Advertisement
Published: February 4th 2008
Edit Blog Post
Raju - The Black-Eyed Dope Fiend, Camp Cook and Pimp
Raju is the camp cook, a notorious weed-smoker and a big hearted motherfucker. I will struggle to forget both him and the meals he cooked. That one such meal caused me to shit myself in the middle of the desert is enough to burn his memory into the worm holes of my consciousness permanently. Raju is a short man, maybe only 5,5. He has dark skin and a thin moustache, and dresses well in slacks, shirt and bright yellow belt. We are introduced on our first trip into the dining room. As all the other volunteers leave, he ushers me into the kitchen out back. A kitchen boy grabs me a chair, and then they all gather round as Raju introduces himself.
There is a cocky swagger to him, a vaguely evil glint in his eyes, and a weatherbeaten face that wouldn't look out of place in a den of murderous pirates. Yet straight away I realise he isn't out to cut my throat or throw me to the sharks. Without knowing anything about me, he has decided we will be friends, and so has summoned me to be waited on and shown the inards of the kitchen. I get cooked a toast omlette (omlette with toast in the middle) and given chai, and we chew the fat.
Raju tells me he is 28, though he looks at least ten years older, and I suspect he is either lying, or more likely doesn't know his date of birth. He has a wife and children, and also tells me he has at least one girlfriend on the side. He speaks only a little English, instead communicating everything through his tremendous, jackel-like grin.
Within minutes of meeting me, Raju offers me a joint, telling me he loves to smoke weed. As a Hindu, he won't drink alcohol, but smokes reefer like Cheech and Chong. His eyes are always red, his clothes hold the reek of an Amsterdam coffee shop. Everyday for the first week, he offers me a smoke - everyday, with a heavy heart, I turn him down, explaining I don't want to be evicted from camp or have him to lose his job. I'd love to have known exactly what was in those joints and life in the camp might have been a little more interesting seen through a dopey haze. But seeing the look on Raju's face some mornings after he'd puffed a little too hard made me wonder what fowl black shit the Indians packed into their gear and whether it might have been too much even for a hardened old pot head like me.
The food Raju cooked was typical Rajasthani fare. Almost entirely vegeatarian, it consisted of various dals and curries, always accompanied by rice and chapati. Sometimes, in a bid to appease western appetites, he would give pizza and veggie burgers a go, with mixed results. He also made some memorable cakes, one especially that was perhaps only 30% cooked due to power cuts, it's insides a mushy mess of doughy goo. It took a while to get used to the food. We'd lived off the same stuff in Jaipur, and I struggled to get up any kind of hunger after I'd shovelled a few mouthfulls away. However, my stomach must have had some kind of epithany, and realised there were no steaks arriving anytime soon. Suddenly, my appetite went from limp and flacid to rock hard and I couldn't wait to for meal times.
So I loved Raju at least for his ability to take away my hunger pains. At times, though, it felt as though the recipricated love was a little too much. I'd be aware of his eyes upon me as I ate, and when I looked up to find him staring at me through glassy, unblinking eyes, the effect was unsettling. I'm sure he was just stoned, but when another man can't take his eyes off you, you kinda get a little paranoid.
Despite mild rape anxieties, I'd say it was a pleasure knowing Raju, and I always felt honoured, and a little embarassed, to be accepted so easily as a friend. Some of the female volunteers would flash their white smiles and get extra food or warmer greetings, but I didn't need to do anything. If I turned up late for breakfast, I'd get served anyway; I was offered spicy dal instead of the toned down version and I never got called by name - it was always "Hello friend". When we left the camp, Raju hugged me and said he didn't want me to leave. He wrote down his phone number and told me to call. I'm not sure what the fuck I'll say to the non-English speaking pot head when I do, but maybe just the sound of my voice will be enough to make his day, and put that glassy look back in those blood-shot eyes.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.082s; Tpl: 0.008s; cc: 10; qc: 48; dbt: 0.0434s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb