Bombastic Train Journey
Well, we're back in Mumbai, or Bombay, or whatever you're supposed to call it... there's a really interesting, not-at-all-marked divide as to who uses which, but Helen and I have decided to settle for Bombay, because then all our experiences here will be Bombastic.
We pulled into Bombay last night after twelve hours on the train. Taking the train in India is actually one of the few experiences that lives up to the romance of expectation. As you settle into your sleeper compartment, the wheels start turning, and the Train Song starts up... a symphony of toy and food and drink wallahs advertising their wares. In booming voices -
"CheesesandwhichbhajiOMlette!"
"Tomaaato SOUP! Tomaaato SOUP!"
"CoffeecoffeeNEScoffeeeeeeeee!"
"BIS-keeeeeee! BIS-keeeeeee!"
Underpinning the whole thing like a Gloria or Dominus is the chai-wallah with his deep intonation of
"Chaaaaaaaaaaai! Chaaaaaaaaaai! Caaaaaaaaaaai!"
as he swings his kettle like a brazier, spilling wafts of cinnamon and cardamon and vanilla fleetingly beneath your nose. Every couple of stations, there is a flurry of activity, as the wallahs in their bright orange catering company shirts haul empty ice-cream and samosa and cheese sandwhich containers off the train and cart new ones on. Enterprising old women appear at the windows with baskets of bananas or hot roasted peanuts on their heads - beggers poke their fingers through the grates.
In the brief interludes between vendors strolling up and down the aisle bellowing, people-watching can keep you more than adequately occupied. The train to Bombay was especially good for this, as the people going there seemed more modern than those travelling in the opposite direction. We nearly passed out when we realised that there were women on the train wearing jeans. One had even chopped all her hair off. After sarees everywhere - even Delhi - it was a bit of a shock.
The other option is to stare out the window and watch the country change from red and dusty with palm trees galore, to wet and lush, to suburban, to urban... or if you're Helen, listen to cello adagios on your iPod and read The Odyssey.
In any case, it was great to be hurtling back towards the city - although saying goodbye to Shae was a bit sad. When you spend so much time with a complete stranger, you form a particular relationship with them - and it's odd to think that I won't see someone I spent two weeks of my life in close contact with for a year at least.
In anycase, that's that. What else? We spent our last few days in Goa visitng Panjim and Old Goa taking photographs, and went to the weekly markets at Anjuna. The markets were fun - rows and rows of tents set up like a makeshift village in a field in the middle of nowhere, perched on the shore. Amongst the usual crap we found some really beautiful things - rugs and shawls and Tibetan silver, embroideries, ground shell jewellery, shoes... and I took a photo of a whole row of Che Guevara T-shirts, flapping in the breeze.
"5 rupees for Che!" the vendor shouted out - and at that price it was almost worth it. Shae got her nose pierced by a woman who looked like Bjork, and Jane, our Irish speech-therapist/hippie friend (insert cheap "Irish accent/speech impediment" joke here), disappeared and came back with a giant moonstone bracelet. You could read your future in that thing. Helen and I walked around eating ice-cream. It was stinking hot in that field, and the ice-cream was easily the most exciting thing that happened to us that day. We took some very repetitive photos of gypsies and spice vendors and rows of shoes glistening in the sunshine, and went home all of us tired, happy, and loaded up with bangles.
Helen and I have been taking it easy here in Bombay, eating lunch at the restaurant next door to our hotel - we were the only white faces in there, I think - and wandering around. We're planning to do some last-minute shopping at the markets tonight, and catch a Bollywood film - hooray! Our grossly over-priced hotel even has a hot shower, so I will be soaking myself thoroughly. I thought I had a tan, but it turns out it was just dust from the train...
Helen says:
After recieving this glowing review, I have been forced to eat my words and grovel at Helen's feet, begging her to take some time out of her busy schedule and humour an old friend:
G'day everyone ! What's cracking?
I apologise for the lack of Helen Says-es during the last few weeks. I've been keeping busy getting in touch with my inner-hippie or, as Jess likes say, inner-ex-chiropractor-hit-mid-life-crisis-gone-on-vacation-to-India-15-years-ago-and-never-came-back/Israeli trance-dancer/Eurotrash.
Since I've spoken to you through your computer screen last, I've become a fully-fledged hippie! I've made friends with a Raaasta-mon (A.K.A. Jane with her monster dreds) and joined a drum circle on the beach. We sat in a circle jammin' on our djambes and I even tasted their apple pie. Jess and Shaemus were thoughtful enough to tell me after I digested that magic slice that it would surely have been packed full of mushrooms! Fortunately for Helen says, I came out of that drum circle with nothing more than a smile on my face. Rasta Jane on the other hand... She felt the wrath of that pie at her 8am yoga class the next morning when the crabs scuttled out of the Indian Ocean, up the sunny beaches of Arambol and into her yoga hut to "get her".
