Taiwan translated

One of the first marks we made on our dining room world map was a big "do not enter" symbol over China. Neither of us had a strong desire to visit China, but more worrisome were the number of letters I'd posted to the Chinese government regarding various human rights abuses. Not sure if you've noticed but they don't take that stuff too well, and I figured they just might be organized enough to have my name on some, shut-these-people-up list. Either way, a risk I'd just as soon avoid.

Coincidentally, a small island off the coast of China was starred as a definite stop. Before now, Taiwan was a place I usually saw after the words, "Made in", and beyond that I knew very little about the country except that Aran's Uncle moved there and loved it.

With all that said, I naturally had minimal expectations and was happy just to be hanging out with Paul and his girlfriend, Eigi.

As we boarded our flight to Taiwan, I noticed most of the passengers held passports that read, 'Republic of China - Taiwan'. Admittedly, I didn't realize how complicated relations were between Taiwan and their land-based neighbour to the North. Curiosity led me to some (albeit, questionable) Wiki research.

Taiwan is considered the Republic of China, whereas mainland China is the People's Republic of China, where they do not recognize the government of Taiwan as legit. From the sounds of it, Taiwan's status is up for discussion. It's touchy, but right now the majority of Taiwanese seem happy to be independent of China. And from what I can see, Taiwan is doing alright on their own.

One of Eigi's favourite past times is listening to radio and TV forums that openly criticize the current Taiwan government, so they've embraced freedom of speech a lot better than China. In the Olympics, you'll recognize Taiwan as Chinese Taipei. Unfortunately, due to pressure from big bad China, the international community has not embraced Taiwan as part of the UN, (but North Korea is allowed in the club? Go figure), nor have they allowed Taiwan membership with the World Health Organization.

But as Eigi would say, "That's okaaay".

And so we have had the opportunity to experience Chinese flavours, culture, and language, without me risking jail when speaking my mind!

Living and travelling around the country with Paul and Eigi has given us insight that we would have otherwise missed. And I am so happy we came here.

I think Aran would agree that our favourite moments have been in and around Kaohsiung, visiting local spots with local folks.

Our first Sunday in Taiwan, we enjoyed some good eating with Eigi`s family. We watched as Eigi's mom and Uncle Jojo prepared 'ground chicken' by building an oven out of dirt and stones. Then they buried seven whole chickens along with cobs of corn, eggs and sweet potatoes in the ground to cook. After a few hours of drinking beer and eating soup and noodles, it was time for dinner! Out came the shovels and the delicate process of unearthing our meal began. We carted everything in wheelbarrows and buckets through the guava orchard back to the house, where the 'digging in' continued. Forget the chopsticks, we followed suit as the family dug in with their hands, tearing apart the chickens and munching away.

Uncle Jojo was toasting us every few minutes and then banging back his pijiu (pee-jo), aka beer, along with a family friend who kept looking at Aran, saying "shaui ge", which means, handsome brother, a term of respect, but it sounded more like Slugger, so we stuck with that. Actually, we've been playing the "sounds like" game a lot in Taiwan. Making up English phrases that sound like Taiwanese or Mandarin. For example, when we go into 7-11 for the usual "B-double E-double R-U-N, Beer run, Beer run", we're always greeted with "huan ying guang ling", which means, "thank you for gracing our door with your presence". Aran, being the goofball that he is, shouts an enthusiastic, "Good Morning!", in return, which is exactly what the Mandarin sounds like, but makes absolutely no sense for him to say.

Aran, Paul and Jojo got good and drunk. And we had a blast trying to repeat Taiwanese (not to be confused with Mandarin) phrases back to them. I'm proud to say I can now tell the difference when listening to old ladies chat on the bus! We learned, "say say", for thank you, which is very close to the Mandarin, "xie xie", (sheh-sheh), and, "wa ga yi", for I like that. And if we got the pronunciation right? Well, we just made their day! Excited laughter and clapping ensued, followed by "Gan bei!", Taiwanese for "Bottoms up", to initiate chugging another glass of beer. I'd be bilingual if French class had been this fun.

