Sleep well and wake up at 3am. Too early. Go back to sleep until 06.30hrs. Whoops – a bit later than planned. Get given coffee and a plate of ‘nice’ biscuits before a royal send off with the women and my favourite translator Janmayee,waving and taking pictures. Rowenna is given a flower – which falls off not so far up the road, it’s so bumpy! Seth nearly got a wife as I was asked if he was married and if not, would he like an Indian wife? I replied that he would have to decide that for himself. Teehee. The morning cycle is cool but slow, as the road is potholed and gravelly. Beautiful painted trucks roll past. I spot an Indian Kingfisher and take a picture. Past temples and palm trees and down to the beach. I am travelling down the Konkan coast – past Rajindi but don’t stop to visit the fort I can see up on a hill. I stop for some thick, milky spicy chai washed down with water. Must try and find an Indian burger later. I am heading for Murud (which reminds me of ‘murder’ and ‘redrum’) and the ferry across the estuary. I am loving this trip so much – it makes me feel alive. I stop for breakfast after going for a swim in the sea. The surf was vicious and slapped me about and batted me down like another piece of plastic. The water is the temperature of a baby bath and looked muddy. I have no towel now, but the sun soon dries me off while I sit in the shade and read my book, occasionally glancing at the four skin and bones puppies and the mother dog, who is still hanging around but not feeding them anymore. I was very surprised when a European family with babies and toddlers in tow, turned up and set up camp on the otherwise deserted beach. Haven’t seen any other westerners since I left Mumbai. Onward to Murud, and the road became a little more undulating (though nothing like Europe’s hills). I got off and pushed Rowenna, more because of the unrelenting heat than because of the altitude. Arriving in Murud, I was fished for, but I talked the fisherman guy down from 1400rupees to 1000rupees (with no breakfast) for the room. My room overlooked the beach – and I took a stroll along it as the sun went down. There were horses galloping along and occasionally scooters pootling along as well as other folk strolling. Went in search of food and am pleased to find a vegetable tali for 90 rupees, including a pudding. On the computer sat outside the back a while later (where the wifi more or less worked) and the landlady comes out and gives me another rice pudding! | |
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My bed is very hard – probably the hardest bed I’ve ever slept on (discounting Squibby’s doorstep that is) - it won’t be the last hard bed I sleep on in India for sure.
I slept late, after waking up every time I turned over in the night. Breakfast was at 09.30hrs and I was called for just as I was getting dressed – so good timing. Strangest breakfast I’ve ever had: first there was the usual chopped red onion, tomato and lime juice (served with just about every meal), then scrambled egg, mildly spiced with lots of chopped veg in, then a dahl type gravy, with peas and pulses and a lot of ‘bombay mix’ crunchy biscuit thrown on top – all served with the fluffy white rolls. I enjoyed it. The spicy sweet milky tea that Mon adores was served to finish the meal – and I’ve been getting used to it, though it’s very sweet. After breakfast I read in the garden. There are at least 14 other folk staying here so that’s a lot of washing up. I noticed 4 of the other guests setting up what looked like a small square card table across the other side of the garden. This table had a shiny surface and holes in the corner with nets, like a tiny pool or billiard table. My curiosity got the better of me and I went across to get a closer look. They were playing “Caroom” – a kind of cross between pool and tiddlywinks. There are several wooden pieces that look exactly like draughts arranged in the centre of the table – one red and the rest black and white. The table is ‘lubricated’ with boric powder, which looks like talc but has no odour and is smoother, I think. A plastic ‘puck’ is flicked with thumb and/or fingers to hit the other pieces, trying to get them in the corner hole (like pool). If you pocket the ‘queen’ – the red piece – then you have to follow this with one of your own pieces. If you fail to pocket one of your own, the red queen gets returned to the centre of the table. The puck always gets moved to a line in front of the player before every move – it can be placed anywhere along that line, as long as its touching it. You play in pairs – with your partner sat opposite. After watching a game, I was urged to play. OOer. I managed a couple of fluke lucky pockets but then was useless – more because I couldn’t get the hang of an accurate flick. I had a good idea of where I was supposed to be aiming the puck but couldn’t get it to obey me. Game is over when your team pockets all its colour, including the queen. I bowed out after losing a couple of games – despite a very skilled partner. It’s lovely here and I feel very lucky and privileged to peek into Indian life as a guest of Krutali holidays. I blogged a little and then went to sleep for a few hours after lunch (fried multigrain ‘atta’, and chicken in a spicy gravy served with chutney and the usual onion, tomato and cucumber). Woke at 6pm to a knocking at the door – the rest of the guests had left to go back to work in Mumbai, so I was being ‘upgraded’! I was moved to a room downstairs with a bed in it, still with a firm mattress, but softer than a futon on the floor. I said it wasn’t necessary – I was quite happy with my little room upstairs, but the family thought it was. I am introduced to Amit and his wife – the brother of the two sisters who run Krutali holidays. He has two girls – the oldest of whom is 12yrs old today. I rummage through my bag to find a suitable gift – the multi-coloured pencil Dragan gave me in Ohrid, and the flannel and handcream Mon gave me are quickly wrapped up – thank goodness I didn’t throw away the wrapping paper! I paint a butterfly birthday card. After dark we gather for the ceremony. There is a table with the cake placed on set up in the middle of the garden decorated with a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner and balloons. One special balloon filled with flower petals is hung above. A candle is placed in each corner of the cake. Radhika emerges dressed up in her very best Shalwar Kameez – she looks stunning and very grown up. Her little sister is also dressed up in green silk – everyone is dressed up and the garden is lit with fairy lights. WE all sing happy birthday (English version) and she blows the candles out. Then big aunty comes around with water and a candle and anoints Daddy and daughter – a red bindi and a grain of rice pressed into the centre. Amit says this a Western and Eastern fusion. The cake is cut and Daddy feeds the rest of his family and himself with it. I note he eats much of it himself (one for you, one for me, one for you and another for me!). Presents are opened – Radhika gets a quilling set from her family and she seems pleased with the present from me. She also gets money, which her mother takes care of. I try to pay for the extra night several times – (that night and the next morning) but am refused. Thank you folks! I also have a message from Steve to say I’m solvent again, but to go careful. Well, at this rate, that shouldn’t be too much of a problem! Having snoozed yesterday and done very little, I woke up at 4am ready to cycle across Mumbai to the Gateway to India in Colaba to catch the ferry.
