Gluttony, Bon Amie and Renewed Appetites

I like to think I’m a bit of a foodie.  Not that you would know it from the contents of my refrigerator—it has been referred to as:

 “the abyss,” Mother;

 “worse than a frat house fridge,” hungry friends who should have eaten before they descended;

“concentration camp canteen,” Anon.

I dispute that though.   I always, always, have a healthy stock of salad dressings, Branston pickle and week-old milk.  My pantry is adorned with my favourite unused tea towel.  Oh yes, it’s classy décor at Chez Eleanor.  The pristine white cotton emblazon with vermillion lettering reads: “I had a really nice dream last night about Daniel Craig.”  Mmm.  Let’s think about that for a moment……

Okay, yes.  Whilst that maybe the most exciting thing about the pantry, I do have some rather interesting relics from the cooking days: aged balsamic vinegar, par example, vanilla beans pods from my trip to India, Birds custard powder brought by Mother mule, when I claimed homesickness and that Americans having ice-cream with rhubarb crumble was just wrong, wrong, wrong!   

The lack of actual real food is just for waist and waste preservation.   I am a glutton.  A food whore.  A gourmand just busting to have a tastetastic party and suck the marrow with Anthony Bourdain.

Look at my book shelves.  Scans those spines, Baby!  Those cracked ones, with little white flecks.  That’s not advanced calcification; those books have been thumbed, bent backwards and thrown down on every kitchen surface imaginable.

I have lusted and drooled over the pages of Nigella’s eggplant involtini, her chicken soup and kneidlach, her chocolate fudge cake; I have salivated and swallowed at the thought of Jamie Oliver’s spatchcock chicken, warm bread salad of crispy pancetta, parmesan and poached egg, his many and varied lip-smacking “pukka” pastas; of Sophie Dahl’s whimsy, of Delia Smith’s practicality, of Claire MacDonald’s seasonality… the rapturous menu goes on.

Time was once when this food rapture would keep me up at night.  The cogs would turn through the roladex of culinary clippings; I would torture and tantalize myself by Taste Imagining.  (I blame Roald Dahl and Willy Wonka for this, by the way.)

And then I supposed I starved my brain.  I piled my books in boxes.  I threw the clippings away and made it focus on important things like Theatricks and BigamE and financial independence.  I suppose I rather forgot how much I loved stirring a creamy bacon and brie risotto with my silicon spatula, folding the arborio rice in from the sides and round and round my satin blue paella pan.  I disremembered how I used to delight in caramelizing the brown sugar on the top of the velveteen crème brulee.  I fooled myself with Jedi mind tricks: “Special K is nutritious and delicious.  It has real strawberries in it!  Oh, 9g of sugar, that’s not bad, surely?”

But this weekend, I got hungry again.  Ravenous.  My taste buds woke up, rasped against my hard palette and railed for more. 

It was Memorial Day weekend and I came face to face with myself—well, a younger, prettier, leggier, blonder version—who spent the weekend pouring over food magazines, clipping articles, Googling menus, trawling the non-farmers market market for the freshest ingredients.  She was a thing of beauty to watch as she chopped her heirloom tomatoes, whisked together a dash of lemon juice with a glug of extra virgin olive oil, a grind of freshly-milled black pepper and a crack of sel de fleur.

“Try this!  Try this!” she flapped with joy, proffering a hunk of fresh bread, be-daubed and glistening with her newest epicurean delight, $20 fig jam.  Her enthusiasm was infectious, her ideas were nothing short of inspired, and she brought a smile to my face and a pang to my stomach as I remembered what fun I used to have “creating.”

 My favourite repast was her casually thrown together lunch of treasures from the afore-mentioned non-farmers market market: fresh, pillowy-soft baguette sandwiching thick slabs of mozzarella, ribbons of delicate prosciutto, finished with a drizzle of fig preserve; heirloom, grape and cherry tomatoes in yellows, purples, green and red, mingling like jewels beside giant milky pearls of mozzarella and emerald green basil, swimming in the lemony olive oil elixir complimented with crisp, grilled bread for dipping.  She had thought of everything. 

The platters and bowls gleamed with fresh goodness; the air hummed with lemon and basil and it brought a table of hungry professionals, some known to each other—none known to me—together.  By the end of our "Gourmorial" weekend, I hope they considered this wide-eyed and tongue-tied outsider a friend.  Food does that, doesn't it?  It is the gastromic glue that binds us.

Today, I trudged down to the dark, forgotten basement.  I wiped the dust from the boxes and found the heaviest one.  With all the joy of a kidlet at Christmas, I rendered off the packing tape and gasped at the contents, clasping each shiny cover to my chest as if I were reuniting with an old friend.  I fondly stroked the cracked spines and restored my gastro-porn to its pride of place on the bookshelves.  Yes, look at them now!  Back where they belong. (Roll  1983 Joe Cocker.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpYxZ-1PnlA&feature=related   Pour yourself a glass of cabernet, bite down on a wedge of apricot stilton and enjoy!)

 Cheers to gluttony, bon amie and renewed appetites. 

Bourdain, I’m coming to the party.

The Three Amigas ...PART DOS

We were dumb-founded.  Had our Spanglish been misunderstood?  No, ‘Google Translate’ had clearly stated that the vet would return with our poor mangled dog in two hours, and yet he was not here.

Conversation was heavy that night, stilted.  I could hear my own laughter, hollow and guilty as—ever the clown—I tried to raise spirits and ‘reframe’.  But not even my bad jokes and Speedy Gonzales impression could dispel the worst case scenarios unfolding in my head.  Indra’s wide-eyed enthusiasm and usual ebullient appreciation of the sky, the ocean, the avocado was dulled.  Corine was similarly pensive, looking through her view-finder for some distraction, something less disconcerting to focus on. 

This was the night we had planned to see the famed Cliff Divers of Acapulco—the only ‘touristy’ activity on our itinerary.  This display of local daring-do was supposed to be amazing.  We ate sans appetite, overlooking the magnificent cliffs, watching the waves smack thunderously below.  The Divers, like bronzed geckos, scaled the rocks in their Speedos, bare-footed and without ropes.  At the perilous peak they acknowledged the cheers from the crowd, prayed to the shrine and waited for the waves to reach adequate dive-depth.

With arms raised, springing from toe-tips, they launched themselves from the craggy rock face into the hungry wave beneath.  It was an impressive feat of brave insanity and the crowd applauded.  We nodded and conservatively clapped our hands together, commenting, “their poor mothers”.  It was an interesting exhibition.  I watched the reverence (and tips) given to these gutsy men, risking their lives to dive head first into the elements. 

As the Cliff-divers finished their show and the retro stage show with sequins, g-strings and lip-synch began, I took comfort in the fact that we too had bravely dived into the unknown.  Mi amigas, Indra and Corine were not looking for applause, approval or financial gain, but to help a little suffering soul.  I looked out to sea, casting positive thoughts that our efforts and hopes would not crash amongst the rocks.

Next morning the concierge telephoned on our behalf and we waited, on pins, to hear news of the dog.  After several unanswered attempts to reach the ‘vet’, the Concierge reported back to us that the dog had indeed two broken back legs and the vet would need more money to do the surgery.

Indra had a plan.  She wouldn’t, she couldn’t leave the dog to this questionable ‘vet’, but instead we would take her to another one.  She set me the task of looking up local veterinary clinics.  Finally!  A purpose!  Something I could do to contribute to the effort!  I went a-Googling and mapquesting the local clinics.  I narrowed it down to three, but one stated ‘English spoken’.  Bingo (was his name-o)!

Indra phoned the clinic, explained our story and secured the last appointment of the day at 4.30pm.  Now, it was up to us.  We hailed a cab and I sat in the front, guiding our driver through the back streets to the store.  Corine and Indra sat silently mustering their Spanglish and their strength.  We anticipated angry scenes.  I knew it would be good to have a local ally, so I chatted to the driver non-stop, in the hopes he would be chivalrous if called upon.  His name, he told me was Napoleon, or ‘Napo’.

What a gentleman he was!  Without a peso passing my palm, he happily agreed to wait and help us on our mission.  So, with getaway vehicle idling outside, we enter the dark cave of the pet store. 

Our crippled dog was lying in a cage on the ground, looking as thin and pathetic as she did 24 hours earlier. 

Indra bent down to her.  The dog’s eyes brightened and her tail wagged. 

“It’s okay, little girl.  I’m here.”  Indra righted herself and strode towards the ‘vet’. 

A restaurant promoter, who had tried to lure us into his establishment several nights before, asked us what star signs we were.  A cliché tactic, but we played along, letting his words gush passed us with more than a pinch of salty air.  When he got to Indra, he nodded rapidly stating, “Leo, yes.  You are small but mighty.”

I thought of that then and took such pride in the power my ‘mighty’ amiga exuded.  Without a crossed word, she calmly explained that she would be taking the dog to another vet, an English-speaking vet.  The ‘vet’ tried to protest, he asked for extra money, he claimed that the cost of x-rays and driving the dog to the vet where the x-ray machine was, had already exceeded the amount we had given him yesterday.  With quiet assurance, she thanked him for his efforts.  She told him that, as she ran an animal sanctuary where contact with the Vet is frequent, she knew the real cost of things.  He did not even attempt to pursue his argument.

Indra gathered the dog in her arms and we left the dark store to resurface into the sunshine, a grinning Napo eager to open the car doors and shuttle us to the new vet. 

I read the directions and directed Napo and our precious cargo to the place where Clinica de San Franciso was supposed to be.  ‘Supposed’ being the key word.  Where the bloody hell was it?  I had written the address down correctly, I know I had.  I could feel myself start to sweat.  This was the one thing, the one thing, I was entrusted to do and—oh please, no—I had screwed it up. 

Napo wound down the window and spoke to a local.  The Clinica, it seemed, had moved to an area 20 minutes away.  Ugh!  Why hadn’t the internet updated?  Why?  No time for sweaty recriminations now.  We checked the time.  We were already late for the 4.30pm appointment!  It was Friday, would the vet stay and wait for us, or would he lock to door and head home for an evening of leisure? 

We couldn’t think of that!  We had to make it there!  With gears grinding, Napo turned the VDub and we sped off, weaving through the traffic, our heads whipping back and forth, desperately searching for street signs and then house numbers. 

“There it is!” I exclaimed, delighted to see the official-looking, clean, white building.  But as my heart leapt, so did it plummet.  There were no cars, no open doors, no signs of activity.  We were over 40 minutes late for our appointment.  Chances of finding another qualified vet on a Friday night?  Hmmmm…

We knocked on the door and looked anxiously at each other for reassurance.  Had we dived into this situation only to meet a dead end? 

After a few moments the door was opened, and there stood the white-coated, wide-smiling man welcoming us inside with open arms.  I wanted to high five and cheer, can-can and kiss the good doctor!  (I didn’t of course.  I am English.)

Indra led the way, through the waiting room to the well-lit examination room.  She showed Dr. Eusebio Gomez Duque the x-rays and discussed a course of action.  He immediately put us at our ease.  As he felt over the dog’s emaciated frame, his brow crumpled; his concern and compassion were obvious. 

We explained her story, or as much as we knew, and he listened intently, nodding and stroking his capable hands over the dog.

“And what is her name?”  He asked.

“Senorita Marisol Esperanza de Acapulco.”  Indra replied, smiling at the name we had created for her.  A long name for a small dog, but so fitting: Miss Sea and Sun, Hope of Acapulco.

The required surgery, four months of therapy, injections and spaying would cost a small fortune, but Marisol was suffering and Indra would do what had to be done to make that change.

As we strolled from the Clinic back to the main Costera, heels, heads and hearts were lighter.  We were excited to see the difference that food, water, a bath, and injections would bring our little Marisol and to see her gain strength before surgery.  As we exchanged observations of all the ways Dr. Duque’s clinic was so far removed from the dingy little back street ‘vet’ and how he was eminently more qualified to care for Marisol, Indra stopped dead.

“What is it?”

“Clinica de San Francisco!  Oh my goodness.”  She rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a folded piece of paper.  “I found this in my purse the other day.  I couldn’t think how or why it got in there.  This bag is new and was empty when I packed it!  I;m positive I didn’t pack this.”  She passed the paper to me.  “It’s the prayer of Saint Francis.  San Francisco, Saint Francis.”