When dinner was over, a fire was lit to cook up some fish...why not eh? It was so fresh and delicious and we all picked at it with our chopsticks until every bit was gone.

A week later we got to spend another awesome night with Eigi's fam. This time for birthday celebrations at KTV. Imagine a small room, the walls lined with couches all surrounding huge tables covered with loads of food. Add about 20 Taiwanese people, 3 Canadians and a lot of beer and you’ve got yourself a good night in Taiwan. That was my birthday party. Turns out I share the same birthday as Eigi's niece, Sandra, so it was a double party. Taiwan beer for the adults, and flavoured fruit beer for the kids.

Drunk Uncle Jojo sang classic Taiwanese tunes and Eigi danced while belting out energetic beats! The teenagers stuck to sappy love songs and in between, Aran, Paul and I picked out some tunes from the limited selection, including Que-sera-sera, Man on the Moon, Ob-la-di-ob-la-da and Ticket to Ride! The highlight of the night was the birthday song, all in Taiwanese except for the bit that goes, "Happy Bursa-day! Ha! ha! ha! Hey! Hey! Hey!". I say, 'bursa', because the Taiwanese don't do the 'th' sound, and so, 'bursa', it is. We have been singing this song randomly since that wonderfully, hilarious night.

 

This trend of drinking has encouraged some exercise and as such, we’ve been going for runs early in the morning through the local guava farms and little villages, made up of a few houses and a temple. I'd look forward to the corner where an old Taiwanese man and his friends would be sitting, without fail, under the same tree, ready to give us the thumbs up and shouts, "jia you!!", literally, "add oil", encouraging us to keep going!

And everyday, Paul has been teaching us plenty about Mandarin and recognizing essentials like Beef Noodles, and Homestay. Our lessons have not been limited to words and signs, but ensuring we pronounce the the tones correctly, which can make a big difference in what you are saying. We've learned that Chinese characters represent ideas, not words or sentences like English. The symbol for bike, for example, is literally translated as 'iron horse'. And trains are 'fire vehicles'. My favourites are 'straight up machine' for a helicopter and 'very door' for the emergency exit. 'Western gourd' is a watermelon, while 'grape teeth' means Portugal. Are you laughing yet?

We have been. The hilarity in translation is everywhere. Like in the well-intentioned signs translated into English for tourists. See right for an awesome example we found at a rest stop during one of many road trips around the island.

And while Mandarin is a language with a structure very different from what we know, I wish so much that I knew how to speak it as well as Paul does. I wish I could chat with the old ladies on the bus. I wish I could ask Eigi and her mom questions and really tell them how awesome their food tastes. I love the Taiwanese people. So friendly and welcoming, always willing to talk away to you in their language even though you have no idea what they’re saying.

Then again, it doesn’t take a genius to understand kindness and sincerity, so the language barrier here hasn’t been too tough to handle.

 

Xie xie, Paul and Eigi

Bad judgment in Cambodia

Ever judge a book by its cover?

I have.

It was 8 am, the morning of our departure from Laos, when we slid down the river bank and climbed unsteadily on board a little wooden motorboat. After a couple stops at the surrounding islands, we enjoyed a breezy ride back to the mainland, the sun rising slowly through the ancient trees scattered along the edges of the Mekong. These were the first and last peaceful moments of the day.

At the port in Ban Nakasang our driver navigated between the packed shoreline, gently bumping other boats out of the way. We walked through the little port town, buzzing with life, and stopped in a dusty parking lot where we waited with the other Westerners en route to Cambodia.

When a small Lao man began barking orders for everyone to hand over their passports for a Cambodian visa, unlike the rest of the sheep, we opted to pass through immigration on our own. Tossing my passport into a plastic bag carried by someone I'd never met before didn't exactly give me warm fuzzies.

No one had any idea what was going until about an hour later when we were led up the road to a lonely parking lot where we piled on to a big bus.
Fifteen minutes later we arrived at the border. Out of 60 tourists, only 8 of us (me, Aran, 4 hippie French guys and a couple from Germany) went through immigration on our own, the rest simply got out and walked over into Cambodia.

Let the overcharging begin!

