sybarites

Dawn, previously used for sleep, is now a time for sitting at bus stations, haggling with rickshaw drivers, groggily chatting with new friends or, in the case of Junagadh, marking the half way point on a hike up the side of a mountain. Hindus and Jains climb the 10,000 steps of Ginar Hill, rocky and tall enough for me to call a mountain, for pilgrimages, such as couples recently married who wish to ensure a happy marriage. Those too old, too pregnant or too fat, whether tourist or Indian, hire two strong men with a pole and a sling to carry them to the top. This feat amazed us to the point where Janet, when she couldn’t resist taking a picture, was subjected to the stink eye from an elderly passenger .

Arriving in Junagadh the previous dawn with a lonesome Austrian traveller we met on the train, the three beds in the only available room suggested we should share and become friends. Francizca joined us on the trek up the hill, our calves crying and quivering much of the way, to find hills fading into the distance. We decided against climbing to the second peak, requiring another 700 step decent before a 1200 step ascent, as viewing that peak’s small temple was more appealing than a climb we may never have been able to finish. Instead, we opted for a cup of hot chai at a hilltop stall, well stocked with water and oil by porters of all ages and both sexes who climb that mountain in bare feet while balancing their heavy load of goods atop their heads.

Darkness obscured the view and our skin color for most of the way up, but on the way down, Indian tourists stopped us four times, several cameras being produced along with a request to take our picture, for which I jokingly started quoting at ten rupees. Of course, we took many photos of the people climbing the hill and of one happy, little guy who jumped around shouting “Photo! Photo!” until Janet took his picture.

More than once, Marc has been asked to participate in a game of cricket. However, neither one of us has the slightest clue how to play so instead, we take a seat on the sidelines and watch. Like this game, played by some boys in Junagadh in front of a fairy-tale mosque from the 16th century. Nevermind that the wandering goats sometimes interfere with play or that a ‘homerun’ means a ball whacked into heavy traffic outside the gate, they were happy to show off their cricketing for us.

The little girls near the market were much more shy.

Ahmedabad isn’t really renowned among tourists as anything special. As a hub in between Mumbai and Rajasthan, it serves the travelling crowd well with several hotels, but doesn’t offer a lot of excitement. It is chokingly polluted – so much so that at times it was difficult to breath for the exhaust fumes – noisy and bustling but we had read about a great restaurant serving Gujarati thali so we had to give it a try.

Thali wasn’t something I was really familiar with before we visited India as I hadn’t seen it on menus in Indian restaurants before, which is basically the limit of my knowledge of Indian food. We read that it is kind of an all-you-can-eat tray of various foods and sauces but that leaves a lot of room for interpretation. Also, the thalis vary according to region and we heard that Gujarati thalis were quite unique.

So, with anticipation of trying something new and delicious, we dressed up in our Indian finery (me in my new salwar kameez and Marc in his new polyester dress pants and sandals) and walked over to the House of MG Restaurant on the rooftop terrace of a heritage hotel.

In the lobby, we were presented with two set menus from which to choose: thali or deluxe thali. Each menu listed a string of dishes of which we had never heard so we just shrugged and selected ‘thali’. We were then led upstairs to the covered part of the terrace where the first course of veg pakoras and some kind of corn bread-y stuff was served with a coriander yogurt and a green, anise-flavoured juice. (We had stupidly forgotten the camera and were correct, it turns out, in thinking that we wouldn’t remember the names for any of the foods.)

Next, we were ushered onto the main dining terrace, lit with candles and decorated with small palms and ferns. At this point, we were given a menu of the meal which was about to be served (of little help to us stupid foreigners- for us, it read as “Eat the barblekurt with the skolwot”) and two small pages of instructions on how to eat thali. If not for that instruction sheet, we would have been entirely lost. As it was, we were pretty challenged by the whole affair. Unfortunately, it was a bit early so there were no other guests which meant that there was no-one else whom we could observe and copy.
First, they set a large stainless tray in front of each of us on which were placed four small stainless bowls. Each bowl contained a sauce/soup: yellow and savoury (dal?), white and sweetened, another savoury and something else with lentils. Then came two more serving dishes, one with a raw vegetable salad and one, a tray of condiments: spicy, jammy, raw onions, limes, and lime relish. With all this on our table, we had absolutely no idea where to begin; do we serve ourselves some salad? eat one of the soups, or are they actually sauces? select some of the garnishes for our plates? wait for more food? Oh yes, and there was a glass of salted buttermilk with floaties to drink.