Not only have I excelled in djambe rythms, but I'm now down with quantam physics! In further attempts to get in touch with my inner-Israeli-trance-dancer, I sat at a rooftop cafe (with my fellow Israelis) one night watching a DVD of What the Bleep Do We Know? projected onto an all-natural, organic cotton sheet hanging off the bamboo roof!
I became even more intouch with my inner-topless-Eurotrash-doing-yoga-on-the-beach-in-my-g-string-at-sunset (vicariously) when Shae had her nose pierced by Bjork. This was possibly maybe (PLEASE let there be other Bjork fans reading this blog) the penultimate step in the long and windy road to becoming the world's whitest white-girl hippie, the ultimate being the massage I copped from some barbers today.
Allow me to digress...
I had about an hour to kill this evening while Jess was writing on this thing, so I thought it might be an idea to see if I could score a massage to rid my body of the damage done on the 12 hour train trip.
After being harassed 24/7 by massouses (please forgive my spelling) in Goa, I thought it would be piss-easy to find somewhere in Bombay! How wrong was I...
I only had about 20 minutes left until I had to write Helen Says so in a last ditch effort I ran into a barber shop and yelled "Gimme a massage, STAT!" So the fellows there put me in a chair and wrapped a towel around my shoulders. So far, so good. Then they promptly massaged 2 or 3 handfuls of Vaseline into my face and clean hair. Disappointing! THEN, my eyes sealed shut by the sheer weight of the mighty petroleum jelly - but heightening my other senses in the process - I heard my barber switch on some electrical instrument which began to buzz in fury! I used all the strength in my mortal body to open my eyes just in time to see my Warwick Capper-esque mullet-ed barber poised, [I should take this time to apologise for the length of this sentence] with what looked like a power-sander attached to a rubber glove with cable going into the wall, ready to go to work on my face!
"Yikes!", I screamed. I decided to flee the scene, seconds later there was nothing left in that shop but a cloud of dust in the shape of Helen, Road-Runner-style.
Does anyone know the nightmare when (and Steve I know you will - Jess told us tales of your late night experimental dental surgery back in the day) you're at the dentist, and you wake up from the gas to see Dr. Death with a power drill or chainsaw rather than an electric toothbrush hovering over your mouth, ready to strike! If you have experienced such a nightmare, then, and only then, could you perhaps begin to grasp the magnitude of my newly aquired fear of barber-shop-massages... and Australian footballers from the 80s.
Gotta run, have a hot date at the movies with a choc top (and Jess).
See you soon!
Love Helen
We pulled into Bombay last night after twelve hours on the train. Taking the train in India is actually one of the few experiences that lives up to the romance of expectation. As you settle into your sleeper compartment, the wheels start turning, and the Train Song starts up... a symphony of toy and food and drink wallahs advertising their wares. In booming voices -
"CheesesandwhichbhajiOMlette!"
"Tomaaato SOUP! Tomaaato SOUP!"
"CoffeecoffeeNEScoffeeeeeeeee!"
"BIS-keeeeeee! BIS-keeeeeee!"
Underpinning the whole thing like a Gloria or Dominus is the chai-wallah with his deep intonation of
"Chaaaaaaaaaaai! Chaaaaaaaaaai! Caaaaaaaaaaai!"
as he swings his kettle like a brazier, spilling wafts of cinnamon and cardamon and vanilla fleetingly beneath your nose. Every couple of stations, there is a flurry of activity, as the wallahs in their bright orange catering company shirts haul empty ice-cream and samosa and cheese sandwhich containers off the train and cart new ones on. Enterprising old women appear at the windows with baskets of bananas or hot roasted peanuts on their heads - beggers poke their fingers through the grates.
In the brief interludes between vendors strolling up and down the aisle bellowing, people-watching can keep you more than adequately occupied. The train to Bombay was especially good for this, as the people going there seemed more modern than those travelling in the opposite direction. We nearly passed out when we realised that there were women on the train wearing jeans. One had even chopped all her hair off. After sarees everywhere - even Delhi - it was a bit of a shock.
The other option is to stare out the window and watch the country change from red and dusty with palm trees galore, to wet and lush, to suburban, to urban... or if you're Helen, listen to cello adagios on your iPod and read The Odyssey.
In any case, it was great to be hurtling back towards the city - although saying goodbye to Shae was a bit sad. When you spend so much time with a complete stranger, you form a particular relationship with them - and it's odd to think that I won't see someone I spent two weeks of my life in close contact with for a year at least.
In anycase, that's that. What else? We spent our last few days in Goa visitng Panjim and Old Goa taking photographs, and went to the weekly markets at Anjuna. The markets were fun - rows and rows of tents set up like a makeshift village in a field in the middle of nowhere, perched on the shore. Amongst the usual crap we found some really beautiful things - rugs and shawls and Tibetan silver, embroideries, ground shell jewellery, shoes... and I took a photo of a whole row of Che Guevara T-shirts, flapping in the breeze.