First it was $2 each, to get stamped out of Laos. One guy told the immigration officials they were bastards while Aran tried a lighter approach, shaking his head like a disappointed parent, telling them it was a shame what they were doing. Either way we didn't have much option as they had the stamp we needed. 

Now I'm sure some of you are thinking...what's a few bucks here and there? And while I don't mind giving a local artisan a fair price for their goods, I do have a beef with government officials overcharging. Considering how many people cross the border daily, the dollars would add up. And I'm pretty sure these immigration guys aren't exactly sharing the wealth with their fellow citizens.

Barely a few steps into Cambodia we were intercepted by the "health check" guy who corralled us over to the quarantine tent, where we would no doubt be charged to get our temperature taken. Well I was ready for them! "I have my immunizations", I proclaimed, wielding my bright, yellow fever card and waving it in the air as proof. That managed to work and we moved on.

As we approached the Immigration hut, a conversation came reeling back through my mind. We were enjoying coffee shakes and huge chocolate chip cookies, rewards, following a kayak mishap in Vang Vieng, Laos, that left me dizzy and stitched up, when a big burly English man sat down with us. During our sugar high, he regaled us with tales of his travels - having visited Laos over 15 times he had lots of advice and stories, including one which involved crossing the Laos-Cambodia border. He told us how he had argued with the immigration officers over $5USD and when they threatened him with jail, he called their bluff, refusing to move unless he paid the correct price. I remember thinking, this guys is nutso! Jail? In Cambodia? Thanks, but I'll just pay the extra five bucks. Not exactly the "real" Cambodian experience I'm after. In the end they let him through without the extra charge.

So when the immigration officers calmly indicated the visa cost $25USD each we acted surprised and confuddled!

"Hmm", Aran muses and looks at me. "I thought the cost for each visa was twenty dollars, eh Renee?"

"Hmm", I reply. "Yes, Aran I thought so too. Mr. Immigration man, are you sure that's correct? Was there a recent increase?".

Their explanation was that the extra $5 was for the stamps we need in our passport.

"Wow!" Aran exclaims, "that is one expensive stamp...more expensive than the ink they're using back in Laos. Are you sure some of that isn't helping pay for that huge gold watch you're wearing?".

Unprepared to risk incarceration, we left it at that and paid $25USD each. Welcome to Cambodia.

 

Then the real fun began!

For two and a half hours we sat in the blazing sun, as a steady stream of tourists crossed the border to join us. Lots of tourists and no buses.

When a bus eventually pulled up, everyone got up and got their packs on, slowly calculating that this bus would hold, at most, 60 people and there had to be at least 150 of us.

A crowd gathered around the bus asking the only guy who seemed to be in charge, where the bus was going and who was supposed to get on it.

"All people with white ticket!", he yells. And the uniform response from the group was, "We ALL have a white ticket!!".

Cue chaos.

Aran and I sought out the "boss man", who was stuffing his face, probably for free, in one of the restaurants where he left loads of tourists for a few hours. He had his money and was completely disinterested in figuring out a solution.

The smart people were loading their bags and grabbing a seat. Just as Aran got our packs crammed into the undercarriage, it was announced that this bus was destined for Phnom Penh - not where we were going. A blessing in any case as there were no seats left.

By this point I was losing my mind. Ready to lash out at any one in this obvious scam. Overwhelmed at the disorganization, when organization is what I thrive on. And perplexed at how something so simple could be so messed up.

Lucky for us, a minivan arrived to take people to smaller towns like Ban Lung, where only a handful of people, including us, were headed. Ban Lung was the closest destination. Those going to bigger cities like Phnom Penh, Sihanoukville or Siem Reap had at least a 10-12 hour bus ride ahead of them and it was already 2pm. Likely their driver would stop in some random town, claiming it was too late to drive, but not to worry because his buddy has a guesthouse, leaving the passengers no choice but to pay an exorbitant amount for a room, while forfeiting the money already pre-paid for accomodation elsewhere.

I thought for sure we'd be off when all the Ban Lung-bound people had found our van, instead we sat for another hour watching the frustration and confusion mount, all while the engine was running.