The instructions, to which we referred for about the tenth time, said that thali is eaten with the hands, which we already knew, but that there are a number of rules to follow with regard to which hand is used for what. Right hand for eating, left for serving and drinking; but what about the soups? Do we dip stuff into the sauces with our fingers even though its hot? It was 80% mystery. Besides a couple of spoons for serving, we had no other utensils and, therefore, no choice but to just dive.

Eventually, we were served some chapatis which we knew we could tear into pieces and use to scoop up bites of food, and about four other servings of vegetables – bean salad, cauliflower stuff, eggplant stuff, something else… – and another couple of side-dishes/bowls with spiced yogurt and something else. It must seem obvious that we had virtually no idea what we were eating. But, fumbling though we were, it was all, without exception, very tasty thali and we ate until we were obscenely full.

The last challenge came in the form of paan. I’ve read about this in novels but could never discern what it was; it can be sweet, I knew, and could contain tobacco but that isn’t enough description to actually determine what paan is. Again, we had to pantomime our ignorance to one of the wait staff who demonstrated that the betel leaves wrapped into triangles around ‘something’ were meant to be eaten and swallowed as a kind of digestive. I took a big bite of one and learned that paan is filled with various spicy bits (anise and clove were the only two I could recognize) and menthol. I must have chewed for ten minutes before being able to swallow. That was my first, and will be my last, experience with paan.

At least we have pictures of a couple of things we ordered when we returned to the informal, ground-floor garden part of the restaurant. Never a disappointing dish.

We had a new India train experience with the sellers on-board.  Many, many people walked through the train cars selling toys, snacks, drinks, coffee and endless amounts of chai, but there were a few people that puzzled us.  Four women in bright orange saris walked through the aisle loudly clapping in the faces of the passengers as they smiled and asked for money.  They weren’t selling anything but some people gave them some small change.  They asked me for 30 Rupees and when I smiled and shook my head ‘no’, one woman smiled and pinched my cheek and kept walking.  Odd.

It was only much later that we learned that these were the mysterious ‘third sex’ in India.  There are no gay men, only men who like other men and who dress as women and ‘perform’ as entertainers for money.  The clapping was their entertainment and this was their method for earning money in a country where they are not able to be openly gay but are able to live acceptably as a third sex.   Something very new for us.

I recognize that perhaps not everyone shares the same experience of train travel in India. I suspect that some voyages are rather enjoyable, offering some pretty scenery and pleasant company with whom to pass the time. Probably, some people are able to happily get a good night’s sleep and wake up refreshed as they arrive at an exciting new destination. However, this little resembles our first train experience.

The train left Goa two hours late. As we have no schedule, this was hardly an issue and it was a warm and sunny day to wait on an outdoor platform. We met another traveller, a Brit named Tom, who would be sitting/sleeping nearby and it was nice to talk to somebody new. Then we boarded the train.

It was full – which was expected – but not to the point where our seats were taken. So, we and our backpacks squished onto the bench seats with the other men already there and the train departed; only 20 hours to go.

It turned out that even though we had booked sleeper berths, they cannot be used during the day as they are folded back so that passengers can sit up. The seats are 90 degrees and do not recline. The windows were open so that the hot air could circulate and luckily we were on the shaded side and luckily the scenery really was quite beautiful. I didn’t feel comfortable rumaging around in my backpack while 10 people watched so I didn’t use my iPod or read my book for the whole journey. Mostly, it was sitting and looking out the window. Occasionally, we chatted with Tom and the fellow sitting next to me but otherwise, we just sat. Twenty hours is a long time to sit.