It took me 3 hours or thereabouts to negotiate the route South. Although it’s cool and quiet at that time of the morning, I spent a good half an hour trying to find the short cut shown on my map. In the end, having been led into a residential area which culminated in a dead end and next to a small rubbish dump absolutely teeming with brown rats, I went back to the main road and followed that, which I should have done in the first place. The sky gradually lightened over another half an hour, and then it was daylight at about half past 6. It was wonderful to watch the never quite still city come to life. More and more of the stalls that line the pavement removed their shutters and put out their baskets or hung up clothes or strings of crisp packets. Lads were to be seen pushing handcarts filled with vegetables or sugarcane. In some areas there were ox-carts, in another lorryloads of poultry which would be sold in bunches hung upside down by tethers on their legs. The chickens were surprisingly calm when handled like this and could be given to their new owners with ease. I saw a scooter loaded up with several bunches of chickens drive off. It was a straightforward and fascinating ride to the Gateway of India – fairly flat with so much happening around me, I hardly ever looked at my new milometer. I reached the Gateway at around 8am and was immediately asked by a ‘helper’ if I was going to Alibaug. “Yes”, I replied, “but I haven’t got a ticket yet”. “No worries”, he replied, “you sit THERE and I will get it”. Not only did he get me a ticket, but he negotiated an early entrance to the boat – ahead of the queue which snaked all around the Gateway itself, just about. It was well worth the extra 100rupees he wanted for his trouble. I read a little on the ferry, then dozed for most of the hour and a half journey, to make up for my early start. Almost immediately after disembarking, I found a delightful, bright and cheery café to have breakfast – the sound of the waves lapping just outside the window and silver bicycles hanging from the ceiling amongst the fans. I had a cheesy masala omelette and toast with coffee, whilst admiring the large, irregularly shaped wooden table carved from a single piece of wood polished smooth to show off the grain, which dominated the room. Onward then, along a road that had metres of smooth tarmac followed by metres of potholes and loose gravel and dust in regular cycles. I soon felt grubby and sticky. But I also saw women in beautiful saris with stainless steel pots of water perfectly balanced on a roll of cloth on their heads – look Ma, no hands! I followed school girls in purple uniform skirts on purple bicycles, with gold chains around their ankles and identically plaited hair with red ribbons. I saw goatherds and cowherds. Each cow would have its own egret assigned to pluck out the bugs from their ears. Those beautifully painted Indian Tata “Goods Carriers” went past occasionally surrounded by a throng of Tuctucs crammed with passengers from the ferry all going to Alibaug. I smelt perfume from the waxy flowers adorning bushes in the verges – vying with the smells of the rubbish that choked ditches and rivers – and caught the whiff of occasional dead and rotted things. Scavenging in and around the rubbish were oodles of Indian Pariah dogs who would occasionally woof at me, but mostly run away from the bicycle. I reached Alibaug –the city, by 12.15hrs and looked around for lunch, eventually going for what I now know as “Indian Burgers” – batter covered mash potato and green veg fried balls served up in ‘mother’s pride’ cotton wool soft rolls – for the princely sum of 24 indian rupees. 3 pieces of fruit purchased from a street stall cost a little more, at 30 rupees (about 36p). Not so far outside the city, I saw a sign advertising ‘Krutali Holidays’, rooms A/C and not, so I went up a lane to see what I could find. I found a garden crowded with Indian folk all having lunch. The owners greeted me cordially and soon worked out I wanted a room. 500 rupees and full board, I think, which is ideal. I was shown a small room at the top of the house, with a futon on the marble floor, insect screens on the windows and a fan whirling in the ceiling. The ensuite bathroom had the usual ‘Indian shower’ – ie a large bucket and a small jug with a tap inset in the wall. There was a western loo too. I found out later that the place had been opened up only the previous February, by a large family from Mumbai:- the grandparents, two sisters and children lived there – with the rest of the family coming to stay at weekends. Janmayee, a 14yr old, translated for me – she had an older brother who lived with their father in Mumbai whilst she lived with her mother in Kurul. This suited her, as she had some kind of chronic chest complaint and was away from the pollution of the city. Her two cousins also lived there – the oldest of whom was 12yrs old the next day. Before dinner I blog – no wifi, but that’s no real hardship. We also get out my paints and have fun making watercolour stripe washes together. The place was proving popular with Mumbai residents eager to get away for a weekend break. Several groups had returned more than once to sample the excellent food provided. Supper is an education. I am asked if I want chapatti or a local speciality ‘handbread’, which is made from rice flour rather than wheat. Since it’s being cooked in front of me I ask for handbread. There are the four women – two sisters and two employees – sitting on the terracotta painted floor next to two small clay stoves – a wood fire is kept going underneath and woks and iron plate is set on top. Janmayee’s mother, Shesura, is taking marinated spiced fish, coating it in flour and frying it. One of the three other women is kneading rice dough with wet hands on a board until it no longer cracks then breaks off a small knob and rolls it into a smooth ball in her hands., A second woman takes the ball and rolls it out into a thin, thin round, adding more rice flour. The last woman dry fries them on the hotplate on the other stove, patting out the middle with a spatula as the centre puffs up and occasionally letting the edge hang over into the flames. There’s an easy camaraderie evident between them all, and efficient cooking on masse. The food is delicious – I get a steel plate with fried fish, rice, prawn curry gravy – and a palate cleanser of a fruit lassi. The women are eager to hear what I think of their food – and I’m eager to tell them how excellent it is. After dinner, I have a go at kneading and rolling the rice dough – my teacher is not impressed and re rolls them all again after I’ve finished. I’m asked to stay on again another day – to attend the birthday party and meet Janmayee’s Dad and her Aunt and Uncle. It was an easy decision to make. 20th – 25th November – at Panda Appetite (sic) Backpacker Hostel, Andheri East, Mumbai 13km17/1/2017