Several people continued to fight for a seat as we left. The only big bus had bags and suitcases loaded in the aisles, and people were sitting on top of the piles. There was simply no more room and no more vehicles. When a guy in our van starting joking and laughing at those stranded, I was out of patience and I lost it! "Really!? You're laughing? Pretty funny when others are stuck and you're set. Could you be more of an ass?". Aran sat frozen and praying no one assumed we were together, while I coaxed my heart rate back to normal.

An hour and a half later we pulled over at the side of the highway at some major junction where - you guessed it! - we were dumped once again. Nothing around but a restaurant. I dragged my bag under the shade of tree, determined not to buy anything. Our driver points to his watch and says, "you wait, one hour", and then he was gone.

While we waited Aran and I sat under the tree, eating creameos (yes, creameos not oreos) and plotting our escape from this corrupt country, unprepared to travel like this for the 3 weeks we had planned.

A couple of hours later, a bus pulled over on the other side of the highway and sure enough, a little Cambodian man starts waving wildly at us. To my surprise this was indeed our final ride to Ban Lung.

At the end of the day, a trip that should have taken 4 hours took the better part of 10.

I was still cooling down a couple days later when we visited Crater Lake. Surrounded by dense forests, I found a sense of peace as we swam with giggling, laughing Cambodian teenage girls, who had jumped in, life jackets on, fully clothed.

This wasn’t the Cambodia that crossed me. This was Cambodia winning me back.

And as the days passed, I often thought back to this experience and how I let it shape my image of the country as a whole before I got a chance to know Cambodia a bit better. Before spotting the endangered Irrawaddy dolphins, before the haunting history lessons of the Khmer Rouge, before waving hello at farmers working their fields as I rode horseback through their village, before the temples of Angkor left us awestruck...

Imagine what you can miss by judging too quickly.

Traveled in Thailand

Two more sleeps in Bangkok and then we say goodbye to Southeast Asia. I had hoped to blog more in the last couple of months. Usually with all that traveling there's some obstacle that makes for a good story, but here in Southeast Asia it's been pretty easy.

And in Thailand, its been too easy in fact.

Back in Malawi, we met a couple who told us after Africa and India, Southeast Asia would be a breeze, especially Thailand.

And they had the perfect term for it.

Traveled.

They said, "you don't travel in Thailand, you get traveled".

At the time we laughed about it but it is so true.

We don't have to think here. It's all done for us. "Wrapped up in a nice, neat little package", as Homer would say.

The Thais know you're
thirsty before you do

To catch a bus in Africa, meant dealing with 30 touts yelling and pulling you in different directions, all while accusing each other of being liars, to the point you weren't sure where you'd end up or if a bus was even coming. In India, we spent full days in the reservation office planning our train travel, pushing and elbowing our way to the ticket window multiple times, only to have to box out the locals, like I was back in the key during high school basketball, as they pushed their orders and yelled over your shoulder!

But here, you're practically hand-held as the Thais shuttle you through your trip. Everyone is arranging everything for you. They know where you're going before you do. 

As we walked into a bus station, a little Thai lady walks up to us, points and exclaims, "Chiang Mai!". Aran and I look at each other like, "how the hell did she know that?!?".

The tourist trail is fairly well established here. It's "traveled".

Sometimes it works out nicely for us though. We bought a ride from Chiang Mai to Chiang Rai from the enthusiastic and pushy staff at our guesthouse, and it included a stop at the White Temple. We asked if there was a direct bus, to which they replied, "No! Mini bus is better. You like White Temple, very beautiful!". And I've gotta say, they were right. It was the best temple we have ever seen and was a really awesome surprise. It was during this trip through the country that I noticed huge road signs with u-turn arrows on them, along with the name of a town that's back the other way, you know, in case you missed it. They even turn you around when you're lost!

The thrill of overcoming the challenge of getting somewhere is gone. It's been replaced with the challenge of finding some places off the beaten path; with the task of trying to convince an assertive local that, in fact, you do not want to go where everyone else is going to do what they're doing, that yes, you do want to travel with locals.

And so, oftentimes, we find ourselves on the boring, tourist bus with all the other falangs.

