How To...

...Detect a Swede.

Contrary to popular opinion, not all Swedes are blond and blue-eyed. Only about 83.17% are. So here are some clues as to how identify a real Swede in a crowd.

1. Picture following scenario: you are walking down the street dressed in a man's jacket, scarf, ear-muffs, anything to keep out the cold and a girl strides past wearing wellingtons (as last seen on My Little Farm) and no discernible pants. At -7 C. This is, without a doubt, as Swede (general pantlessness in favour of skirts, tights, leggings, shorts is visible at all times of the year).

2. An attractive young man coming into the bar catches your eye. If you are not sure, however, if this is the token Swede you would like to bring home to show off to you friends, do not fear. Wait until said young man has taken off the dark-blue wooly hat (already a pretty good sign) and exposed his haircut. If his hair is shaved on the sides, but has more "cupcake-like" pouf on the top than Goldie Hawn when she was young, this, too, is a member of the Swedish nation.

3. If said nice young man had a three-hour conversation with you over a beer but does not meet your eye the next day while walking past on said street where you are admiring the unclad legs of a Swedess, then here is the ultimate piece of evidence. Do you detect a note of bitterness? Yes, dammit, you do.

Clichés for Dummies

German = Suspenders. White socks in sandals, now that I might have understood. But no, suspenders seem to be on top of the stereotype-hitlist. I'm not complaining, I can think of at least five which are less classy. This is what I noticed at the "Oktoberfest" held in my residency last night. And I would like to take the opportunity and talk about a Swedish stereotype. Blond and blueeyed might be one thing, but Swedish girls also don't wear pants. Leggings, skirts, tights: yes, pants: not so much. Usually combined with a sweater that has a certain resemblance to a sack. Yet man, are they still hot. Am I jealous? I believe I will leave that unanswered.

Brännboll på Parentesen 2010

Last night one of the numerous blond, silent men sharing my corridor with me asked me what Germans associate with Sweden. The obvious answer was blond, silent men and moose (if you don't understand this, you're obviously not German. Live with it.) I realise that I was drifting into clichés, and that Sweden does have a lot more to offer than that. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine this...

And yes, they made the poor German play as well:

Well, at least we didn't land in the Garbage Final. No thanks to me though...

The Karma (Bi)Cycle

I am already rather well-known here in Lund, at least in my student residency and in certain shops. No, I'm not talking about the National Alcohol Store, I'm talking about a bicycle shop in "downtown" Lund. Reason: I have apparently managed to set up the record of the fastest bicycle theft. They are pretty common here in the city which is also known as "Little Beijing", but usually you have the pleasure of using your bike for more than 3 hours before it's gone.

I bought my bike on a Wednesday and it got stolen on (badadadam) Wednesday. I was pretty pissed. BUT! Enter the Swedish police, my new friend, helper and hero. They managed to find my bicycle, contact the shop where I bought it which in turn contacted me and I can now go and pick up my beloved bicycle today or tomorrow. I must have done something right in my previous life...

Go Green

No, I haven't decided to sell my soul and internet space (thank God these two things aren't identical yet) to the Green Party. But I suppose I have been slightly infected by the lands of elves and fairies. And to keep enough trees for the creatures of the forest, here's my contribution: make it green. And for all of you who don't understand the website...well, stop surfing the internet and go learn German. Or use google translate.

Välkomna i Bullerby

Lund is picturesque. Quaint. Dainty, even. It is reminiscent of Astrid Lindgren and the perfect world portrayed in her story books.

From what I have seen in the last few days, between settling in and trying to get into the foolproof dumpster, everything seems politically correct. And, of course, good for the environment. Even the punks loitering in front of the train station seemed kind of cuddly and cute (don't tell them I said that, the dog was kinda scary after all).

My only hope is the students. When they come back I dream to be let into the world of seedy, grimy, smoke filled - wait, I mean smoke free and approved by the board of hygiene - but nevertheless smelly bars with disgusting toilets. Because if they sanitise the restrooms here EVERYWHERE, I'm coming back home. A person has got to have his standards.

It Just Won't Happen

What make travel account readable, in my opinion, is one thing and one thing only. We don't by books to read about sights other people have seen. That's what the internet is for, and the picture quality is usually better, too. So, why do we (or I, I'm just gonna go out on a limb here and assume) spend money on Paul Theroux and Michael Palin. Simple: because of the people they meet and the anecdotes collected along the way. A good bit of sarcasm and not too much self-respect can go a long way as well. Which is why writing a book about my experiences in India is pretty much out of the question. Firstly, cause I'm lazy. But also because although the number of people I met was big, they weren't really out of my comfort zone. Not like the guy I met in Turkey who's been travelling for 2 years now and never keeping still. Or the chef-cook who had given up the management of a star restaurant in California to work on a private yacht.

And in the end, like nearly everything (except Robbie Williams), it's better live anyway.

Photographic Evidence

For all you without access to a well-known but not to be mentioned social networking site: Impressions of India
Enjoy!!

"The Time has Come...

...the Walrus said, to speak of many things..."
Of leaving, for example. In my last hours in the India I have learnt to love. Well, not really, because I am currently in the fashionable part of Bangalore with the bleached Indians and coffee to go which has nothing to do with my village and the life associated with it.
In these past 8 months I have been frustrated, annoyed, angry, pissed off; I have cried more tears than in the last 8 years and I have been on the verge of physical violence. More than once. But I have also laughed until I cried, been stuffed with unbelievably good food and been on the receiving end of indescribable hospitality and kindness.
In general, hearing the soft whup whup whup of a fan is, for me, the sound of adventure and romanticism. At least in my imagination. As so often, imagination and reality don't really match up. Fans there were plenty, but neither was the sound they made soft, nor did they cool me all night, what with power cuts and what have you. And try sleeping with 30 degrees C and 90 % humidity. There's nothing romantic about that, believe you me. But on the other hand, memory and reality don't really math either, so in a few months, India will have fulfilled all my adventurous needs.
So thank you all for being faithful readers. As I shall still not be in Cairo after I back I shall keep this blog. Though I doubt the Swedes have so much story material as the Indians. But you never know. And I still have a few back issues that I haven't managed to post.
Dhanyawada and namaste.

For Girls Only

That India is daunting, especially to new-comers, is only all too apparent in the face of the new volunteer who has come to offer further support, moral or otherwise, to those of us already stranded here in the jungle. But one must not forget that it also gives ample opportunity for a smile, or even a laugh. As the other day, when my undeniably male co-volunteer, hardly believing his good luck, practically stormed a shop where he had spotted the unmistakable “Kellogg’s” trademark.
Please, use your imagination when picturing the look on the poor boy’s face when he was told by the nonplussed sales-girl, in all seriousness and wearing a slight expression of shock, that “Kellogg’s Special K” was for girls only.
How can you not love a country like this, even if it can make you cry sometimes?

A bit of Advertisement

I don't usually advertise for my rivals. I want you undivided attention. But a good cause is a good a reason as any to throw away some principles.
So have a look at www.littleflowerschool.wordpress.com and you can get information, pictures and updates from the school which I called home for the last 8 months. It's bilingual, obviously only to show off our language skills. The kannada version is in the making...

The Practical Implications of Karma...

Hindus believe in rebirth. Your soul returns to earth, either in a higher or lower form than before. Now, I am in a Christian institution, and anyway, even in India, secularism is making its rounds.
But somehow the animal kingdom didn't get the news flash. How else could I explain the (re)appearance of Freddy the spider in my bathroom? Only bigger and hairier...

Social Work: A Definition

What, exactly is it that I’m doing here? The New Oxford American Dictionary defines it as “work carried out by trained personnel with the aim of alleviating the conditions of those in need of help or welfare”. Now, I am neither trained nor am I alleviating any conditions, at least not if you ask my students who will more likely call my work an intricate form of torture. The work aspect could also be called into doubt, seeing I’ve so far read close to 40 books, seen numerous films and visited at least five previously unknown cities.
But. And there is a but. Spending the equivalent of a month’s salary in the shop next door is bound to help the local economy (the moral implications shall be considered elsewhere). And (of this one I am especially proud), helping a person who has not seen one before use an escalator can be a very rewarding and satisfying experience.
As always, I do not wish to deride the practice of social work in general. Yet sometimes, a little criticism is not so bad.