First day with Miranda and we went out shopping – initially to meet a young Indian woman who wanted to buy a leather bag – she could only stay with us 20minutes – my first introduction to Mumbai traffic – chaos and takes ages to get anywhere. I loved the painted trucks – the first one I saw was a water supply truck. Sometimes we take one of the swarming black and yellow taxis that are metered and cost about £2 to get into town. Pushkar is an apartment block in a quiet area opposite a Catering College – the oldest Catering College in Mumbai (I’m told by a Tourist Guide at a later date) and close to Shivaji Park and the sea. Because of my money difficulties, Miranda uses her cash and card so I can buy some trousers and tops to replace the clothes I threw away at the airport. However – because of the difficulty getting to an ATM (and the cap they put on withdrawals) I STILL owe her for these – she says it doesn’t matter and it all came out in the swings and roundabouts – because I did manage to pay for some meals when the card got back on line but I haven’t forgotten!
We were supposed to meet up with Justine at that point, but she got stuck in a traffic jam for so long that she gave up and went back to her digs again. We did finally meet up with Justine later on that same day. Miranda had done a weaving course down in Kerala and had met Justine – a young Frenchwoman living in London – such Cosmopolitan folk I know. Justine had been star pupil, Miranda told me. Justine had also applied for a job in India, coordinating the creative output of a factory where employees would be embroidering garments for Chanel. She had to be interviewed in London and Chennai (where she would be based). One half of the interview was in the bag but she still had to wait to hear from the European side. WE all met in a street where leather workers and bag makers proliferated so Justine could buy a couple of leather belts as Christmas presents. Then we went on to Bhandra for a meal in a make your own salad/wrap type place – after trying numerous places to see if we could use an old note for drinks – not one place was accepting them so we didn’t get a beer after all. Businesses must have been suffering as much as we were! The salad was delicious and made a change from all the heavier bread and meat type meals I’d been eating of late. Justine used her card to pay – and refused to be reimbursed so that’s another person I owe! We’re friends on Facebook so I hope to follow her adventures (she got the job!) and pay her back some day. We also shared our meal with a local Indian woman called Jewel that Justine had met on the train. She made glamorous sparkly ball gowns on commission – but wondered if we could find her a rich British man to marry? In her forties, she was determined not to go down the marriage/two and a half kids route that most of her compatriots had taken. She was feisty and an amusing conversationalist. After our meal, she took us around the corner to her shop – on the 7th floor of a high rise apartment block – I was more entertained by the view than most of the frocks – though I could see my Aunty Den loving them. The next two weeks whizzed past: Mon arrived for my birthday on the 10th, so Kevin and Miranda’s housekeeper summonsed his talented daughter Aparna to decorate us all with Mehndi – she was able to pipe a line of henna with no blotches, or skips, no hesitation or blips. I’ve tried my hand at mehndi myself, so I know this is no mean feat. I went first, as the birthday girl and had my palms and feet covered (as is traditional). Miranda had a pattern drawn on one arm (much to her father’s disapproving gaze on Skype) and also her feet. Mon didn’t want any, but ended up with a flower on her instep. One has to sit still until all the henna has dried – the longer you leave it dry, the better the orangey brown stain that’s left when the henna flakes off. My ‘tattoo’ has completely gone now but it was a lovely thing to do on one’s birthday. You can see Aparna’s work here on FB – do go ‘like’ her page! Birthday evening meant cocktails (two for one in the ‘happy hour’) and a lovely meal at a restaurant round the corner that we visited several times – so I got to have several different cocktails – including one that had something that poured out clouds put on top of the liquid – dry ice? Don’t think it added much to the taste but it was very dramatic. Mon had a list of ‘must-see’ places in and around Mumbai – she wanted to visit the Vipissana Pagoda, see the Gateway of India from the sea, visit Elephanta caves and have tea in the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel as well as Leopold’s café (featured in the novel ‘Shantaram’). We managed to tick all of these, apart from horseriding on Chawpatty beach – we DID manage to WALK along the length of Marine Drive in the heat of a midday sun. We watched the swimmers getting filthy in the Arabian Sea. We also watched a couple guys perform acrobats on the beach too – one amazed me by performing a backwards loop from a standstill – landing on his feet perfectly. Miranda had booked us in to see ‘Mame Khan and group’ – a Rajasthani sufi-music concert at the NCPO on November 11th, that was excellent and a fun night out – finishing at a formica topped table small restaurant which looked fairly basic and slightly shabby but served up reliably good and cheap Indian fare – especially the tandoori prawns. We visited there a couple times too. I wanted to go on a train journey – and we chose Pune (what used to be Poona in British Raj days) as our destination for an overnight trip. Then, of course, we shopped – in FabIndia and Artisans and a contemporary crafts outlet (where Mon bought lots of painted wooden balls and animals). And people watched: – colourful silk saris, bundles of sticks, luggage, baskets, bags all solidly balanced on a cloth turban on top of women’s heads. Miranda arranged a driver to take us to the Pagoda in the countryside to the North of Mumbai. Built in 2008, it’s a golden replica of the Shwedagon Pagoda in Myanmar which Mon has visited previously. There are a large number of people employed painting gold on its façade. There is also an enormous painted Buddha carved from one slab of marble on display. We tried out the Vipissana meditation – just the three of us – and were encouraged to sign up for a 10 day ‘free’ course (make a donation at the end of the course to benefit future attendees). The course sounded like hard work for Westerners – being a ‘silent’ retreat, with meditation from 04.30hrs to dusk with breaks for veggie meals only. I’m sure Rubina Soorty of ‘Ruby rides on’ did this course in Australia – but I might be wrong. They take place all over the world – including London. Next day we had another driver take us to Kalaheri caves in Sanjay Gandhi National Park – many, many caves carved out of the hillside with hundreds of Buddhas and stupas carved into their walls. These caves are set high and have a view over thickly wooded hills and valleys with the towers of Mumbai in the distance – you’re supposed to be able to see the Vipissana Pagoda but we couldn’t spot it. We did spot monkeys – down in the carpark, cavorting across the rooves of buildings and generally behaving like monkeys. There’s a shallow amphitheatre on the flat hill above the caves with steps leading up to it – I could imagine the saffron robed monks gathering in the peace and cool of the early hours of dawn to meditate together. Water had been diverted from a stream to irrigate the cell like caves by means of channels and troughs in the rock and eventually forming wells where frogs now lived happily. We got asked to pose with many Indian families. I’m sure they’ll look at those pictures in years to come and wonder who on earth the pale and smily strangers are. The day after that, Mon and I went to Elephanta caves – just as old, and a similar set up, only Hindu – and the carvings are on an island about 25minutes sail out into the heat haze and pollution smog from the Gateway to India. Because of the money situation, Mon had hired an all in package with a guide – thus guaranteeing we could get there, even if we didn’t have any small change for the taxi. We ended up with two guides – one to take us in the taxi and on the boat across to the island, and a second one to show us around the caves. The first one was a cute young guy, newly married and earning cash to pay for studies/save for home etc. He lived with his new wife (also studying) at home with his parents, siblings, grandparents etc. He was very happy to point out landmarks and tell us the story of Lord Ganesh (after overhearing Mon’s truncated version). Parvita made Ganesh out of turmeric – which was why Lord Shiva didn’t recognise his son when Ganesh turned him away from his own home – and that’s why he chopped his head off! (Ok – that was an even more précised). We took a little train from the boat to the steps that rise up to the caves. Then we were greeted by the second guide who walked up the steps – past a gauntlet of tourist shops selling tourist tat. Not one of them had a tablecloth (which my sister wanted for Christmas). This latter guide gave us the hard sell – how the few residents on Elephanta island relied totally on the income from tourists to survive – and couldn’t even grow vegetables as the monkeys destroyed them and they only had four hours electricity a night and on and on. I felt so guilty I ended up buying a singing bowl for twice the price I’d seen it the day before in the antiques markets. I also felt sad when I saw the destruction wrought on the carvings, apparently by the Portugese using them as target practise a couple hundred years or so ago – although I’ve also heard it was the Brits – and maybe the Guide lied to protect our delicate sensibilities. There is one huge carving of the four heads of Shiva that has survived intact – because it was behind a wall and not discovered. It’s the one carving used on all the photographs advertising the place. It should be noted that there is no elephant on Elephanta caves as it was stolen and then dropped in the sea (I think). Mon and I were amused by watching a monkey who took a bottle topped up with coca cola from us, and drank it ever so carefully, not spilling a drop – obviously a sugar addict. Once again, on the boat we were asked to pose for photographs with complete strangers. I felt like offering my autograph too. I am perfecting my royal wave. In keeping with this, Mon and I asked the guide to leave us in Colaba so we could go to the Taj for tea. We went to the Sea Lounge on the first floor where Mon asked to change the table we were given initially for a window seat. – Thus we got to watch seabirds and pigeons wheel past the window and watch the boats come and go by the Gateway to India while we luncheoned – all very, very “NAICE”! We took the train home – where Mon almost failed to disembark, as the crowds on the platform don’t wait for passengers to get off before pushing on to the train in a tidal wave. Mon’s face was a picture as she was washed backwards off her feet but just managed to stumble through the onslaught. We