Foreigners.

And while we have met some truly fantastic people, we've also encountered some that make my blood boil.

You know who I mean. I'm sure you've seen them.

They are everywhere in Southeast Asia, demanding the same comforts of the Western world but at third world prices, which are actually closer to 1/5 or 1/10 of the Western world price, and complaining that no one speaks English. I feel like saying, "hey, pal, how's your Thai these days?".

I mean really, did you travel all this way to hear everyone speak English? Did you travel here to eat burgers and pizza?

Ok, I get that the language barrier is challenging, but how 'bout a little understanding and patience?

And yes, after 2 and a half months in Africa, I was indeed craving some cheese.

But to come on vacation and expect basically HOME for 1/5 of the price, I have to wonder, why did they bother?

Because of all this, we end up traveled, by English speaking guides, on a first world bus to first world accommodation, in order to keep the tourists happy, and spending their tourist pound, euro, or dollar.

I know I'm sounding quite critical here but I've been thinking about all this in reflection of others, but also, in myself.

When we first began our journey, it was easy to fall into the disgraceful place where you're appalled that a local is trying to overcharge you. Asking the tourist price, not the local price.

You negotiate hard and then walk away realizing you just haggled over 50 cents, about 1/2 of what most people are living off on a daily basis.

For someone who endorses fair trade products back home, I found myself going against this very principle! So what if I'm being asked for more because I'm a foreigner? Shouldn't I? I've heard the excuse, "I'm just a backpacker", or, "I don't have a job". But the simple fact that you bought a plane ticket to get here already suggests you have more money than most of these people will see in their lifetime. And if you're on such a tight budget maybe you shoudn't be buying that beer Lao t-shirt.

Every tourist who celebrates getting something beautiful and handmade for super cheap is basically celebrating the continued abuse of someone, somewhere. Maybe not the person who they bought from, but someone in a factory slaving over that garment or purse, and likely in deplorable conditions, for less than a dollar a day. Not much to cheer about is there?

And so this is what I think about as the Thais do the travel thinking for me. How to overcome the bigger, systemic challenges of tourism. And I'll keep thinking about it, long after our trip is over because hopefully it'll make me a better traveler and a better person.

It's not just where you travel, or how cheap you did it. It's who you are and who you impact along the way that matters.

"As a person acts in life,

so he becomes"

I want to ride my bicycle...

I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride it where I like 

Aran and I are missing our bikes! So, at every opportunity, we rent them. And in some cases, we pretend they are our road bikes. (See Aran to the left in "aero" position)





Canadian, Africycle bikes were our ride during a week of business lessons with Victor and the gang at Grace, in Zomba, Malawi. Early in the morning we'd dodge dogs and listened to little voices scream "azungu!" as we pedaled through the village. And on the way home in the evening we'd wind through the busy market, and arrive at our guesthouse with the red dusty earth caked on to our sweaty skin. 

Wandering aimlessly down quiet roads lined with banana trees, we swerved around herds of cows while exploring the anicent ruins in Hampi, India. Aran willingly followed me down a random road that led us through a small community, free of tourism, and instead filled with Indian families going about their daily routines.

In Sukhothai, Thailand, we followed Mam, our smilely guide, as she toured us around the countryside, biking past the morning market, through rice fields, across makeshift bamboo bridges and down narrow residential alleys.  

A big heavy mountain bike, carried my shaking, terrified soul down the steep 1600m descent from the top of Doi Pui mountain in Chiang Mai, Thailand. Every once in a while I'd get the nerve to take in the scenery surrounding me...coffee plantations, lychee trees and corn, grown by the indigenous people living in the National Park.  
 



For the past few weeks though, Aran and I have been striking out on bicycles.

We practically had to provide a urine sample to rent mountain bikes in Luang Prabang, Laos so we settled for townies. And not 1 km after carrying them down the side of a riverbank, over a bamboo bridge, and back up the riverbank (which a local monk found hilarious to watch), Aran discovered his front tire was completely warped. Back in town the owner blamed us that his bike was a piece of crap!  