"5 rupees for Che!" the vendor shouted out - and at that price it was almost worth it. Shae got her nose pierced by a woman who looked like Bjork, and Jane, our Irish speech-therapist/hippie friend (insert cheap "Irish accent/speech impediment" joke here), disappeared and came back with a giant moonstone bracelet. You could read your future in that thing. Helen and I walked around eating ice-cream. It was stinking hot in that field, and the ice-cream was easily the most exciting thing that happened to us that day. We took some very repetitive photos of gypsies and spice vendors and rows of shoes glistening in the sunshine, and went home all of us tired, happy, and loaded up with bangles.
Helen and I have been taking it easy here in Bombay, eating lunch at the restaurant next door to our hotel - we were the only white faces in there, I think - and wandering around. We're planning to do some last-minute shopping at the markets tonight, and catch a Bollywood film - hooray! Our grossly over-priced hotel even has a hot shower, so I will be soaking myself thoroughly. I thought I had a tan, but it turns out it was just dust from the train...
Helen says:
After recieving this glowing review, I have been forced to eat my words and grovel at Helen's feet, begging her to take some time out of her busy schedule and humour an old friend:
"Tell Helen says that I love her sardonic wit and adore the way she is able to sum up, in very few words, the absolute essence of her experiences. Her comments balance your writing perfectly... beg her from me not to stop!!!!"
A request with four exclamation points cannot be denied. Hopefully, this spells the end of my italicised attempts to account for Helen's whereabouts.
G'day everyone ! What's cracking?
I apologise for the lack of Helen Says-es during the last few weeks. I've been keeping busy getting in touch with my inner-hippie or, as Jess likes say, inner-ex-chiropractor-hit-mid-life-crisis-gone-on-vacation-to-India-15-years-ago-and-never-came-back/Israeli trance-dancer/Eurotrash.
Since I've spoken to you through your computer screen last, I've become a fully-fledged hippie! I've made friends with a Raaasta-mon (A.K.A. Jane with her monster dreds) and joined a drum circle on the beach. We sat in a circle jammin' on our djambes and I even tasted their apple pie. Jess and Shaemus were thoughtful enough to tell me after I digested that magic slice that it would surely have been packed full of mushrooms! Fortunately for Helen says, I came out of that drum circle with nothing more than a smile on my face. Rasta Jane on the other hand... She felt the wrath of that pie at her 8am yoga class the next morning when the crabs scuttled out of the Indian Ocean, up the sunny beaches of Arambol and into her yoga hut to "get her".
Not only have I excelled in djambe rythms, but I'm now down with quantam physics! In further attempts to get in touch with my inner-Israeli-trance-dancer, I sat at a rooftop cafe (with my fellow Israelis) one night watching a DVD of What the Bleep Do We Know? projected onto an all-natural, organic cotton sheet hanging off the bamboo roof!
I became even more intouch with my inner-topless-Eurotrash-doing-yoga-on-the-beach-in-my-g-string-at-sunset (vicariously) when Shae had her nose pierced by Bjork. This was possibly maybe (PLEASE let there be other Bjork fans reading this blog) the penultimate step in the long and windy road to becoming the world's whitest white-girl hippie, the ultimate being the massage I copped from some barbers today.
Allow me to digress...
I had about an hour to kill this evening while Jess was writing on this thing, so I thought it might be an idea to see if I could score a massage to rid my body of the damage done on the 12 hour train trip.
After being harassed 24/7 by massouses (please forgive my spelling) in Goa, I thought it would be piss-easy to find somewhere in Bombay! How wrong was I...
I only had about 20 minutes left until I had to write Helen Says so in a last ditch effort I ran into a barber shop and yelled "Gimme a massage, STAT!" So the fellows there put me in a chair and wrapped a towel around my shoulders. So far, so good. Then they promptly massaged 2 or 3 handfuls of Vaseline into my face and clean hair. Disappointing! THEN, my eyes sealed shut by the sheer weight of the mighty petroleum jelly - but heightening my other senses in the process - I heard my barber switch on some electrical instrument which began to buzz in fury! I used all the strength in my mortal body to open my eyes just in time to see my Warwick Capper-esque mullet-ed barber poised, [I should take this time to apologise for the length of this sentence] with what looked like a power-sander attached to a rubber glove with cable going into the wall, ready to go to work on my face!
"Yikes!", I screamed. I decided to flee the scene, seconds later there was nothing left in that shop but a cloud of dust in the shape of Helen, Road-Runner-style.
Does anyone know the nightmare when (and Steve I know you will - Jess told us tales of your late night experimental dental surgery back in the day) you're at the dentist, and you wake up from the gas to see Dr. Death with a power drill or chainsaw rather than an electric toothbrush hovering over your mouth, ready to strike! If you have experienced such a nightmare, then, and only then, could you perhaps begin to grasp the magnitude of my newly aquired fear of barber-shop-massages... and Australian footballers from the 80s.
Gotta run, have a hot date at the movies with a choc top (and Jess).
See you soon!
Love Helen
posted by Jess at 3:49 AM
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