got lost several times - but would eventually find our way after stumbling upon a familiar landmark like the Hindu temple, or the Catholic church or the statue of Ghandi in the centre of a roundabout. Streets are completely transformed by around 10am when all the small stalls that line them open up their shutters and the sellers put out their wares. Mon, Miranda and I travelled first class on the train to Pune – but the air conditioning wasn’t working and the views of the hill stations were obscured by the dirty, smeary windows. We got a tuctuc (or an ‘auto-rickshaw’ as they’re called in India) to our accommodation and were asphyxiated by the atmosphere. At the end of our 24hours in Pune we all had sore throats, watery eyes and snotty noses and I’m sure it was due to pollution – despite the internet asserting that pollution was worse in Mumbai. Staying in the basic accommodation was like staying in a school dorm – Mon and I shared a bed whilst Miranda slept on a fold out sofabed. We visited Ghandi’s place of incarceration (a beautiful building now a museum dedicated to his life – but not updated since circa 1950 I suspect) and the Fort – which is mostly gardens. We saw the latter at night and in the daytime! Going home was more of an adventure as we travelled second class – getting on the wrong carriage initially, so getting turfed out of our seats. We turfed some other folk out of our seats when we found the right carriage – all very polite. I drew a daily draw of the two girls sitting opposite and we made friends. The view was better because there was no glass at all- just bars! One can also open the carriage doors and hang out if one wishes, because there is no safety mechanism to bring the entire train to a halt, as in England. Back in Mumbai we ate in Brittania’s restaurant – where an old man of 92yrs of age would come over to chat about his love for Elizabeth the 2nd and how he’d build her a palace if only she’d return to India. He had photographs of himself with members of the Royal family and there were large pictures of Will and Kate on the walls. The food was OK too. Mon went home early on the Friday and I left Miranda and Kevin’s on the following Sunday, after getting Rowenna put back together and all her nuts and bolts tightened up at a local bicycle shop. What a wonderful and gentle introduction to India! The airport: I arrived supremely early for my flight at 2am, which is just as well as getting Rowenna in her large box checked in was a trail. I have an email saying the box should measure less than 169cm and it does. However – putting it on a scale reveals it weighs 35kg when my luggage allowance is 30kg. Oh buggar. I sit and read and worry until I the time comes to check in for my flight.
I can see the check in attendants are confused by and don’t like my box. One of them insists my luggage allowance is only 20kg. Fortunately I can show her the email that confirms I can have 30kg. A perfectly charming bloke is summonsed to inform me I need to pay $150 for the extra weight. He says it would have been cheaper in advance – but I know it wouldn’t have because I did check online. I actually tried to get this from the ATM but am stymied when the machine refuses to cough up any money at all. I try several ATMS and get the same result. I sit and think about this for a while until I come to the inevitable conclusion that I will have to discard 3kg (I can get away with 1 or 2kg over I think). I open the box and throw away the bag of nuts and bolts I have debated throwing away all across Europe. Also the heavy D lock and chain – since I can’t take the chain in hand luggage as it’s potentially a lethal weapon (like knitting needles!). I leave the key in the lock in the hope someone else can use it. I throw away clothes and my toiletry bag. I throw away an entire ortlieb front bag because it’s got a hole in the bottom I haven’t got around to repairing. This bag alone weighs 1kg. Finally, along with a few more discards, my box weighs about 31.5kg. The attendants are so fed up with me by then they allow it to pass. They put a sticker on it saying ‘transfer’ so that it can be placed on the second aeroplane directly – even though it’s a different company (First flight with ‘Flydubai’ – second with ‘Jet – India’). I find this hard to believe and wave goodbye to Rowenna in her box with some trepidation. By the time all this has been sorted, my flight is boarding, so I zoom off – and spend the next three hours trying to sleep with my head wedged against an aeroplane window uing my fleece and down jacket as a pillow. I always love the taxi out to the runway and the frisson in my tummy as we accelerate and lift into the air. It’s a minor miracle I have never tired of that this huge metal bird can soar into the sky. Dubai is hot and I have a 5 layover. I wait at the baggage carousel to confirm Rowenna isn’t on it – she isn’t. I then sit in ‘departures’ for a couple hours wondering why my flight hasn’t come up on the screen. Finally I go find an information desk to be told I’m waiting in the wrong terminal – and no, it’s too far to walk – it takes 20minutes in a taxi. I’m supposed to check in 2 hours before and it’s getting close to that NOW! ARGH! I find an ATM and use my card to get £25 worth of Dhiraams and luckily this time it works and spits the money out. I’d have missed my flight if it hadn’t as I wouldn’t have been able to pay the taxi driver. It was the last time my card would work for an entire week but that’s a tale to be told later. Something or someone really IS looking out for me. Lesson no. one – always have some alternative funds – like a stash of dollars for emergency. Useful to have a second card too – but Halifax let me down on that one. Their credit card is probably sitting at home in a pile of my post right now. I run to the Jet desk to check in and also get confirmation that Rowenna has been transferred successfully. In Terminal 2 I watch men in crisp and cool white floor length gowns and white scarves over their heads – with that thick black headband holding it in place - like archetypal arabs they are. The women, on the other hand, are dressed head to foot in heat attracting black. Here is another example of inequality between the sexes. I knit. I read. I don’t have long before we’re boarding the ‘plane to Mumbai (after wasting so much time waiting in the wrong place). On the flight we get fed – my first taste of a spicy curry sauce and dhal in months! I also knit – with small wooden circulars – and the stewards don’t seem to mind at all. Stepping off the ‘plane in Mumbai, the heat was like a slightly damp but warm muffler being wrapped around my head. It takes a while to track down Rowenna as the first person I ask in the oversized baggage place denies she’s there. So I locate another person at a different desk who takes me back to the first place and finds the box with no trouble. I chuck her on a luggage trolley – extra wide though she is – and am relieved to find a driver sent by Miranda and Kevin outside holding a sign with my name on it. Oh JOY! Thus begins a cotton wool covered introduction to hot, hectic and colourful Mumbai courtesy of Miranda and Kevin. It was incredibly fortunate that Miranda had agreed to put me up for my first days in India or I’d have been on the streets with my begging bowl (with much competition) because the Building Society decided to shut my card down having suspected fraud. I can’t thank her and Kevin enough. The day after I tried to access my account and was denied, the Indian government compounded an already dire situation by taking the large denomination 1000 and 500 rupee notes out of circulation with no warning. This was a tactic to combat the Black economy and fraud (India runs on cash, apparently) –but having this information was of no help to me whatsoever! It meant that there were long queues at banks to try and change old 500 rupee notes for new ones and that ATMs were running out of money – they couldn’t hold the new, longer 2000 INR notes without adjustment and this meant they couldn’t hold so much cash altogether. There were queues around the block for ATMs – and, as often as not, they would run out of cash before you got there. Kevin and Miranda bailed me out and held me together – loaning me cash and feeding and housing me. Their generosity knew no bounds. It could all have been so different: very, very difficult and absolutely horrid. But not only was I looked after royally, I was also entertained. And Mon arrived from Lustleigh a couple of days later – just in time for my birthday. It was an excellent birthday. THANKYOU MIRANDA, KEVIN and MON! I booked into the Stay Hostel, Taksim for initially 3 days but ended up staying there the week. The 4 bedded dorm room was small – with nowhere really to put luggage, but my top bunk was comfortable with a curtain to pull across for privacy. The place was clean and provided an excellent breakfast but. most of all, there was the company of Firat – an engaging, energetic 25 year old computer programmer with a mop of curly black hair, an infectious grin and a propensity to chat. I fell in love immediately. Firat worked mostly nights and got free ‘B&B’ in return. This suited him whilst he was completing his masters. He was an only child from Konya – and had worked in Germany (a place he swore he’d never work again as he couldn’t bear the absolute regard for, amongst other things, punctuality and itty bitty detail). He speaks Turkish, English and is learning Russian. Firat also played the sitar very beautifully and I liked his taste in music. He was enthralling to talk to about politics, Turkey, religion etc. and had a wicked sense of humour. I had a go at painting his portrait before I left – while he was chatting to a young Russian woman – and he gave it some wonderful criticism – didn’t like his hair because I’d made it look oily when he’d just washed it ‘specially, you couldn’t see where the light was coming from and the stripes in his jumper weren’t accurate. He did like the glasses I’d given him but they weren’t his – they were better. HA!
I wondered up and down the Istiklal Cadessi (Independence Avenue) which throbs with drumming and throngs with crowds day and night – 3 million people visit it every 24 hours, on average, according to wikipedia. There are bars, music clubs, eateries and market stalls. There are book shops and clothes shops and old fashioned trams going up and down. It ends in Taksim Square which is like Trafalgar Square, only with a statue of Ataturk in the centre of the vast pedestrianized area. I bicycled and walked it many times in my task of getting an Indian Tourist visa. The Indian Embassy were curious as to why I didn’t apply for the visa from home, didn’t think much of my bank balance and didn’t like my photograph (they couldn’t see my ears or forehead). I had to get Miranda in Mumbai to agree to be completely responsible for me and send a picture of HER ID (within 30mins of the request) and write a letter with my itinerary – vague – and have a ticket to travel out of India too. After jumping through all these hoops – and visiting three times I finally emerged with the double entry three month tourist visa for the grand sum of $164. Phew. I did a cookery course with the Istanbul cookery school that involved a tour of the market place and streets around the hostel and then back to the school to make hummus, spring rolls, smoky aubergine mash, and stuffed vegetables. Congenial company from all round the world and a couple of glasses of wine made for great fun and was well worth doing. I also found a bicycle shop where the owner was happy to dismantle Rowenna and put her in a box ready for the flight – I’d drop her off on Saturday and stuff the box with the rest of my luggage, hoping it would weigh less than 30kg. I did so much wondering around this area that it got to the point where, even if I were lost in the narrow back streets with towering buildings reaching into the sky on both sides, I would eventually stumble upon places