In Si Phan Don (4000 Islands), we rented "brand new" bikes, thinking it was a safe bet, but not long after we set out, Aran's seat collapsed and his right pedal fell off. Probably better it happened sooner than later since my brakes weren't working either.

And most recently, in Kratie, Cambodia, the plan was to ride 15 kms to Kampi. Aah the plan...I'm a project coordinator for crying out loud, I should KNOW nothing ever goes to plan! Expecting a scenic tour on the "Mekong Disovery Trail", we instead found ourselves competing with lorries, and being run off the road by motorcycles, all while inhaling their toxic fumes. Then about 7km into our ride, POP! my tire blew up, so Aran rode back into town and I began to walk.

There have been profanities (obviously... this is me we're talking about) and proclamations that we would absolutely, positively, NEVER rent bikes again, but we did...

Because its worth it.


Because the next day in Luang Prabang we rented mountain bikes (without the urine sample) and explored the bumpy back roads until we reached the city limits. 

Because in Si Phan Don, we got OLD bikes and circled our island of Don Khone, where we discovered a beautiful lookout. There, we paid a local fisherman to take us on a boat ride. Floating out in the Mekong between Laos and Cambodia we spotted the endangered Irrawaddy, freshwater, dolphin as they played against the backdrop of a golden sunset. Afterwards, we rode back into town with only the moonlight to guide us along the dusty road.  

Because my flat tire in Kratie meant walking past loads of locals who all smiled, patted my back and pointed me toward the nearest bike repair shop. With a fixed up bike, we jumped on a boat over to the island of Koh Trong, where we found fresh air in our lungs, cows in our path, children shouting big "HELLO'S!", a sympony of cicadas humming in the trees, and a floating Vietnamese village. 



Because biking allows you to pedal alongside two young Cambodian girls, who refuse to be left behind. They stretch out their arms to hold hands with you and smile and giggle when we run out of things to say. 

 


Because ...
All I wanna do is 
Bicycle! Bicycle! Bicycle! 

Holy Cow!

Our 7 weeks in India are long over. And I've been so busy relaxing, drinking beer and eating food with Aran's family in Koh Samui I haven't been able to update the blog. It's tough this travel stuff...
So I thought it was about time to share a bit more about India than just my culinary obsession.
I sent an email home to my family after our first week in India and Holly responded with, "sounds intense". She is so right. That's India. Intense.
Intense stink, garbage, dirt, filth. Intense history and architecture.
Intense colours and beauty. Intense noise.
Intense poverty.
And while my camera is pretty sweet, I cannot capture the sensory overload of sounds, smells, tastes and feelings that we experienced in India.
We've seen some interesting things. Most obvious are the incredible forts and temples...those Raj's sure know how to build a palace! But it's not always a pretty sight. Sometimes it downright sucks. Seeing dead dogs lying in the street or cows eating plastic bags. Ragpicker women going through piles of rubbish or children being made to walk a tightrope to earn money.
If you look closely though, there's beauty there, under all the tourist signs, and piles of garbage. You find it in the mini temples to Lord Ganesh carved into the walls of buildings. And in the marigold garlands hanging over doorways. It's hiding in the glittering saris of Indian women and the big bright eyes of the dirty, barefoot kids begging in the train station.
Sometimes the sights make you laugh. Like when I saw a man grooming with an electric shaver WHILE riding a horse down the street.

That's where it is all happening. On the street. A bustling, throbbing, living entity, bursting with colour and of course, smells.
Now I'll be honest. Every once in a while you get a whiff of something really nice. Flowers, perfume, incense or garlic from some delicious concoction ...I think I've covered the tastes of India adequately enough so let me elaborate on the smells. Aran and I found through weeks of practice that you take each good smell for what it is. You enjoy it. You don't get greedy and go for another deep breath through the nose to get more. Why you ask? Because without fail, that good smell is long gone, and will most DEFINITELY be replaced with the foul stench of sewage creeping up from the gutters or a pile of garbage or a huge cloud of exhaust from a tuk tuk as it nearly knocks you over into that pile of cow dung you were tip toeing around.
Oh and while that tuk tuk is coming at you, he is most likely blasting his horn. Aside from cricket, India's favourite past time is definitely honking their horns. My ears were constantly ringing from,  "all the noise, noise, noise, noise". The never-ending, intense honking.
More powerful than all the sights, smells, flavours and sounds India produces, are the feelings it invokes in you. 
Intense feelings. 
Feelings of pure fear took over as our driver (who must be training for the Indi500) took us through 36 hairpin turns up into the hill station of Ooty at breakneck speed, while my knuckles turned white from hanging on to the holy-shit handles. Driving is this indiscernible, chaotic system of unwritten rules that leaves me breathless and therefore, incapable of spouting my usual road rage, which - on a side note - I save for walking the street. Street rage is what I have now. 