Travels and Travails

I can't help it. It's like a drug. I'm back in Bombay and loving it. BUT! I did make it to some other places as well. Agra, for example, where I missed the sunrise over the Taj Mahal by 20 minutes. And Jaipur with the incredible observatory (which I didn't really understand, I admit). To be honest though, I am suffering from lack of sleep, so I shall leave it to the advertisement men from American Tourister to give you an idea of...well, India. Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bt1VKvDoESQ
(I wish I had the technical knowledge necessary to make the youtube link play in the blog, but I don't. Copy and paste people, copy and paste.)

Old Delhi, New Delhi, Any Delhi

If India is the country of contrasts, then Delhi is certainly the appropriate capital. Serviced, among others, by hordes of muscly-calved Indians treading away at cycle rikshas (the Mumbaikers even turn up their noses as normal auto rikshas), it is also the home of one of the most efficient, clean and generally spit-free underground system I have yet had the pleasure to use. The London Public Transport Board should consider a study trip.
But the charm of having a cow stroll along main road is probably something which wears rather thin rather quickly, especially if you are in a hurry. On the whole, Mumbai is still my personal number one, but Delhi has potential. And I would be interested in seeing what it looks like after the current spate of "digging hole and filling it again" has been successfully terminated. You never know. India has a tendency to surprise.

A Word on Trains

Yes, I realise this seems to be a recurring theme, and not a very sexy one at that. But after spending 43 hours on a train from Goa to Delhi, I feel entitled to say a few words about it. Because, you see, there are two ways to ride a train. Well, only one because even here I have yet to see someone clinging to the roof. But I talk of the mental state. One can either see a train ride as a way to get from A to B, or one can see it as part of the journey. If the former is what you choose, then 43 hours can stretch out to be an incredibly long time. But in the latter case, everything, from the woman selling grapes at the station to the bullocks chasing the train, and not to forget the spectacular sunsets are worth remembering. And you can almost feel sorry when the train pulls in at the final station.

Neeru! Neeru beku!

The other day, yesterday to be exact, I sat, lay, stood on a train for 15 hours from Udupi to Mumbai. And then, because I enjoyed it so much, I sat, lay, stood on another train for 4 hours to get to Pune. Well, sat to be exact because in second class (ladies) without reservation the only place you can lie is on the baggage holder above the seats. Needless to say, they were all already occupied.
Being the object of much discussion for the 16 other ladies squashed into the 6 seats with me, I figured I would show them that I was not simply another clueless backpacker on my way from big city to big city. No no, I was intergrated, one of them, I was the shit. My time to shine, incidentally came in the form of the drinks-wallah. Parched from the dry air coming through the open window I called him over at the station and, after a self-congratulatory look to my companions, said in a loud, self-confident voice: "Neeru! Neeru beku!"
It was only after the other ladies started giggling and the man started moving away from my window looking bored that I realised that I was in Maharashtra and my Kannada wouldn't get me anywhere here. Dammit!

Mildew, Mould and Ironing Boards

Since India has so much to offer in terms of material with which to entertain those of us stuck in offices/libraries/cold weather in general, I never DID get around to telling the incident involving jeans, mildew and an iron. Tasty combination, you must agree. What happened was the following: about three weeks after arriving and settling in in my beautiful cell my clothes were attacked by mildew. So, thought I, before slaving away at the washing stone, I shall bring them to the laundry and have them professionally cleaned for 5 rupees a piece. Needless to say, the nice laundry man, in his lungi and without a shirt did not understand even the most elementary English. But still being new to India and its ways, I figured mouldy pants were pretty self-explanatory. In a laundry no less. Not so. I got the jeans back, nicely ironed. But still mouldy. They were, subsequently, the object of much hilarity at the school. I, however, felt more like crying...

Creepy Crawlies

I admit, I was going to take this space to extoll the virtues of having a minor infection in a country where antibiotics are more common than candy. And they come in nice colours too. But due to current events, I find it more appropriate to dedicate this entry to the late, very great Freddie. No, I'm not referring to a long-dead popstar (although he doesn't get quite the attention he deserves) but to the spider which took up residence in my bathroom. Since I believe that all living things bigger than a plate should be named, this spider was duely baptized Frederick and for a few weeks we lived together in harmony. More or less. The sad fact however is that I cannot stand spiders, and as close as Freddie had come to my heart, I cold-heartedly planned and executed his murder. That is, I got the resident male teacher to beat him into oblivion with a broom. Sadly, on this day, not only Freddie but a bit of my self-respect died, since mentioned teacher first had to overcome his laughing fit at the sight of (I quote) "small small spida". But then, India is not anything if not a country of extremes so why am I still surprised when an insect big enough to feed a family of nine is decried as tiny?