I recognised and could find my way back to the hostel. Like getting to know bits of a jigsaw puzzle. I finished off my stay there by writing 72 post cards to all my friends – apart from those whose address I don’t have (sorry!). They were appalled in the post office as it seemed like a huge extravagance to them. They double checked I really wanted to send them: I’d spent all that time writing them, so I most certainly did. I moved out on Saturday and went to find Suzanne – my crazy friend from Chudleigh who’d nipped over for the weekend and booked a 4 star wooden hotel in the Old City not far from Sultanahmet. Staying there for the night will mean I’ve visited all three main areas of Istanbul – and they all have entirely different characters. Sultanahmet is where all the main tourist attractions seem to be- like Topkapi Palace, the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia and the Grand Bazaar. The Old Town has many carpet shops, has space, air, and is more gentrified than all the other areas in Istanbul – and is correspondingly more expensive too. I reached the hotel a good half an hour or so before Suzanne and sat doing my knitting quite happily. The receptionist was confused because my name wasn’t Suzanne and she’d booked a single room for the two nights. (She’d emailed them after the online booking but they hadn’t opened it). It was all sorted once we’d arrived and she also negotiated a better room (the first one was dark and practically in the basement – all the pictures of rooms online had shown a sea view!). After we’d settled in, Suzanne strolled down to the bicycle shop with me and we dropped Rowenna off. We took the tram back and strolled around a local bazaar window shopping. Then later we went for a very vigorous hamam scrub and massage getting back to the hotel at about 1am. The next day I awoke with a ghastly, horrible headache – one of those where someone is trying to push your eyes out from some dark room at the back of your head - and I threw up for the first time on this trip. I couldn’t move despite taking paracetamol and slept until gone 2pm. Suzanne went on a shopping spree and didn’t get back until around 4pmish – this left us just time to go have some supper together before I had to catch the shuttle bus to the airport at 7.30pm. We hadn’t spent much time together but it was AMAZING to see Suzanne in Istanbul. I’ve had a wonderful time mooching in the city that straddles continents and am sad to say goodbye to the end of chapter one of the grand adventure. 3357 miles, 5403 km approx.. Thursday, Friday, Saturday 27th, 28th 29th October. AT Saine’s house – not far from Taksim.21/12/2016 I spent the Wednesday evening getting to know Mahvash by looking at her paintings and pictures. Mahvash lost her husband to a heart attack just two years previously, and one of the reasons I can’t stay longer with the family is that she has to go back to Iran in the next week to sort out the house and papers relating to her bereavement. The whole family are very close – and miss their husband/father dreadfully.
Sanita comes in at around 9pm (confusing me, as I was expecting Saine but later) and is a vivacious, beautiful woman in her early 20s. She teaches English so is fluent. Saina is an architect (and also vivacious and beautiful) – but has got involved in teaching English because it pays well and it was easier to get a job in patriarchal Turkey doing that than in architecture. They have both moved to Istanbul from Fethiye – and had visited Saklikent too (as I learned when I showed them some of my photographs and they spotted the one of me covered in mud). All of the family are creative – and sing, play music, dance, act. I get to sleep on the bed settee – which is very comfortable. Mahvash has terrible insomnia and I think she misses not being able to wile away the long night hours by looking at the internet (because I’m camped out in the living room). On the Thursday, I’d arranged to meet up with Asli – a Turkish knitter I’d connected with on Ravelry. We met in ‘Coffeetopia’ – an purveyor of just the BEST coffee and a place I subsequently visited several times more –brilliant suggestion for meeting place, Asli! Asli took me on a stroll around the Old City’s spice Bazaar and upstairs (by the wedding outfits) to the wool shops. Most of the ‘wool’ was cotton or acrylic or blends. The blends felt OK but I prefer wool. Towards the end we went into Asli’s favourite market stall – where they sell undyed skeins of pure wool, cashmere/silk and soft merino wool. Lovely stuff – wish I could have bought some! It was wonderful to get together with a fellow knit and talk knitting – the hours flew past. On Friday night, I get taken along to a party by Saine and Sanita – organised by a frenchwoman and fellow member of the dance group in a fairly small flat. It’s an international event with people from Syria, France, Turkey, America, Canada, Iran – and England! Did you know that Syria was once the 4th safest place to live in the world? I didn’t. And now it’s the most dangerous L There was excellent cake and much wine (to which I contributed). Everyone started to dance – circle type dances and very entertaining to watch (there wasn’t a ‘caller’). Watching Saina and Sanita – my two gorgeous sister hosts – take to the dance floor for a solo turn, was mesmerising - they both can move every part of their bodies so gracefully. AT one point I thought I’d got the hang of the steps and make a token effort to join in, when the music stopped and it was time for the next one. We went home in the wee hours, sweaty and happy – but took a taxi (we’d walked there – and got lost). I had to leave Saina, Sanita and Mahvash on Saturday – and I’m sad I didn’t get to see them again. Hope we meet up again one day. I was invited to the Halloween dance party – but didn’t go because I didn’t have a costume (sometimes I just wimp out). I saw the photos and everyone looked amazing! I read a book and wondered around the streets of Galata and window shopped.