I felt intense pain when an innocent-looking cow swung its head at me, driving its huge horn into my back, so hard that I was surprised it didn't leave a hole! And following that, a feeling of pure embarrassment as an India woman scolded me in Hindi for getting too close. 
We felt extremely lucky to be snuggled up in our sleeping bags in the sand dues of the Thar desert as the sky revealed millions of stars to us.
Frustration was another common feeling as we elbowed and pushed to keep our spot in the apparently invisible queue for train tickets. Personal space is non-existent when you live in a country with one sixth of the world's population - yeah, that's right, over 1.2 billion people - I guess you have to fight for yourself. But if you do call someone out on queue-jumping (and oh did I ever!), they smile sheepishly, head-wobble in apology and move to the end of the line. 
Which is why frustration is often followed by a sense of guilt as you catch yourself being upset over something so silly when all around you people are happy and friendly no matter what. 
I have never encountered such consistent and sincere friendliness. Whether its a young man asking if he can help us when we look lost at the train station or a small boy offering to cross the insanely busy road with us, which by the way feels more death-defying than swinging through the Batoka gorge in Africa. Indians are genuinely kind and helpful people.  

Despite the fact that it leaves me uncomfortable and stressed out, frustrated and bewildered, it also leaves me blissfully exhausted and content. 
India has a way of balancing its intensity that has left me utterly bamboozled. 
And that's why I love India. 



It gets you down
It gets you down
You travel far
What have you found?
That there's no time
There's no time
To analyze
To think things through
To make sense
~ Analyze, Thom Yorke

The India 15

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love Indian food. And now we're in India and it's been in my face, quite literally, for almost 4 weeks. You'd think I'd be sick of it, but NO!

I wasn't a big drinker during my university life. In fact, I didn't drink beer until my trip to Europe with Aran. I also didn't live in residence and so I was able to avoid the dreaded Frosh 15. Well, my time has come...or should I say, my 15 pounds have come...

Without my bike (oh I miss my bike!) there's been nothing to offset the glorious tastiness at my fingertips.

Speaking of fingertips - eating with your hands, more specifically, your right hand (the left is used for other unpleasantries), is THE way to eat in India and it's fantastic! It allows me to shovel in the food as fast as I've always wanted AND lick my fingers when I'm all done. When I'm brought a fork and knife, I look at these foreign utensils and wonder, "do I have to use these?".

We eased ourselves in with favourites from home - palak paneers, aloo ghobis, and garlic naan. But there's so much more! 

Our love for the street-wallah started our first night in Bombay, about 1am after arriving from Johannesburg, we grab a paneer tikka roll from the street for about 60 rupees (that's about $1.20). The next day its a plateful of pakodas (yes, pakodas here, not pakoras) packed with huge chunks of onion for 17 rupees. And among those heavenly street-wallahs we discovered a new favourite, gobi manchurian! Basically, battered cauliflower cooked in a wok with green peppers and onion in a wicked sauce.

Then, pav bhaji - dear God - a fresh roll soaked in butter that you break apart and use to scoop up mouthfuls of savoury curry. To wash it all down? How about a vanilla milkshake or fresh fruit smoothie (mineral water only, please, oh and hold the ice and it's accompanying parasites, ah thank you!)

Some other finds include Navarathan Khurma, a thick, white yogurt-based sauce with cashews, fruit, vegetables and raisins, or Mushroom Masala, tender Tandoori chicken, Malai Kofta and Veg Makhanwala. 