Trains, Planes and Autorikshas

Without wanting to sound like a show-off (which I invariably will, but we can at least keep up a pretence of humility), I have decided to dedicate some time to the Indian public transport system and how it compares to that of some other countries I have had the privilege to see.
There are two basic forms of long-distance travel: trains and buses. Trains are, and not only to my taste, the better option when it comes to not hour-long but day-long journeys. In part this is due to the inherent romantic nature of trains in general (made immortal by Agatha Christie and Paul Theroux), but also because trains DO have toilets (disgusting though they may be), the stations are clearly marked (who hasn’t nearly missed a stop on a bus in the middle of the night simply because there is no way of finding out what in God’s name the stop is called?) and there is the opportunity of stretching your legs on the train itself or on the platform (as long as you don’t get “duffiled”*).
In my experiences, the Indian trains rank a solid third behind Egypt’s number 1 and Turkey’s second place. This is due to the lack of lockable compartments and general overcrowding. Egypt’s and Turkey’s outstanding ranks are due to the kind porters, clean compartments, beds as comfortable as to be expected on trains and mostly interesting travelling companions. Egypt has a slight edge thanks to the bar in one car and the food which is included in the price and served in your compartment. So far, rather sensible and objective (I like to think). But what puts Indian trains before the surprisingly cheap Swedish variety or the “efficient” German model? It is true, the Swedish model is clean, comfortable, typically non-segregated and a lot of fun. But what is missing is the sense of adventure. If you plan to take a train in Sweden from A to B, you can be sure to get from A to B at the appointed time and without major hassles. In India on the other hand, this is not always a given. But the view of the countryside while sitting at an open door, the “chayachayachayachaya” call and steaming hot tea from the chai-wallah (for about 6 cents per paper cup), the upper-berth which you have to climb up to, the hot samosas sold directly at your berth and that little bit of uncertainty that you will really reach where you meant to go all make the whole thing an experience to write home about rather than 17 boring hours on a piece of public transport. (German trains come last due to incredible over-pricing, rude travellers, bad service and delays. The only redeeming feature is the socket in the compartment which can make Daniel Craig your travelling companion. If you happen to have a laptop on you.) Bus travel in India is to be discussed in the next issue.
(Tastes and perceptions are purely subjective and the author does not guarantee similar experiences on abovementioned trains.)
* to be duffilled: to leave one’s train at a station to stretch one’s legs and to subsequently miss said train.

Sexy Students

Tucked away at the bottom, but nevertheless on the first page of today’s Times of India (dated, March 5, 2010) is an article about proposed, and in some places already implemented “moral security forces” in India’s universities. Their job description includes the breaking up of footsies, the prevention of physical contact and the vigilance of mixed sex conversations should they stray to non-academic subjects.
It is the absence of the possibility of commenting directly (the internet has decided on a path of non-cooperation) on what I deem not only a stupidity but also a danger, I shall vent my frustrations here. Frustrations primarily because being a single white female in India brings with it constant stares, innumerable phone-calls (I heard of one case where a the caller was not satisfied even after 62! missed calls) and harassment in the form of “accidental” bumps against breasts and straying hands towards crotches (which is so rampart that the holy traveller’s bible dedicates a whole sub-chapter to the issue). These are, I firmly believe, the result of lakhs of young men who have no possibility of releasing their pent-up sexual energy in even the chaste form of footsies.
But while this is, indeed, annoying, we are privileged insofar as to be able to pack our backpacks and take a radio taxi to the nearest sparkling airport and leave, should it all become too much. But what of the young Indian women who are, not so overtly, but definitely also the victims of such actions and far more (several cases of gang-rapes were reported in February alone) and whose choices in such cases are still hampered by the idea of family honour and not losing face?
I am, in no way, advocating promiscuity, and furthermore, in a country which is now the world leader in HIV infections, more resources should be invested in sexual education. But surely there are greater problems to grapple with in the universities (according to the Economist, only about 18% of India-trained engineers are deemed “employable”) than the stroking of forearms and sitting in too close proximity on benches?

