so cheeky.

It was such a fun night, there at the temple. When it was time to go, the younger - okay, they had names but I forgot them - packed the rest of the delicious parsad into little bags for us to take home. Holy deliciousness for the road, yay!

The older priest took us home in his big truck. He talked on the phone to his cousin in Engineering the whole time, even passing the phone to Fanny to talk to her. So funny.

We got in pretty late considering we were only supposed to be taking a walk to town for bottled water and batteries. Nitya said he was ready to put some real clothes on and go for a search. Everything worked out pretty well.

Such a good night!

PS: It was the older priest who said "black beauty, seven beauty," as a way of saying their skin colour is beautiful and wonderful, like the seven wonders of the world.

Life in the Village

As pretty white women, Fanny and I are treated like celebrities here in the village. When we walk down one of the dirt roads in the neighborhood to the main street bus stop, we are always greeted by children who ask us our names and to come into their houses. They're not being creepy, it would simply be a blessing upon their house for us to come in and drink some chai, regardless of the language barrier. Here, guest is god.

Riding the bus is fun and interesting. I haven't been able to take a picture yet because of my daily dissipating fear of drawing attention to myself. Maybe I'll have a shot before the end of my journey. We'll see. It's also very rocky and fast. Like a roller-coaster sometimes!

NOTE: Rode the bus today and felt like taking some pictures - video even! Girls were coming home from school and they were so excited to see us! Showing us off too. We had been sitting when they came on. Here it is custom to give your bags to who ever is sitting if you have been forced to stand. They immediately put their bags in our laps then gasped. The Indian equivalent of OMG AHH HOLY SHIT OMG!!!!! was excitedly uttered.

At the very busy local bus depot

Most vehicles - buses, rickshaws, cars, and even the odd motorbike - have dedications to God or a deity on the top of their wind shield. To protect them, Fanny thinks. Take Jesus, for instance. Jesus is everywhere on the bus. Granted I rode it twice and we think it was the same one each time, but Jesus! Jesus in lights, Jesus with a rosary, Jesus 'splayed across the front. Even the bus company was called "Christmotors."

NOTE: Rode a rickshaw for the first time today. They are motorized - surprising when I imagined they'd look like the sweaty-guy-for-hire contraptions running around Yonge and Dundas Square with a trailing seat for two behind them, but no! Motorized. Though there is only one seat in the front for the driver. And the seat in the back is probably only big enough for two, though we squeezed in five. It's India! Squishing is what we do.

Fanny sitting on my lap

Yesterday Fanny and I got on a bus at a big bus terminal. (PS: I used a public squatting hole to poop and it was actually kind of pleasant. There's a tap to run water under your left hand - I remember thinking, "okay, I'm about to touch my poopy butthole - this is happening. Here we go." And I did it and I felt squeaky clean! Like a shower for my genitals. Very nice!) We stood at the back of the bus. As it moved some men gently told us in Malayalam that we should stand in front. Someone eventually translated and said, "it's not law, but here usually women stand at the front of the bus and men stand in the back." Nitya said this morning that it may be to prevent trouble. We moved, and the rest of the ride went smoothly.

I have to get off the computer now. When I got here I was greeted with the news that the computer had broken and that I'd have to go to internet cafes in the city to update. That's what I did yesterday. Today though, everything is fixed! It's glorious. I still have so much to tell. Like going to the temple yesterday. So amazing! We're all going into the city now and hopefully I'll be able to get my own outfit. I'm still wearing Fanny's "Punjabi Suit." And also a bunch of other things. I'm excited! We're taking a rickshaw.

I hope everything is going well at home. Everything is awesome here.

Here are some photos from our trip yesterday.

An amazingly ornate fruit display at a roadside stand

Me enjoying a fresh sita fruit

Fanny on our walk back to Nitya's

And here's a lady walking a goat!

Here!!

Nitya's surprisingly gorgeous village estate

Everything is amazing so far. Nitya's house is a beautiful 6 bedroom home with banana and coconut plants on the property growing in abundance.

Me n' a tree

My room is huge and has two big windows. There is no glass, it's all open air. The view is incredible and the sunrise in the morning is just great. Just great!

Room with a view

The most amazing thing has to be this: while Nitya and I thought up some travel plans Fanny came walking up to the property. Fanny!!! The same Fanny who got me a job at Pain Perdu, teaches my mom yoga, and has been traveling India since September! FANNY!! I was so happy to see her. Later on we went into town and got some chai at a cafe.

Beautiful, beautiful Fanny

I have to get going, so here are some pictures:

Found on the road to town:

Hanging out in the backyard before dinner:


An outfit Fanny's let me borrow 'til I get my own garb!

Yoga this morning: amazing!

On my way

I don't even know where to begin! Okay. I'll start from Chennai airport. Landed in India around 12:30 am after a nine and a half hour flight from Brussels. I will say this: Jet Airways is incredible. Good food, good distractions. It was a very pleasant flight and everything ran smoothly.

I had 6 hours to wait until my flight to the final destination of Cochin. As I was still in an airport, I felt insulated from the "real" India. Airports all have the same sanitized whitewash. But, outside was different. In order to get to the departures from the arrivals, we all had to walk through a corridor outside. The automatic doors opened. Thick hot air hit my nostrils and a flood of people were smooshed (there are no other words) against a long hip and chest-high metal pole holding signs and flowers. They looked like fans at a red carpet event. Very emotional and enthusiastic about whoever was coming out of the airport.