Or perhaps a paan to cleanse the pallette? A paan leaf wrapped up with sweet stuff, lime, betel nuts, and other crunchy bits that explodes with flavour in your mouth, as you struggle to consume it all at once without making a fool of yourself, and that leaves your breath minty fresh.

Breakfast has brought some new flavours as well. Dosas are a thin, crunchy bread that comes rolled up in a long tube with a "dose-a-something" yummy inside, and usually a spicy chutney on the side. Or uttapam, India's version of a pancake, made with rice and onion and topped with cheese! I did not particularly like Idlis, little rice cakes that you dunk into curries, but it was worth a try.

A large contributor to my India 15 is all the bread! And let me tell you there aren't any whole wheat options for paratha, flaky bread stuffed with paneer, potatoes, veg or all three! Or Kashmiri naan, topped with fruits, raisins and pistachios. And the rice! Pilau, Jeera, Ghee or my fave biriyani...just recently enjoyed in Goa with spicy prawns!

And how could I forget mithai! Desserts like creamy kulfi - milky, pistachio-flavoured ice cream to cool down on a hot day wandering through ruins. Or Dani and Ger's favourite, gulab jamoon! Imagine old-fashioned timbits soaked in maple syrup. One night in Aurangabad, Aran and I took a gamble on cassatta and it did not disappoint. It was sort of like ice cream cake with a shortbread base, then a thin layer of cherry jam, 3 layers of ice cream, mango, chocolate and pistachio, topped with crushed nuts! One night out in Mysore we stumbled upon a bakery and the super friendly security guard helped us pick out the best selections...we had barfi, I know sounds gross, but tastes like fudge! And jalebis, crunchy deep-fried curly things soaked in syrup, and a couple other goodies that were simply scrum-di-di-ly-umptious! And of course lassis...lots and lots of lassis! Mango, banana, coconut!

But what it all comes down to is Chai. Chai is the best dessert. And you can have it any time of day. We usually have one in the morning to help wash down our GSE (grapefruit seed extract Lish recommended to keep us bug-free..so far so good! Thanks Lish!). Chai is a staple here. It brings people together. You never have to find it...it finds you. On the train, in the street...you can hear the chai-wallah calling "Hot Chai!", with their steel thermos in hand, ready to serve up a cup for 5 rupees. 

Last but not least - in fact our number one favourite - THALIS. If all that other stuff didn't cause my additional 15 pounds, then thalis did. 

Thalis are India's version of all you can eat. "No sharing please" - as the menu reads. Sharing? Are you nuts? I don't want to share a single bit!

The simplest thalis are served on a banana leaf with 2 or 3 curries, a pile of rice and a pappadam. While the more extravagant come on a metal tray with 7 to 10 small bowls just waiting to be filled with delicious curries of potatoes, tomatoes, dhal (lentils), paneer, onions, palak - usually 3 equally amazing concoctions. Another bowl is filled with raita. Two are dedicated to soups. Another to a couple gulab jamoon. One more for sweet curd or custard. In the space  not occupied by the bowls they drop pappadams and chapatti, followed by “ghee, madame?”. Sure, a scoop of melted butter on top won’t kill me will it?

Next up is salad. Diced cucumbers, onions, capsicum and tomatoes. A couple small spoonfuls of relish; small, because they’re so damn hot they’ll burn your lips for the next 3 days. And of course a couple of sweet and spicy chatnis (chutneys!)  mmm

All of this is delivered by multiple waiters. One for each “group” of curries, breads (this guy carries the butter too), soups and desserts. 

So we dig in (with out fingers of course), thinking WOW all this for $4? And then…they come BACK! And they keep coming back. “Oh I’m so full, but sure fill ‘er up”.

After about 3 refills, just like Lonely Planet warned, the rice shows up. Not one rice, but three kinds: biriyani, jeera and khichri – a blend of rice and lentils.

It’s heavenly, and keeps us coming back for more, just like India. We love it here. We can’t get enough and we’re already talking about where we’ll go on the next trip to this subcontinent. 

p.s. Dani, Ger and and Holly...Diwa is definitely the closest!