Corine nodded recalling the prayer.  Indra smiled.  I frowned.  The three Amigas: the Catholic, the Spiritual and the Agnostic, shared the prayer of Saint Francis and each found something in it.  As my eyes drifted over the first lines, two words jumped out at me: ‘peace’ and ‘love’; I bit my cheek at the strangeness of it all, those were the same words, united by a third on my Indraloka Sanctuary ‘T’ shirt: ‘peace, love, animals.’

EPILOGUE: Indra is in weekly contact with Dr. Duque, monitoring the steady progress of our beloved Marisol.  The surgery was a success and now the therapy begins.  Of course, Dr. Duque’s care and attention is not free and Indra has been delighted that so many kind-hearted people have read her blog and donated to help with her treatment.  A local business Char&Co www.charandcompany.com have donated discounted hair and spa services on April 10^th, when all proceeds will go towards Marisol’s treatment.  Tax deductible donations for Marisol’s care can also be made online at www.indraloka.org or by sending a check to Indraloka Animal Sanctuary, PO Box 155, Mehoopany, PA 18629.

WE ARE THE THREE AMIGAS!

We are an unlikely grouping, that much is certain, and around the pool, restaurants, bar and beach a convoluted explanation follows when asked the perennial question, “So, how do you three know each other.”

It didn’t really occur to us before that this triumvirate would appear unusual, but here we are: one blonde American, of Polish and Italian heritage, a Catholic and a carnivore, a somewhat bohemian style, layered in lace and adorned with genuine gemstones; one brunette hippy, an American of  Dutch/Indian origins, Spiritual with Hindu leanings, a vegan, sometimes happiest barefoot in cut-offs and sometimes in cocktail dresses with 4 inch heels; and then there is me, one red-headed British American omnivore, with religious apathy, most often suited, heeled and feathered. 

Imagine then this Pennsylvanian-based posse, more different than alike, walking along the beach promenade in Acapulco, Mexico.  We had indulged in a long, lazy lunch and, with stomachs happily digesting the great daubs of daily avocado, we agreed a leisurely sail to Isla la Roqueta to lie in the sun, would round the afternoon off perfectly!  Our well-fed, warm-skinned, sandy-footed, self-indulgent bubble burst abruptly, however, pierced by loud howls of pain.

The cries were so pitiful, we could hear them over the sound of the Costera’s six lanes of traffic—not traffic moving in a smooth and soft, modern Germanic or Japanese way.  The traffic on the Costera roared with the rattle of thirty year old VDub engines; armoured jeeps, fully-loaded with machine-gun toting Federales ; buses decorated as if for Mardi Gras and playing party belters as if they were celebrating it too . 

There, wailing from the bushes, crawling, almost army commando style, her two front paws heaving along the spread-eagled hind legs, was the most sorrowful broken pup I have ever seen. 

Most people would have probably tutted pitifully, moved two steps towards her, thought better of the fleas, mites, potential rabies, and turned their heels, hearts, and heads sharply.

“Well, there are so many street dogs, aren’t there, Martin!  It’s a shame!   But, ah well!  Can’t save them all.  Oh!  Ice-cream!” 

But mi amiga, Indra, isn’t like most people. 

She bent down to the mangled mutt, hushing and cooing soothing greetings as one would to a frightened child.   “It’s okay.  There, there.  It’s okay little girl.  I’m here.”

She ran her practiced hands over the emaciated frame, the grooves between each jutting rib fitting her fingers perfectly.  The hollow of the starving creature, from ribcage to hip, was like the nipped waist of a violin, the pinched skin forming such severe arcs.   Indra’s fingers felt further, around the painful peaks of the dog’s hind-quarters, gliding gently over limbs that pointed at unnatural angles.  Indra’s nimble hands could ‘see’ the dog’s every tick, every sore, every jack-knifed bone. 

The dog had had puppies.  How recently I couldn’t tell, but from her thin frame the only skin that hung loose was that from her nipples.   As she howled and Indra cooed, Corine and I searched the bushes for her babies.  Fruitlessly.  They were not there.  I wondered if she was howling for her pups or from the pain. 

A local lady with broad, glistening face and pink lipstick approached us, and in our Spanglish we learned that indeed there were two pups, both gone now she thought.  We swept the area to double check, but disappointingly satisfied that no babies hiding, we hailed a taxi and appealed to the driver to help us.  Thankfully, he agreed to speed us to the nearest veterinarian.  It was such a relief to know that she’d get help and be safe.  Or so we thought.

As I hustled into the dim store, hell-bent on our mission, my heart plummeted.  This was a Veterinary Clinic?  The closet-sized shop was lined with cages.  Wire cages, maybe a foot across, two foot deep and two foot high—I’ve never been good with judging lengths, but suffice it to say, cages that were too bloody small for their occupants.  I watched the German shepherd and the boxer, unable to stand, stoop-shuffling to move position.  I took in the empty water bowls, the 90 degree heat, the pitiful occupants in the sun-lit corner-cages, the smell of shit and the general air of festering, neglect and death.  My heart was not light.

The ‘Vet’ and his family clustered behind the counter, shifting their bulk as they jostled to see these loco gringos with a street dog.  Eager to get the cradled creature immediate attention, Indra and Corine were all business and took the dog to the examination table.  With no Spanish on the resume, I’m afraid I was next to useless.  I held the bags and tried to stop my eyes from betraying my disgust and my shock.  Everywhere I looked, was another sight to make me gag: the obese six year old, filling his mouth with handfuls of what looked like raw chicken; cardboard boxes, which were not full of dog chews or hamster wheels, but instead very young puppies, baking in the heat, sans mummies and sans water. 

Perhaps that’s how they do it in Mexico, I tried to rationalize.  I tried to reframe.   I knew that Indra had seen these things too, that she would have been repulsed, but she would have prioritized the need for urgent medical attention.   And so I watched, thinking the best thing to do was to stand my full height and show support by my presence.

“He wants $1800.”  Corine said, reading the Google Translate that glowed from the computer screen.  Indra didn’t miss a beat, and, as different as we are, I could sense what she was feeling: tend to the dog now, argue later, so I counted what pesos we had.  My internal alarm was wailing—not because I didn’t want to pay for the dog, but because this ‘Vet’ could say anything and, judging by his unsanitary practices, he could, and probably would, stitch us up like patchwork Americana.  Corine communicated that we would give some money now for the cost of the x-rays and pain medication, but we would withhold the full amount until the course of treatment had been decided.  He rapidly accepted the part payment and reluctantly agreed to wait for his next installment.  He promised to take her immediately for the x-rays and asked us to return in a few hours.