Bookworm

Books have become a way of life. On the one hand there are the Classics, the great big volumes that take too much time and effort to be read in normal life. And anyway, they at least resemble education, mental challenge, productivity.
Then there are the books about India. Not travel guides or fact books about finding your chakra. Fiction, set in India. It gives insight that would otherwise be closed off. Yet there prevails a dilemma. If I stick to Indian authors, I don’t understand them. Not the language itself is a problem, more the content. It’s like trying to read a book on Advanced Chemistry and skipping the introduction. The letters and words one can understand, the meaning they are trying to convey, however, remains obscure.
Then there are the foreign authors who have long-standing connections with India, have travelled extensively, speak a bit of the language. Yet they are and always will be foreigners. They are perceived and treated as such and the horror of the dirt and poverty is either played down as to make it seem less than invisible, or the author loses himself in only those, sometimes even making them seem picturesque. Even after the descriptions of a rapt admirer, you feel slightly as though you’ve been punched in the stomach when you realise he’s been staying in a 5-star hotel, while he makes you feel guilty for indulging in such pleasures yourself. “What’s the use of going to India if you’re going to hide?” they ask while probably having a hot shower every day. On the whole, they don’t give more insight in how to understand this country and its people than does the Lonely Planet (don’t get me wrong, I revere the traveller’s bible as much as the next backpacker, but at times it can frustrate).
The obvious answer is expatriate Indian writers. But apart from Salman Rushdie, no names come to mind. Suggestions are welcome; especially since it can be quite disconcerting coming up for air from Henry Miller and finding oneself in conservative India. The contrast is just too great.

Keith Urban Remix

But sadly, the tiger is not in my tank. According to the latest accounts (verified by well-placed sources, i.e. one high-school student and Kitchen Aunty), said tiger is rumored to be roaming the forest outside the school. So should activities here come to a sudden halt, flowers should be sent to Bailur Nursing Home. Just in case.

Legal Aliens

After careful study and observation, I have come to following conclusion: foreigners in India can generally be categorised into 3 different, well, categories. Here are the fruits of my labour (not to be enjoyed in all seriousness):
The Expat: the typical expatriate or working foreigner can usually be seen in Western clothes or, at least for women, the more comfortable variety of Indian dress. Never in a Saree. There is also a continuously a mix of disbelief and somewhat grudging appreciation (sometimes even love) on his face as he looks on above the heads of the Indians who are invariably shorter than him. Favourite congregation sites are establishments such as Pizza Hut or Café Coffee Day (the Indian Starbucks).
The Traveller: mostly spotted wearing baggy clothes and more often than not a hairband, this genre can often be seen sporting the tell-tale backpack and looking slightly dazed and overwhelmed. Though loath to enter the abovementioned westernized establishments for fear of marring the “Indian Experience”, you can come across them there guiltily indulging in a chocolate brownie. Comes in groups of two.
The Spiritually Enlightened: without doubt my favourite group, it is full of paradoxes. These are the travellers who come to benefit from the Ashrams and Gurus India has to offer. They are seen almost only in typical Indian dress, more often than not in white (highly practical in this country, I tell you) and barefoot. Yet while affecting to be more Indian than the Indians themselves (they do not, for example, adhere to the unwritten rule among travellers that one foreigner at least acknowledges another in a multitude of natives), they are sticklers for hygiene, refusing to use common plates and sit on the floor as is normal here. For all I know in my ignorance, it might bother their karma.
Please note that these categories are by no means absolute or exclusive.