I kept my head down. I knew they were looking at me but I didn't want to return any glances. I kept walking, stopping to take a picture of a giant crow, then entered the departures section of the airport. There were men in khakis sporting giant guns on their hips standing at the entrance. I showed them my passport and they let me through.

I sat in designated waiting area and started to get really hungry and very thirsty. I was dying for water. In front of me was a "drinking water" station, and my thought flow went a little like this:



No no no no can't drink the water will get sick but I'm soooooo thirsty no no no no a sip no no can't can't water water so thirsty nooooooooooo etc.

I had to get up and find some bottled water. There was a cafe behind me but they only took rupees and I had none. Only travellers checks and a visa. I also just wanted to walk around after such a long flight. I asked one of the armed khaki men if the Duty Free was open. He said something I assume meant no so I walked aimlessly around for a couple minutes until flopping into a chair in another designated waiting area. I sat beside the right person.

Her name started with D. Didli? Digli? Dindi? I remember thinking it sounded like a dessert. As soon as I sat down she asked me where I was going. I told her Cochin. Where am I from? Toronto. Am I in school? Yes, and for what? English and Relgion. So, I asked her a couple questions. Were are you going? Kottayam. Where are you from? Winnipeg. Oh Winnipeg! Wow! Yay! What do you do there? I'm a retired radiology technician. Cool! Then I told her how I ended up there, in this seat beside her: I was thirsty. "Thirsty? Oh, well I have rupees. When my husband comes back I'll go with you to get some water." Oh fuck yeah!

We went to the little cafe pavilion I was too afraid to go to before. We didn't see anyone manning the station. On an office chair there was a blob of blue material that expanded in and out. We realized there was a human in there. "Excuse me," D said softly. I tried to be helpful by tapping on the sandwich glass, but that did nothing to wake her up and I felt generally useless. "Miss," she said, "hello?" Another customer came up to the glass. D took matters into her own hands. She hopped over the partition and tapped the blob. A bewildered head arose. A very pretty young woman, probably my age, had been sleeping on the job. It's 3:00 am and she's doing the night shift - I don't blame her for passing out.

We got some water and went back to our seats. At 4:00 am we could pass through security, which we did. Before that though, I wanted to change my clothes. I disliked what I was wearing, and even though I was comfortable, somehow baggy "pajama" pants (my dad's comment at the airport) seemed inappropriate in a public place where the women look like goddesses. So I proceeded to the bathroom. I opened the stall door and...

Surprise!

Oh! A porcelain hole in the ground! I was told to expect this, but wow! Really! Just like that, eh? Okay then. I stepped out and decided I'd change in the open area of the bathroom. The stall floor was wet and that grossed me out just a little. Horrific but hilarious. I can get used to this.

After that, D's husband (who was similarly awesome) got hungry. We looked around and they didn't like their options, so they asked, "Do you want to come for a walk?" Oh, yes. We wandered into an elevator that took us to the buffet reserved for "Premiere" passengers only. They shrugged their shoulders and continued in. It was empty. A short man with a thick black moustache greeted us as we took in the place and ventured inside. How much for a meal, D asked. 253 rupees, the man responded. And how much for coffee? 70 rupees. "Oh, it's 20 downstairs, did you know that?" He shook his head a bit and said yes. I loved D's sass in a big way. She was so great.

Two hundred and fifty-three rupees is worth $5 Canadian, so I forked over a five dollar bill, "for when you get back," I said. I proceeded to the buffet which looked pretty Western with its fruit salad and corn flakes, but unique with its rice patties and coconut chutney. Everything tasted pretty good. I felt like a very lucky princess up there.

D, her husband, and the empty luxury buffet.

Not too long after, we boarded our little plane. They sat in 2A and B, and I sat at 5A. They really took care of me! I thanked them for taking me in and we went our separate ways on the plane. It just so happened I was seated beside the only other white person on the plane.



His name was Rob and he hailed from Australia. We had a nice conversation. It made two hours breeze by. I found it difficult to gauge his age - he was blonde, blue-eyed, and wore skate shorts and a bright purple t-shirt. He was a sk8rb0i through and through! He skin looked severely unwashed, and for good reason: he had been travelling in India for two months. Kerala was his final destination, and instead of taking the bus or train as he had been doing, he wanted to take a break from the dust and crowdedness of public transportation. I would say he was between 25-30 years old.

I got more and more excited as the time to land drew nearer. Having talked to nice people along the way really amped me up - I was acutely aware that the happiness I was feeling as I bounced up and down and clapped my hands was due to this guy and the couple sitting two rows ahead. Considering I hadn't slept at all during the night, I was very chipper. Conversation as healing, yeah!

We got off the plane. I grabbed my bag off the conveyor belt, and walked to the exit. I saw Nitya in the crowd behind the bar.

Nitya!

We walked into a car with a little boy, and went towards Trissur. The boy jumped into the driver's seat which I thought was a joke until I realized here, the driver's seat is on the right. I was looking for my seat belt when Nitya said, "Don't bother. Nobody does that here." Okay! There were palm trees, coconut trees, lush greenness everywhere. They drive on the left (generally...) and instead of following the law of traffic lights, they honk their horns when they want to let you know they exist. It seems eratic, but when I asked Nitya if car accidents were common, he said they were rare. Interesting!