We retreated to the beach, breathing fresh air and agonizing over what was said, what was done, and what in the hell type of ‘vet’ was he anyway?  This, surely, was a little shop of horrors.  But what choice did we have?  With the situation and with limited Spanish could we be all that picky? 

Two hours could not pass quickly enough.  We returned to the store, as agreed.  We were eager to see her, to put our minds at rest, to see that the antibiotics, the painkillers, the water, the possible meal might have improved her.  But the ‘vet’ was no longer there.  And neither was the dog. 

Fishy tales in Me-hick-co

"You're going away again?"  He repeated incredulously.
"It's been planned for a while." I cast off in the direction of the cell phone, marooned on the carpet amid the swirling tornado of clothes, travel adaptor, passport, books and Tylenol, its speaker confirming to the caller, that 'yes, this would indeed be the fourth country visited in as many months.'
"But I haven't seen you for ages!"

Ah.  It's true. I suppose I have been rather negligent of friends at home, and, I suppose, some would say I have been fairly greedy, but travel!  Travel! ADVENTURE!  It's not that I am on some Elizabeth Gilbert type quest, of Eating and Praying and Loving--although there has been a fair quantity of one verb, and it doesn't necessitate devotion to anyone or anything but carbohydrates and avocado; rather more, I have just been 'Being'.  That's a verb, right?   And by removing Self from constantly 'doing' at home, and giving Self a week, a month, or maybe four, to just slow down and 'be' has awoken my senses with a citrus punch.

Imprinting actual sights that are not from a book, magazine or TV show, reinforcing them with earfuls of sound, lungfuls of indigenous scents, inhalations of fresher, cleaner ocean-filled air, mouthfuls of flavour, sand and dust and rock beneath my feet--OH! It just makes my fingers tingle, latent with possibilities.  And then, speaking to locals, learning what used to be, what was, what is, and the prediction for the future, it's the stuff a burgeoning writer lives for.  So Friends, Readers, Countrymen, lend me your Patience.

Yesterday, for example, we spent an indulgent afternoon lounging, books in hand, by the swimming pool.  Surrounded by white colonades and rangey palms, the ocean at a distance and the tempting cool cerulean blue water barely feet from my own, I could hear the city of Acapulco: its birds, its buses, its tropical hum, the familiar agricultural churning of a VW beetle engine.  In the midst of this tropical melee, I dozed.

His booming Chicago accent cut through the bird calls and VDub poots and any dreams that could be weaving.  I prised open a sleep-absconded eye.  He was wading through the water, only his shock of thick white hair, and matching rimmed sunglasses visible, as he found a convenient bay of the pool to rest, directly opposite our sun loungers.  Although his mass was underwater, there was no disguising he was hefty.   His much burned, peeled, and burned-again nose was pointed into the sun.  I turned the other way, thinking of the trips to the aquarium and the blubbery walruses, grunting, lolling and smelling of fish.

After several sun-soaked, deep breathed hours, it was decided we needed shade and a margarita, so we swam up to the bar unavoidably close to the still-basking walrus.  The Chicago boom hailed us as we swam by and polite 'Buenas tardes' were exchanged.  Sitting on the blue mosaic tiles of the swim-up bar, I could feel the shift behind me, the gentle movement as the water parted, making way for an unstoppable force. 

His name was Walter.

Walter had been coming to Acapulco for over 30 years.  He told us tales of the city in its heyday, when Villa Verra was frequented by Liz Taylor, Elvis Presley, Dean Martin; when Marilyn Monroe swam naked in our very pool; before the drug cartels had killed not just its people, but its tourist industry.  It was a sad reflection that, 30 years on, we were the only ones in the pool, and, much to Walt's disappointment, even a shot of tequila was not going to make these ladies' clothes fall off.  Although he did mention that, time was once, there would be three topless women at the swim-up bar and they would be buying him drinks.  I had to wonder if that was before the abundance of gut and gum, but no!  Walt, 68, divorced, father of two, was indeed currently dating various strippers.
 "But, ya know whad I learned?  I dated beautiful women and I treated them good, I held doors, I paid for them and then I decided to date ugly women. Maybe they would treat me better.  But ugly women want the same attention you give a beautiful woman.  Go figure."  Chivallry was indeed pronounced dead yesterday afternoon.
"You should treat all women like Goddesses!" my traveling companion retorted loudly, but Walt raised up like a rearing Odobenus, hearing only his own barks.
"And you girls, I'm telling you, I see these girls coming here, looking for romance. Don't look for what's not there.  Just enjoy the weather.  These men, they are like peanut butter, smooth and sticky; they'll have you in bed in a day." 

After an hour of Walt's stories, silent SOSs were cast between the three of us.  *Retreat! Retreat!*  And one after the other my fellow captives made their escape, but there was something faintly sad about this beached, burned, and blubbery man, desperate to hold court and tell us about the good old days, and it pulled me in and held me there; so, whilst sun sank in the sky and the water turned my fingers to flesh-coloured prunes, I stayed.

"My mother left me $10 million when she died," (the exact number of millions did seem to change over the course of the afternoon, sometimes being $1 million, sometimes $10 million, but it seemed rude to interrupt and clarify this point) "I come here, I enjoy the weather, I cook myself a great lobster with pasta and garlic, I have beautiful girlfriends, but you know what makes me happy?"
"What's that, Walter?" I asked, not really knowing what a millionaire in the sunshine, complete with collection of strippers, could possibly long for.
"I wish you'd tell me."
And there it was.  I was tempted to refer him to my blog and tell him about 'The Happiness Project' and that he should reframe, or maybe he should just take his own advice and 'not look for something that isn't there,' just enjoy the sunshine.  Before I could formulate a response, he crashed on,
"Anyway, I'm not trying to impress you with my wealth.  If I was, I woulda put my teeth in."
I couldn't help but laugh, and he laughed too,
"Wel,l Walter that's just about made my day!  Can I quote you?  I don't need my wealth or my teeth to impress you!"
"Sure!"

And you know, I think for that short afternoon, just listening to his bizarre and somewhat fishy stories, he felt important and that made him happy.  For me, just taking the time to listen was horizon-broadening too--strippers, drug cartels, fortunes, oh the drama!  A writer dreams of such riches!  (It's just usually, they come with teeth.) 