On the plus side, there was hot and spicy food served on board. We were able to get a couple of meals of biryani and masala with chapati to break up the hours and fill our stomachs. But it was hard to throw all our trash out the window. The man next to me assured me that this is how it is done here, but it still felt strange.

When we were finally able to fold down our berths, that was when the cockroaches came out. They were few, and most were quite small, but that made it hard for me to sleep; I started at every tiny tickle I felt on my arms and feet. There was little sleep.

We will be travelling by train often in the near future. Perhaps I will get used to it.

Several travellers that we met while in Goa recommended that we visit a place called Hampi in the neighbouring province of Karnataka. After having suffered the overnight bus ride from Mumbai, we were understandably less than anxious to repeat the experience but decided we really couldn’t miss it.

Luckily, our bus experience was considerably better owing to better seats, open windows and a direct connection. We arrived at this tiny place, which is mostly World Heritage Site, and had a couple of enjoyable days visiting the various pretty temples and hiking around the village and the river that flows nearby. It was very peaceful, a place where the power goes out regularly, the cows and dogs wander in the streets and the people still use the main temple and the 13th c. bazaar.

The rooftop restaurant of our guesthouse afforded a great view of the largest temple in the village but also had a view onto the patio of a family living on the top floor of the next building. It was interesting to see a bit of their morning routine as we ate our breakfast and they ate theirs. There was a small outhouse-style bathroom on their roof which we identified by the mirror tacked up outside it and the toothbrushes resting on a ledge of the ancient wall. One morning, we saw a woman carry a heavy bucket out of the bathroom and then noticed that it contained a small girl. It was her bathtime but she kept getting distracted by her older brother playing with a beach ball nearby. Eventually, the bath was forgotten as she stood up in her bucket and called for her brother to bring her the ball each time she tossed it away.

The next morning, we watched a troop of monkeys visited their patio. No-one was outside so the monkeys helped themselves to a bit of the left over food on the table and one of them couldn’t leave the mirror alone. It was funny, but we were helpless to stop one male from gently pushing the empty Coke bottles onto the floor and watching them smash. Finally, a woman inside came out with a stick and chased them all away.

That was our big entertainment as the village is “dry” and we won’t see any alcohol until we are back in Goa.

P.S. We just saw a pig eat a dead cat in the street.

What good luck, we had most enjoyable flight to Mumbai.

What bad luck, I felt nauseous upon arrival because of the anti-malaria pills.

What good luck, in Mumbai, we went to the Mahesh Lunch Home for a fantastic, and extremely reasonable lunch of Indian food and beer before walking to the train station.

What bad luck, we wander through the hot and crowded train station looking fruitlessly for a way to buy a ticket.

What good luck, we found a friendly person to help us check the availability of the train we needed to Goa, a province along the South coast.

What bad luck, we learned that all the trains for the next week were full.

What good luck, we were able to buy overnight bus tickets for the next day, instead.

What bad luck, we endured the most awful night in recent memory trying to survive the 16 hour bus ride*.

What good luck, we met a couple on the bus from Holland (Nicole) and Italy (Stefano) with whom we were able to share a taxi from Margao, where we arrived, to Palolem, a most excellent beach.  Double good luck, we spent many a lovely evening over food and drinks with our new friends.

What bad luck, by the time we arrived at Palolem, we had not eaten for 24hrs.

What good luck, we found the perfect hut right on the sand for the perfect price of ten dollars per night.

What good luck, the ocean is as warm as bath water, the restaurants are on the beachfront and the food is marvelous!

What good luck, the sunsets are exquisite.

* How To Prepare For An Overnight Bus Trip in India

1. Locate a large touring bus outfitted with slim sleeping berths on each side and fill it with sweaty tourists; make sure the feet smell especially sweaty.
2. Put the bus in an extremely hot and dusty environment, like, say, the pot-holed roads of rural Manitoba in the summertime.
3. Seal all the windows in the bus and make sure the air conditioning is broken, the shocks are shot and that the engine is loud and runs hot, thereby adding to the heat inside the bus.
4. Lay down in a lower berth at the back of the bus; nevermind the dirt and/or various insects, some of which may or may not be cockroaches.
5. Ride the bus like this for sixteen straight hours, taking advantage of one of the two bathrooms stops, conveniently placed at a) 1hr. after leaving origin, or  b) at your destination.
6. Complain about the air conditioning, for which you paid extra, but resign yourself to the heat.
7. Do not throw up.
8. Try to get some sleep.