Slumdog

I promised you more about Mumbai, and here you go. I especially want to tell you about one tour I took. In the world of tours, this can probably be classified as an “umbrella tour”. You know, the ones where the guide runs along in front holding up a colourful umbrella so that the 50 geriatrics following know where he is.
This one was same same. But different. You see, I went to a slum. Before bursting out in indignation that the poverty of others is not really a tourist attraction, let me say that the tour operator is actually an NGO which has a school and community center in the slum and uses the tours as a way to generate funds. Furthermore, there is a no photo policy, implemented by the slum-dwellers themselves.
Having said this much, here some facts and figures: About 55% of Mumbai’s 16 million people live in slums, so about 8 – 9 million people. Dharavi, where I went, is the largest slum in Asia with about 1 million people in an area of nearly 2 km2. It also has a yearly GDP of 650 million US $. A lot of young, working people also live in the slum, simply because it is located in the heart of the city, the rents are affordable and there is an acute shortage of housing in Mumbai in general.
So on Thursday afternoon me and 4 other young travellers piled into a Jeep and drove through the craziness of Mumbai to reach Dharavi. What struck me is that it is, basically, another part of town. The houses are small and close together, but they are clean and most of them sport a television. The people on the street go about their lives just as anywhere else. Nearly all the children I saw were wearing a school uniform and seemed interested to see us.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not glorifying the lot of a slum-dweller. There is only one toilet per 1500 persons and so the street effectively becomes one. The work to be had is back-breaking and 14 – 18 hours of work will get you 200 Rs (ca 3 Euros) a day. In my village that would get you by, but for example in Colaba, the tourist part of Mumbai, a coffee costs 60 to 70 Rs. In the end, had I come straight from Europe, I would very possibly have been shocked. But having spent a lot of time in rural India (as do over 90% of Indians), I am sad to say, I have seen even worse poverty.

Welcome Home...?

After spending some time in one of my new favorite cities, Mumbai, I boarded a local bus back in my district, still in a big city state of mind. So I was rather perplexed when a youth 3 seats down from me (not older than 23), on catching my attention, didn't ask me where I was from (which is the standard question). No, he told me to cover up. His modesty had been outraged by a centimeter of skin showing between my jeans and my sweater, which must have become visible why I was settling into my seat.
On the up side, the taxi-driver here didn't really try to rip me off. So there are up sides and down sides.
More to mind-boggling Mumbai in the days to come, right now I need a shower and some sleep.

Bare Necessities

Courtesy of Karnataka State, I will now present: The Five Things Absolutely Necessary When Travelling In India (the link to Karnataka is the following: due to the shocking road conditions I spent the night on the bus between Bangalore and Mangalore having random thoughts since sleep was unattainable). So here goes:
1. Your own personal blanket
2. Comfortable flip-flops
3. Canned music of some sort
4. Toilet paper
5. A good sense of humor
All those thinking of visiting should please pack these items prior to boarding the plane. Thank you.

Dressed to Kill (the Indian Way)

I admit, there have been other occasions when I have needed longer than half and hour and the support of 2 other people to get dressed. This usually involved a big night out, the contents of at least two different closets and about 300 different combinations which all have to be tried on and then discarded (the girls out there know what I'm talking about).
But here was a novel situation: I knew exactly what I was going to wear and STILL needed all the above resources. Let me introduce you to the Saree, the traditional Indian formal dress item for women. It is widely spread and even in big cities there are many women who wear it instead of the Western option of Jeans and T-Shirt. So, you might think (as I naively did), it surely can't be so hard if everybody wears it? WRONG! The process involved in getting the 3 meters of cloth to stay on your body consists of folding and tucking and pinning and (of course), abundant cheek pinching by the Indian girl who has volunteered to do all this for you (to express her happiness at seeing you go through the torture she endures every morning). The wearer (me) is reduced to standing there like a mannequin with her hands in the air and being turned this way and that.
The result can be admired above. No fear, there is no danger of unintended slippage. (The one good thing is that the feet, perpetually dirty as mine tend to be, are thus obscured. Can lead to stumbling hazard though).

The Shopkeeper

So far, in India, I have had to learn to do without. Without electricity for 24 hours at one stretch, without a shower (I have a tub, for all those of you who were wondering), without knife and fork, without a washing machine…the list goes on and on. But man is a creature of habit. Besides, there are some advantages which all the modern necessities of the Western world couldn’t offer. Take for example the shop right next door to my room. Or I should say next window, for there is indeed a window which connects my room with the shop (it’s made of wood, there’s no peeking through). The advantage of this getup is, as you can imagine, that I can buy whatever I want whenever I want. A knock is all that’s needed. And when I say whatever I want, I mean whatever I want. The shop stocks everything from soap over lemon-ginger juice to fresh, homemade samosas. And should we be lucky enough to have electricity, I can even get a tea. Or a Nescafé. Even noodles. What more could you want?
The best part of this is however and without a doubt the shopkeeper himself. A more friendly, genial person I have yet to meet. Always ready with a smile with a “good morning” on his lips (even at 5 in the afternoon, but who’s counting?) Apart from that I should like to see the face of a shop assistant in Germany should I decide to jump behind the counter to take a closer look at the merchandise. But luckily I’m in India, where this behaviour is even encouraged.
And believe you me, there is nothing better against homesickness than a lemon-ginger juice and a “welcome, welcome” through the bars of a wooden window which leads right into your room. Really.