Until next time, with jar of peanut butter and spoon in hand, E.

Ind-Ja the Indelible

And I'm back.  Over 40 hours of travel door to door.  This includes: driving, waiting, delay, flight, transfer, more delay, flight, fast track through immigration, terminal sprint, boarding bureaucracy--> missed flight, taxi ride to nearby airport, further delay, flight cancellation, final flight, immigration and WOO HOO, dear Reader, I made it from Puttankardu, India to Toronto, Canada. 

It is truly ah-mazing to contemplate, the distance, the time travel and the cultural differences: 20 rupees for two cups of teas in Parambikulum (about 40 cents), chatting with the tea shop owner, who showed us hospitality, free baked goodies that we really didn't want but he seemed excited to offer us, along with his full, unblinking attention; $4 for a tea, conveyer belt line and barely a smile at the Starbucks I am typing from now.  (Am not making any political statement here, the difference just seems surreal to me.)

India has left an indelible impression on me, that much is true.  I am not sure whether I will look at any of the 'hardships' I 'endure' in NEPA in the same light again.  Yes, going back to my first blog, this makes that whole reframing thing, really easy.  Instead of my catch-all 'it's okay, at least I'm not dead' reframe, I can now interchange this with, 'It's okay, at least I have the opportunity to earn more than 30 rupees a day picking tea/breaking stone at the side of the road, without shoes, before going home to pick vegetables, make the meal and do the laundry--without all the modern conveniences that make our lives easy, or a man who will deign to help me.'  Good reframe, huh? 

So, I wanted to focus this blog on the impressions that have, with Indian ink, been indelible etched to my cognitive microfiche.  These are they:

Our unrestrained driver, Prakash (see last week's blogette) wanted to show Indra and me more of his beautiful homeland.  He packed us a traditional Kerala picnic and took us 'up' in his jeep.  By Western standards this would be 'off-roading', in India, this is just an 'everyday commute'. 

We zig-zagged up the mountains, through the knee-high shrubbery of the lush tea gardens, jostled more than usual by the questionable camber of the dusty, red, rutted 'road'.  I use the word loosely.  Holy seltbelts and air bags, Batman!  The higher we drove the greater the perspective; the individual became the whole, each hill of the tea gardens transforming before my eyes to become a giant emerald, velvet-coated armadillo. 

At 7130 feet and higher, in the heart of 'God's Own Country', overlooking the Tata tea gardens, where so many women (and men) had laboured through blistering heat and unrelenting monsoons, we ate our picnic.  These verdant armadillos grew as far as my eyes could see.  It was not so much a vista as a vasta.

The enormity of the landscape was paralleled by that of it's creatures.  One I had particularly keen--scotch that--one I had been bubbling to see, was the Asian Elephant.  Why so?  Well, probably because I grew up watching Dumbo, had loved every word of Sara Gruen's 'Water for Elephants', but mainly because these creatures show such unflinching loyalty in their matriarchal packs, such sensitivity and honour, that they win my devotion. 

Lashmi was the elephant Indra and I were allowed to feed.  She was 40 years old, and looked every year of it.  (She could definitely have used the MK targeted toning body lotion!)   Her bulk and thick, bristled exterior were softened big her huge milk chocolate brown irises.  Her eyes seemed to say so much, shining sadly in silent protest as the Muhoot shouted at her.  I'm probably anthropomorphizing, but it's my blogette and it's a great word, so humour me.  I should add that the Muhoot did not whip her, I simply did not like his aggressive tone--there was no need!  Dude, she's big, she's slow, would you give a pachyderm a break?

Resigned to her role--and her life is certainly so much better than the chained, work elephants, so that is my reframe for her, she gently took the bananas and the somewhat surprising choice of skin-on pineapple from my hands.  We were then allowed the hose and instructed, through a complicated game of charades for non-Malayalam-speaking-foreigners, to fill up her trunk.  We seemed to be hosing for minutes.  Long minutes.  We thought she might drown--try charading that to your local, unfriendly Muhoot!  Finally, with trunkful, she knocked it back and necked litres of water in one shot.  If you think chugging a yard of ale is impressive, watch the elephant, my friend!

The average female Asian elephant weighs 8,000lbs.  One of Lashmi's feet has a greater circumference than my hip measurement.  I became rather engrossed by the power of paw.  If a horse hoof can break your fragile human metatarsals, what in Hades can a elephant foot do?  Compress a foot to fleshy, boney paper?  Sorry, a bit grisly, I know, but such is the stream of consciousness on this blogette, baby.  Back to the feet.  With every carefully-placed footfall, she exerted such power thudding through her leg that the patterns of age criss-crossing her skin, would shift and resettle.  You could see the shock absorbed from toe upwards.  In put me in mind of stale marshmallows and how they wrinkle when you prod them.  Every movement she made was a wonder to me: every sway, curl and snuffle of her trunk caught my breath.  Other tourists stood back frightened, squealing as she reached her trunk towards them.  How strange, I thought.  I couldn't think of anything I'd rather do than show this creature some care: to touch her skin, to whisper soft 'hellos', meet her sorrow-filled eyes; just to let her know that I would do her no harm.  My brief meeting with Lashmi didn't dispell the magic of Disney and her soft caresses will stay with me forever.

The adventure continued as Indra, Herma, Prakash and I sallied forth, up the corkscrew mountain pathways through the ever-continuing tea gardens, marveling at the devastating waterfalls; passing barefoot Pilgrims walking the hot dusty road on their trek to temple.  We slowed down to watch a bull elephant munch on some bamboo and laughed at the daredevil monkeys lunging onto the windscreen like little tribal mascots, curious to get a closer look.  Prakash dashed along the tree-lined avenues, cars, rickshaws, buses and motorbikes, all competing to overtake the others at the same time, and--oh horror--the opposite lane doing the same.  We navigated our way through the unbelievable synochrized-haphazard movement of traffic through the pedestrian-packed streets; and eventually we reached the silence, stillness and awe-inspiring Godliness of Parabikulum Tiger Preserve.

Godliness is not a word I use lightly.  Indra and I had brainstormed for quite some while about fitting adjectives, but when I mentioned 'Godly' we both agreed, it fitted perfectly.  Those of you who know me well, might chortle at me using it, but really, as I saw the bounty of the world unfold before me, it was a truly 'religious' experience.  The scale of it all!