Ate another of my favourite Çig Kofte wraps (for 4TL!) and tried the Istanbul equivalent of Spud-U-Like called the ‘Kumpali’ for supper. I’ve bought another craftsy course – and sit on the banks of the River Bosphorus and complete a line drawing of the Süleymaniye Mosque whilst listening to the call to prayer echoing around me. Istanbul is enormous – straddles two continents and consists of three separate parts – Old City- gentrified and where the Blue Mosque, Sophia Hajj and Grand Bazaar are situated to the South West – New City to the north of the ‘Golden Horn’ where the buzzing, crowded Iskitlal street leading to Taksim Square is to be found – and the enormous Asian side to the East, where I cycled along the Sea of Marmaris (looking out at the Princes’ Islands). There are ferries galore, an underground system as well as easily navigable buses and trams. There are areas where just tools are sold, or china or bicycles or hairdressing equipment or antiques. There are industrial areas, residential area, pub and jazz clubs or hotels. It’s an all night city (especially around Taksim). I finish my book and get a cheap lunch at the hostel of soup and the Turkish equivalent of a roast dinner for 10TL which makes up considerably for the expensive sütluç (rice pudding) and baklava I’ve indulged in. Then I ride around, catch another ferry to hang around outside the Kadikoy Marmary Station to meet Serbun Behçet – my warm shower host for the next several days. He turns up on his bicycle so is easy to spot. Serbun and his sister Dilber share a flat not too far from the Marmary station and go to great lengths to make sure I’m comfortable. I am plied with tea, beer, raki and then a fine fish (Bonati) supper that is absolutely delicious. Dilber has given me her bed to sleep in. I am spoilt. (Next night – Dilber disappears off to stay with her boyfriend – so I think she’s happy!). ON the Saturday I sleep in until 9am – and Serbun and I have a leisurely breakfast of lovely crusty fresh bread, organic boiled eggs with runny golden yolks, fried sausage, white cheese (which isn’t feta but looks remarkably like it!), olives and honey. Not a wilted, tasteless tomato or cucumber in sight! After this feast we go off for a cycle ride around the Asian side of Istanbul. First to a new community initiative – allotment style gardens with playparks and benches – the first of its kind in the city. This adventure was followed by a nose around a Greek Cemetary and a visit to what used to be a national treasure but which is now privately owned: a wooden floored, wooden constructed and beautifully painted hotel/restaurant with a fabulous view over the Bosphorus. Serbun leaves me to explore as he’s horrendously busy with his work as a philosophy teacher and a current project coming to a head where he’s editing two books which should make him a fair bit of money, he hopes. I’m well able to entertain myself – and appreciate the value of being able to stay with a local. Serbun won’t allow me to treat him – but I manage to ply him with beer and cook a meal for him on my last night (tart’s spaghetti again). I get to know the cat – a feral cat who has got herself adopted by Serbun and Dilber (a feat many of the local wild cats seem to accomplish – the Turks love their cats!). She is tricksy and an excellent killer, and my knitting needles are fair game. I blog seriously and feel like I must be getting energy back after the long haul up to Istanbul – I didn’t complete any daily drawing, and now I feel the urge to paint a lot! Serbun gets a portrait – and Dilber gets another of the cat. I visit the Anthropology museum, the sprawling Topkapi Palace, and stroll through the old Palace gardens at Gulhane park. Topkapi palace had what I thought was a recording of the K’ran being sung verse by verse. Then I went around the corner and saw a guy all dressed in black sitting in a booth with the holy book in front and I realised it was his voice echoing around the place. The sound made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I buy a ton of postcards in the Palace shop with the intention of sending them to as many people as I can - if you don’t get one, it’s because I haven’t got your address! I loved the tiled walls, the collection of gold clocks, the fountains where hooded crows where playing, and the views of the sea. The Harem felt like a beautiful prison within the palace grounds. I also visited the Istanbul modern art museum on Tuesday (costly for me, but free for students and young people on Tuesdays) which wasn’t included on my 5 day museum card but which was thought provoking and interesting with an exhibition by Inci Eviner that I found disturbing but oddly enjoyable. I loved her approach to pattern and video sequences but wasn’t so sure about the large, black and white ink sketches and their depictions of dismemembered bodies. This (according to the BBC documentary “Heart of Turkey”) was the museum that changed art in Turkey. On Wednesday I visited perhaps the oddest museum of my stay: the Science and Technology of Islam in Gulhane Park. It was a ‘look but don’t touch’ museum that spent much time lauding those European scientists who acknowledged the part Islamic scientists played in most of the major scientific breakthroughs and discoveries over the centuries: Islamic scientists were discovering most of these things years before Europeans got around to it. On the last day of my stay at Serbun’s, it’s arranged that I visit his school: Findikli Mesleki ve Teknik Anadolu Lisesi – a vocational health studies college for 15-18yr olds. I attended two classes – one where I presented a little powerpoint display of pics and talked about my midwifery experience in the UK; the other was an English class where the students practiced their English by asking such questions as “What is your favourite food in Turkey?” Serbun was not impressed by the latter! He did most of the translating in the former. It’s a mixed sex school and I noticed it was mostly the male students who felt brave enough to ask questions. I also got to meet the Principal of the school who didn’t speak English – so Serbun acted as translator again. I inevitably ended up supping çay while the two of them had an animated conversation. The view from the window over the river was fabulous! Staying with Serbun was great, despite his workload – and I want him and Dilber to know how much I appreciate the considerable effort they put into making my stay in Istanbul the best. On Wednesday I moved on to stay with my second Warm Showers Host – Saine and her sister Sanita and her mother Mahvash. I had some trouble finding the address as even someone who lived opposite didn’t know where it was. So Saine was out at a dance class when I arrived and I met the girls’ mother – who couldn’t speak much English though she can write and read English very well. Transpires they are not a Turkish family – but Persian. It felt like the universe had taken note of my disappointment at not being able to cycle through Iran and had made it possible for me to experience the famous Iranian hospitality another way. |
TutleymutleyA newly retired Terri following her heart into a world of woolly creativity. Live the dream Archives
March 2017
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