We’ve been dreaming about eating Indian food for months and now that we are finally here, it hasn’t disappointed. Cheap, flavourful, and varied, it’s fine dining on a college student budget.

We love saucy paneer and chicken masala, but we are also looking for unexpected surprises. Our first pick of a restaurant was all I hoped Indian food could be: a seafood restaurant with many dishes I had never heard. The crispy  jumbo prawns had a light spicy sauce that reminded my of Thai food. We’ve taken to simply ordering random items off menus which led to the discovery of chicken muglai, stuffed potatoes with cashew gravy, and kadai mushrooms.

A couple of the tourist restaurants have taken a unique or fusion approach to their dishes. The Blue Planet at Palolem is an organic restaurant with many breakfast dishes including fruit salad with nuts, muesli with fruit and an Indian fruit pancake with orange date sauce or cinnamon yogurt. Lunch featured spinach lasagna with a side of avocado cream, a salsa with a consistency of creamed corn.

The Mango Tree in Hampi is nearly as special for it’s food as it is for it’s view. We walked through a banana plantation to find a restaurant with seating terraced into the side of a river valley and a huge mango tree providing shade over the entire area.

There, we tried our first thali, a tray of sauces, beans, rice and fried flat bread. Just when I thought I knew what was in the special curry I find another vegetable or nut. We may need to return to the Mango tree for further exploration of the menu.

I had been worried about tiring of one style of food quickly, but Janet was confident of her continued enthusiasm. She was right.

Not even an hour after our 4:00 a.m. arrival in Mumbai, I was able to compose a mental list of things we had never seen before:

• an airport with no ATM;
• an old-style taxi like the ones I’ve seen only in movies set in India;
  
• so many people sleeping outside on the sidewalks, so many people;
• random cows crossing the road at an intersection (we weren’t in a rural area by any stretch; this was in Mumbai!);
• a queue of taxis on a bridge that were all tricked out with flowers, flashy decals and blue neon lights;
• five people at the door of the hotel awaiting late-night arrivals.

After 12 hours, we were surpised by even more things:

• the furious heat of midday in Mumbai;
• the man who climbed the coconut trees along Marine Drive to collect the nuts and lower them by a rope and pulley to the ground;
  
• the spoken and written English everywhere;
• the monkey out for a walk on a leash;
• the bright coloured clothing that so many people wear;
  
  
• the smell of spices, traffic, chai, cows, and detritis in one breath;
• the exhausting length of a Bollywood film, in Hindi.

The food is delicious at every turn.

Yet more new experiences did we encounter on our flight from Istanbul to India. We had hardly neared our destination when we started to notice some differences from the international flights that we’ve been used to so far.

Firstly, I heard what I believe was Arabic being spoken by the crew of our Qatar Airways flight. I’ve never heard that language before.

Secondly, we noticed that, at the rear of the plane, there was a specially designated area for praying. As many people of Qatar are Muslim, the national airline will make allowances for people who must pray on-the-go.

Thirdly, we learned something new about this airline. As our flight took us directly over the Middle East (probably the closest we’ll ever come to Iraq) we started wondering, and kind of joking, about how one would pray in the direction of Mecca whilst most likely flying right over it. Does one pray in the ‘last known direction’, or downwards? Little did we know that Qatar Airways was prepared for the question. When not showing movies, the TV screens flashed through flying statistics and the plane’s location overland, ETA, etc. much the same as any other flight. However, they also displayed the real-time direction of Mecca in relation to the the aircraft.

Fourthly, if you’re ever travelling as a non-Muslim on a flight where the majority of passengers are Muslim, there’s no problem getting more than one bottle of complimentary wine.