Curious to see the world, had I unwittingly fallen down the rabbit hole, downed the 'drink me' bottle and shrunk to diddy-size?  No, I was no smaller; Nature unfettered, uncropped and untopiaried was just bigger.  Unbelievably so.

As Indra and I sat cross-legged, high above the canopy of the eucalyptus, the bamboo, the birch, woven together with creepers and vines, watching the sun melt into the leafy horizon, listening to the trees whistle with the wind, I was converted, to Nature.   I held my breath, for what felt like 5 minutes, and then it had gone; the sun had disappeared, the wisps of azure, ivory, rose and lilac sky had merged into a steely grey.  But I was humbled, I had the awe-inspiring snapshot fixed, preserved in the Preserve.

The Tiger Preserve is one of many large, protected areas of wilderness, conserved by the tribes of the area.  The camp within the preserve is a settlement of tent niches, dormitories, dining pagoda and gift shop (yup, even in India.  Disney would be proud!)  We were housed in the tent niche--an elegant housing by camping standards--not the leaky canvas offering I was used to after many a mildewed summer holiday spent in Wales.  There was a roof, a mattress of sorts, a cold shower, elephant-proof electric fencing... you know, the usual. 

Indra and I were early for the trek and, like good girl scout typees, we came prepared and cracked open our books!  We sat nestled in the notch of a mighty tree, a cosy gap between it's split trunks, and we feasted on currents reads.  Little did I know I had inadvertly sat in a nest of crabby-like fleas who were feasting upon me.  Oh that was a joyful discovery--what did I say about humbling?  But I digress.  As I provided the entree, Indra and I heard schoolgirl giggles in the background.  We exchanged eye-rolls.  Was our precious peace about to be disturbed?  Did this mean our trek was to be shanghai-ed by a bus-load of noisy teenagers, warning any creatures from miles away that we are approaching?  Oh good grief!  We diligently kept eyes to pages and hoped the teens would pass. 

The giggles did not pass however.  They got louder.  I reluctantly prised my eyes from the pages of Picoult and--GAH!--we were surrounded.  About twenty, wide-eyed, white-teethed school children, encircled our sanctuary.  I smile apologetically,
"Oh, hello!"
"Hello!"
"Hello!"
"Hello!" rang out amidst the giggles and whilstling trees.
"What is your good name?"
I kept tight-lipped, "I'm Indra and this is my friend Eleanor."  Eyes grew wider.
"Where are you going?"
I should probably point out to those unfamiliar with South India, that this is staple conversatory-fodder, similar to the 'How are you?' of western ways.
We simply told them where we were from and that we were staying for a couple of days, yet, this disclosure did not seem to satisfy them.  There they stood, unmoving, unspeaking, just...giggling.
I looked at Indra, awkwardly.
She looked at me, awkwardly.
We looked at the children, awkwardly.
She fashioned her lips into a smile and said sweetly, "Well, nice to met you.  Goodbye."
Slowly, they dispersed.

About 5 minutes later, the school tribe returned, again circling our sanctuary.
"Hello again."  We said.  I was now not only feeling awkward, but the teeniest bit threatened (probably not helped by the fact that now the crabby-fleas were helping themselves to seconds of shank of Eleanor.)
"We have come to take picture."  The ringleader said sheepishly, holding up her cell phone camera.  "You mind us take picture?"
Indra looked at me, I looked at her.  I felt just a tad foolish.  How had I felt at all threatened!  I was double their age and comfortable in my circa 1998 khakis and 2004 greying and in-need-of-replacement trainers. 
I nodded and said that would be okay and readied with my camera-smile.  Given the cue, the ringer leader said something and all at once, cameras and cell phones were brandished and held aloft, a series of little flashes fired in my general direction.  This went on for minutes, before Indra--who is, she will be the first to admit, not just camera shy, but camera-phobic, said, "Okay, that's enough now, thank you!"  The children smiled, rehoused their weaponry and off they giggled. 

I sat there amused (this was pre-flea awareness).  I had travelled three-quarters of my way around the globe.  I had thought that I had avoided the, sometimes patronizing, western arrogance that I had seen in other tourists--you know, the 'Oh Indra!  Isn't that just so cute!  The little Indians are wearing funny diaper-things. I must get a photo with me with the natives!'  But maybe I had been arrogant.  I had expected to be a known species, that my whiteness would have gone before me (rightly or wrongly).  Little had I realized that I was far more strange to the locals and school children visiting Parabikulum than they were to me.  I was the circus attraction, on a par with the bearded lady or the vertically-challenged spectacles of Victorian days, I was... the White Woman with Blue Eyes!

As the Godly, breath-taking, vast, elemental, humbling landscape is held fast on the photo-plates of my memory, my blue eyes, red hair and peppering of freckles is, for now at least, fixed in the memory of 20 cell phones somewhere in South India. 

As I recall my experiences of India, I suppose my lesson is this: to look at everything with fresh, wide-eyed wonder, you enjoy it more and look better in cell phone photos; just because it's a Tiger Preserve, don't actually expect to see a tiger; and, look down before you sit down.

Until next week!

Ind-ja The Incongruous, Part 1

It is day 4 of my visit to Ind-ja and I feel I have been away for a long time already—partly because I have seen so much; because much has been happening with work and the unscratchable itch is difficult to ignore; but mainly because I am truly a world away from northeast PA.  Three quarters of a world, to be precise. 

I helped at the local orphanage yesterday and showed the girls on a map where I had boarded the giant jet, where I had connected in Dubai and finally landed in Kochi, before driving to Puttankadu—go ahead, Ladies and Gents, reach for your Philips Atlas, last thumbed in geography class circa 1995, and you will see it’s a bloody long way—it took 28 hours door to door.  I think I was more impressed by the distance than the girls were.  That’s all preamble to say that I shouldn’t be surprised by the differences of geography, of culture, of ethics, and yet I am.

My traveling companion, Indra, pointed out that, as humans, we always look to identify things and label them: ‘Oh, so a pierogi is really the Polish version of an Italian ravoli’; ‘his new girlfriend looks so much like his ex-wife’; ‘this Chateau du Crap reminds me of weasel piss,’ and so on.  And perhaps my head is spinning because there is so much here I cannot classify, and as soon as I think I have found a nice convenient category for such and such or whatever, I observe something so surprisingly juxtaposed, something so incongruous, that my inner Taxonomist is filing for divorce.