A very quick word of wisdom

Should you ever wake up at 3 am in the morning to the sound of cats fighting in your room, DON'T ask yourself how they got there. And on no account should you start imagining what other creatures might be hiding in your room (i.e. snakes, rats, cockroaches). It is absolutely not conducive to a good night's sleep and is likely to leave you grumpy the next morning.
Just in case it happens to you sometime.

2 for 1

And because I’m in a good mood because I just came back from 2 weeks of the most incredible holiday, there’s a special 2 for 1.
Said holiday took place in Anjuna Beach, Goa, and the fantastic (though maybe a little daunting) city of Mumbai. Whereas Goa was all about relaxing and revelling in the everyday pleasures of a proper shower, Mumbai was…well, Mumbai.
But let me start off by saying that Christmas on the beach is not something that is absolutely NECESSARY to have experienced to lead a full and happy life. It was nice, mind you, the food was excellent, as was the company, but to my mind at least it just doesn’t cut it. This isn’t my first Christmas in bikini, but I still haven’t learned to love it.
But the interesting part was certainly Mumbai. We (5 girls) went from sleeping in a train station (now there is something I recommend, if only to be able to say you’ve done it. And if you’re still under 25) to Bollywood via the Salvation Army. What happened was this: the train arrived at 1:00 am in the morning and rather than risk the dodgy taxi-driver, we decided to try our luck with an incredibly rickety looking table in the ladies waiting room under the hawk-like eyes of the matron in charge (I comforted myself by telling myself that if the table were to crash, it would be worse for the person underneath than for me. I must have left my altruism on the train.)
Anyway, the next morning deposited us bleary-eyed in the Salvation Army Hostel, the best value for money in Mumbai (according to the traveller’s bible), and lo and behold we got a room. Not quite installed, we were told we had the chance to play in a commercial with the Captain of the Indian cricket team. Though there were only 3 available spots, all 5 of us decided to pile into the bus and drive 3 hours. I didn’t participate (as everyone, myself included, appreciated after seeing the size of the dresses), but I did score a picture of myself and the cricket captain.
And since we are in India, I was only mildly surprised when the bus broke down halfway back to Mumbai at 11:00 pm…
Anyway, Happy New Year to all of you out there, I hope your party was as fun as mine (if it wasn’t, try sitting in the sticks for 3 months, after than almost any party seems phenomenal) and I do hope to see all 7 of you personally for next New Years!

Incredible India

I sincerely believe the Indian Department of Tourism did a good job when they came up with this slogan. India is incredible, especially for someone who has never been there and experienced it first-hand. Yet whereas the Indians themselves would probably only point out the positive connotation of the word incredible, I will tell you things which are truly and simply not believable, I’ll wager.
But as a short introduction, I am indeed in India (duh). For those of you with whom I had the luck to confer personally, this will be old news. But for the other 3 readers to whom I have not yet wailed over my plight, here a short summary. I had somehow convinced the German government to finance a year for me in Cairo, but 20 days before I was set to get on a plane, the same government decided (in true GDR style, it has to be said) that the risk for German citizens was too big for them to carry, effectively forbidding me to enter the country and thus I got to spend 3 months at hotel Mama. It could be worse. But once it was clear that the Egyptians borders were not meant to be opened again for us luckless travellers, I switched to Plan B. More like Plan “I can’t spend another day at home without going crazy so I’ll just take the easiest option”, but whatever the name, 2 weeks later I was headed for Bangalore. From there to Ranganapalke (don’t let the fact that Goole maps can’t find it deter you, it’s a thriving metropolis….err…for those of you who do want to have an idea, type in Udupi. That would be the next biggest “town”), to Little Flower English Medium High School. For the next 7 months I am a teacher cum study-help cum object to be starred at by Indians who have never seen a white person. So until July (whenever I have the patience to try my steadily declining luck with the local internet connection) I will give those who want to know a small insight into life here. Because, believe it or not, it is incredible.