Puttankadu is a beautiful rural mountain village in the state of Kerala, South India, 20 km from the nearest city Munnar—see, see my need to geographically classify it for you?  The view from my fairy-light lit veranda is asthma-inducing it’s so breath-taking.  (Here's a picture on the website for you: http://www.munnarcarpediemcottage.com/contact.asp )  The valley is carpeted with majestic palms, banyans, silver birches so tall they must be hundreds of years old, and there is barely a blot on the landscape, barring the surprising electricity pylons.  Take a jostling drive (more of that later) into the village and there is a lot happening under and between this canopy of green.  The red dusty roads that defy straight lines, even paving, or gentle gradients, weave through the trees, breaking up this verdant paradise.  'God's own country' according to the tourist billboards. 

Most houses are improvised shacks, camouflaged and nestled along the roadside, so the pepto-bismol pink, cornflower blue, aqua and tangarine residences that lurk around the hairpin bends; brilliantly vibrant temples decorated with painted murals that look more like strange childrens’ playgrounds than places of worship, pop out of the dense green with a loud architectural ‘BOO!’

When I drive at break neck speed over the hills and down the valleys of NEPA, Mum tends to burst into song, namely, hymns: ‘Lord, Jesus Christ ….’ She not religious, you understand, merely communing with higher powers before I fly off the road.  Well, if she were the passenger driving the roads to Munnar, she would appreciate that my driving is, in fact, like driving Miss Daisy, T. A. M. E.  Wow, do they do break-neck here!  I’m super impressed.  The way Prakash, our driver, whips around downhill corners, changes gear, beeps the horn, squeezes passed the oncoming bus with less than an inch to spare, has a cell phone conversation and doesn’t fly off the hairpin bend into the onion dome of the pepto bismol temple, is a marvel.  But, he is by no means unique.  The Indian drivers are speed racers of this red and twisty pot-holed circuit.  Seriously, you think Monaco is a perilous track, try South India.  Unlike Monaco, the road traffic accident rate is surprising low, so I am told.  The roads are narrow, clearly, clearly, meant for just one vehicle, yet Prakash and his fellow racers seem to find extra road where there is none.  Factor into this, dear Blog Readers, that at this point of ‘Oh My God, I’m Gonna Die,’ motorbikes, motorized rickshaws and pedestrians--often with big bundles, appear and seem completely unphased that the growling hunk of metal is centimeters from collision.  This is normal, everyday Indian life.  Now for the incongruous bit, the cell phones!  Indra and I have to laugh--perhaps hysteria--that Prakash and Herma chatter happily on their phones, without the slightest worry, as we both breathe in and brace for impact.  We pass these scenes of great natural beauty and guilty-inducing poverty, and there we fly by, plugged into the latest technology.

The trees and bushes, on closer inspection, are a well-stocked pantry of goodies, supplying cocoa, tea, coffee, cardamom, peppercorns, bananas, coconuts, jack fruit and more besides.  Imagine having that at the bottom of your garden!  Emeril would be hyperventilating by now.  What struck me as odd, and rather sad, about this bounty, is the lack of interest in keeping it clean.  Maybe this is because the country is so huge, it is not thought a problem, I don’t know, I’m just typing out loud.

We stopped for tea by the side of the road at a scenic point on the road to Munnar.  The spot was bustling with honeymooners (identified by fading henna), sightseers (with cameras) and locals (with nonchalance), all sipping on their little paper cups of spiced, sweet chai.

The view of the valley was spectacular, definitely worth stopping for, the stretch and another cup of tea were a civilized bonus.  Seeing my wonder, Herma, my host, told me to look directly down from the wall of this look out spot.  You got it!  A landslide of paper cups.  The rubbish bin beside the tea shack?  Practically empty. 

Oh no!  I don’t want to be all pious and judgemental.  I am looking from Western eyes, of course.  I grew up with ‘Keep Great Britain Tidy’ campaigns and the like, where recycling is now enforced on pain of fines; I live in America where recycling is encouraged and trash dumping an offense, so that’s my norm. 

My host is changing things around Kerala.  She is a one-woman force to be reckoned with, fearlessly challenging the unquestioned and unchampioned here.  She sees the rubbish, the oblivious dumping and she wants to change it.  I think she will.  She has already set up a trust with her own money, and with donations, to fund girls from the village and from the orphanage through higher education.  $80 a month will put a girl through university and it gives them the chance of having a career, as opposed to the life most women have here, that of harsh servitude. 

Herma took Indra and me to the orphanage yesterday.  I was expecting ‘Annie’ with saris, but hopefully a kind Miss Hannigan caring for the girls.  To my surprise, these girls were completely unsupervised, the older girls, and by older I mean 14 or 15 year olds, look after the younger ones.  They go to school, but their time thereafter they are left alone.  Herma visits often to break up the day for them, to educate them, to help them with their English, and it is obvious the girls love these visits. 

They greeted me with shouts of “Andy! Andy!”  They must mean 'Indy' for Indra, thought I.

“I’m Eleanor.” I said. “Indra is over there.”

“Andy, Andy!  Where is your family?”

“My mother and my father live in England, but I am Eleanor, Indra is over there.”

“Andy, Andy! Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“My brother lives in England too.  Indra has brothers and a sister, she is over there.”

“Andy, Andy! But who you live with?”

“I live on my own.”

The air was sucked out of the room, inky pupils grew wide.

“Andy!  Poor Andy!”  And the girls scattered.

“I don’t get it.” I told Indra later and repeated to her the entire conversation.  Indra chuckled.

“No, it’s Aunty.  They call everyone Aunty out of respect.  And no woman would live on her own here.  They must think something is really wrong with you!”

Ha! ‘Twas ever thus.

I did have a lovely time at the orphanage, the girls milled around, asking questions, touching my hair and I showed them photographs, commented on their dresses and, gulp, I sang.  I know, for shame, who do I think I am, Maria Von Trapp?  But they asked me to and how do you say no to a gaggle of excited children?  I couldn’t.  Trouble was, what in Hades do you sing to a group of impressionable girls?  And, what do I know the words to?  Since I deemed neither Biffy Clyro nor Kings of Leon overly appropriate, I sang ‘I Am Sixteen Going on Seventeen’ from ‘The Sound of Music’.  I thought they would like it, it’s a sweet song after all, but the response was, after wide eye rolling, “Andy, don’t you know any Michael Jackson?” 

Hee hee.  Oh!

Before leaving, one of the older girls, Jessel, said to me, “You know, you look like Malayalam actress.”

I suppose we all need to classify something new.

To be Continued…

Are you happy now?

And so it is... the big day!  The launch of my website.  This really needs to be a momentous blog entry, 'don't it Guv'nor?'  Well, it will be a HAPPY one, at least.

So, drum roll...fanfare...standby Barry Manilow and let fly with your double dream jazz hands.  We are live in 3-2-1.  Cue content!

I've been doing a lot of 'reframing' recently.  No, I don't mean discovering my inner Martha Stewart and crafting with decoupage, mounts and the like, but reframing my thoughts: viewing a potentially negative situation and choosing to focus on the positives.  I know--cringe--it sounds incredibly 'Polyanna'-esque and if you are vomiting in your throat right now, or even just a dry heave, I don't blame you.  You see, that's what I thought, until I tried it.  Oh yes, I was once, quite, quite miserable.

Now, this 'reframing' mullarky is by no means a novel thought, the internet is full of self-titled 'Life Coaches' harping on about 'reframing thoughts and the law of attraction', even the American Heart Association promotes it as a coping mechanism to de-stress.  However, I wasn't spurred on to behave in this happy vein by crashing into it on the superhighway--though I did use it when I crashed on the actual highway (see below), but I stole it directly from author Gretchen Rubin.  Her book, #1 New York Times bestseller 'The Happiness Project', suggests reframing, as well as other strategies, to help fulfill one's happiness quota.

Gretch did oodles of research (I scanned her references.  Long.  Impressive.  It would have taken me several years to read the list of research tomes, let alone take on the year long project AND write the book).  Shamelessly, I have done no such analysis, but instead, I am offering Self up to the Happiness Gods and I'm Jekylling it!

So what, pray, have I discovered thus far?  Is positively reframing a free form of valium?  Am I slathering at the mouth with all the saccharine cheer?  Do I still want to scream when friends' children wipe their snot on my dry-clean only suede trousers?

Actually, focusing on the good things, and making time in my day to do the things I enjoy, (and often deny myself), is making me happier than I have been in a long time.

I am not going to bore you with the laundry list of converted negatives, but--what's that?  Oh, you want to read what I could possibly have to feel peeved about!  Well, okay, just so you have a mental picture, this example is fairly recently ingrained in my memory.  Imagine: life happens, snow falls, ice freezes, car tires lose traction, careens across the interstate and Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your aunt and I'm the mother of a hideously expensive car accident!  Oh deep joy! 

Old Self would have cried, perhaps thrown herself on the State Trooper and cried some more.  Then she would have felt utterly miserable and, whilst suffering the cold for five hours without even a biscuit at Stew's Auto Body Shop, waiting an eternity for the rental car to appear, she would probably have phoned everyone in her Contacts, wailing and bemoaning her lot.  'No body knows the troubles I seen...'

New Self did not.  New Self reframed. (Yes, am feeling v. smug and grown up about this.)  New Self coped ON HER OWN.
Okay, maybe I did phone a couple of people and I had a nice chat with the Onstar lady, but I did not cry.  Well, not until my mum phoned, but that's different.  To everyone else I held it together as I thought, 'It's okay, I'm not dead.'

This is a brilliant 'reframer' because it really does work for everyone in whatever situation! 
'Oh lordy, that dang price of gas has gorn up ag-geen.  But, no matter Alma-Jean 'cause at least I'm not dead!'
See!  So pop that one in your Reframing Armory because anyone can use it!
(Except, perhaps, Joan Rivers.  Don't be fooled, someone in Hollywood is just a really talented ventriloquist.)

Gretchen Rubin's Happiness Project suggests various other strategies and I won't go on ad nauseam, but these are the ones I have implemented thus far:
1) Decluttering. Check.
Actually, I hired an assistant for my other J.O.B. and she de-cluttered, but now, I see surfaces, Sweetie, SURFACES!  And yes, this has brought me untold joy.  You have to understand that pre-Operation Declutter, there was a paper landslide covering my desk, dining table, coffee table, bedside table; in fact, it had spread to the outerreaches, chair seats and even *gasp* the floor.  Quite frankly I am just thrilled to have somewhere to sit.
2) Sing in the morning. Check.
This has never been a problem for me.  (Only for my neighbours).  And, Ms. Rubin, I have gone one better, because not only do I sing, but I also dance at the same time, arabesquing across my kitchen, and double dream hands-ing in the shops.
3) Exercising/being good to yourself. Check.
I am giving Self the gift of doing this everyday, because my little time on the treadmill makes me happy.  Miserable Me would have not allowed Self a work out if time were pressed.  New Happy Me insists upon it.  Now, although this is being good to Self, I do want to point out the potential pitfalls (or, as I like to call them, 'shitfalls') of working out. 
You could say that I am Happiness-Greedy, but I like to think I'm just a multi-tasker, because I go for double-happy: running on the treadmill whilst watching the talk show 'Ellen'.  Do you know how hard it is to run at top speed when you are doubled over laughing; when the dancing-Christmas-white-jumpsuited 'Elfis Presley' skips on set and falls over and you can't do anything but convulse, gripping on to the handrails and hoping to all that is holy that the machine slows down before you fall off.
Well, it ain't easy and if you happen to laugh too hard it can result in grazed knees/a chipped tooth/broken nose.  (I only sustained one of the three, but I was lucky--see!  Behold the reframing!)

I do have more resolutions to implement, as per Rubin's book, I need to write Eleanor's Manifesto and I want to complete my list of commandments.  The Happiness Project is a fully functioning website, with tools to track your progress, words of encouragement and using it brings a certain accountability by just typing goals down and putting it out there.  Do visit:  http://www.happiness-project.com/

I'll let you know how it goes, but for now there seem to be no adverse effects from being positive.  No Mr. Hyde's have surfaced, foaming at the mouth, raging through the streets of Clarks Summit.  With surfaces to recolonize, time to write, to read, to sing, to leap in the kitchen, to run whilst laughing, I am feeling pretty happy.  Screw the car, the price of gas, the grazed knees and the lack of Oscar nomination, it's okay I'm not dead.