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I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts
Nothing to do with this story but I didn't get any pictures of the horrible journey or scary masseuse Leaving Goa was difficult. Not only emotionally but physically also. As my teary eyes took one last look towards the sea over the rim of my cup of rum-soaked espresso, there was a power cut. Palolem was pitch black. Our bags were in our coconut hut at the far end of the pitch black beach. To reach the road where our taxi was waiting we had to battle through pitch black forest, emerging just as the street lights came back on to show that our taxi was a no-show. A distinctly un-Goan (i.e. sweaty & stressful) 30 minutes later, we finally arrived at the train station in the nick of time and waited... for four hours. Yes, at 3am, our 11pm train arrived. Never would I have believed that I could doze off on a concrete slab in an Indian railway station as cockroaches scuttled by my feet, yet after the trauma of having to vacate the wonderful Palolem, somehow I managed it between circa 1.30 and 2am.
Once on board, we thought all was well. We had treated ourselves to the air con sleeper carriage - double the usual fare for that added bit of comfort. Little did we
"Special Tea"
Tasty and nutritious know that in the five of the six other berths in our cabin slept a family of 11, including five children under the age of 6. These miniature satans awoke at 7am and, with much encouragement and hand clapping from Mummy, Daddy, Uncle, Aunty and Big Sisters, began a rousing sing-song of Hindi nursery rhymes, accompanied by regular squeals of uncontained mirth and excitement. 24 hours previously, I had awoke to the sound of waves lapping at the shore and the gentle breeze through the palms overhead. My displeasure was manifold.
The southerly region of Kerala, our next destination, is the homeland of Ayurvedic medicine, a central tenet of which is Ayurvedic massage. As part of my NGO mission (I'm thinking of calling it "Pampering for Prosperity" or "Self-Indulgence for Salvation" - suggestions gratefully accepted), I knew I would have to partake one of these massages, if only for the benefit of the masseur's coffers. Little did I realise this would truly be the sole benefit, as I unwittingly entered into this cruel act of oily flagellation.
The lady seemed nice. She had glasses and a blue sari. When she brought me into the dingy back room in
the hotel, I trusted her. When she told me to strip bollock-naked, I squirmed slightly, but told myself not to be so culturally inhibited. I then lay down on a plastic table, flat on my back, staring up at the cold fluorescent strip light above me. The nice lady then poured what felt and smelt like cooking fat all over me and started to rub. Vigorously. It felt somewhat like a sadists' attempt to get their rocks off while applying excessive sun lotion. Flipping me over so I could squelch my greasy battered self against the plastic table, the therapy then moved to my head. Further oil was applied and I was then slapped in the head repeatedly. At least I wouldn't need to use conditioner in my hair for another month, I thought. But my thoughts were limited by the sudden death of so many brain cells. When she told me it was time to shower, I thought finally my endurance was over. Nice sadist lady however entered the bathroom and, having scrubbed shampoo into my eyes, chucked a number of buckets of ice cold water over my head. At the end, she smiled. I smiled back, timid, broken.
She asked for a tip. I handed her a note. I left the room slowly, gently, head bowed. Back in my room, I sat on the floor of the shower, rocking back and forth, starting to doubt my mission.
***
We had arrived in Cochi in Kerala five days before monsoon was due to hit, with just enough time to take an overnight trip on a houseboat, to explore the backwaters for a bit, and to have a day or two to stroll around the old colonial streets of Fort Cochin and enjoy drinking illicit beer from tea pots (alcohol is illegal in most places in Kerala, but sold covertly as "special tea"). And then monsoon hit, five days early. It rained. And rained some more. It thundered on the rooftops like stampedes of overly exuberant school children. And we were as disquieted as we would be had we actually been stampeded by overly exuberant school children. Travel plans curtailed, we decided to head straight to Ooty in Tamil Nadu, the town next to where I was due to be working. Ooty is a 'hill station', acclaimed in the Lonely Planet as a pretty town offering welcome respite
from the chaos and heat of the rest of southern India. When we arrived, we found that Ooty was much like Bray, Co. Wicklow. For those of you unfamiliar with Bray, picture a dingy resort town 30 years without renovation, featuring worn out amusement arcades, knackery children hanging around corners and dodgy geezers with greasy moustaches extorting money from you to stay in flea-infested paint-peeling hotel rooms. And it was still raining, despite the fact that we'd crossed to the side of the mountain where it should have been sheltered. And it was about 12 degrees. Cold and raining. Like Bray. We tried to console ourselves with memories of the monkeys we'd seen on the journey up there. You don't get monkeys in Bray (not really).
And then the email arrived from the head of the organisation I was due to work with. He'd told me previously that the project I was due to work on was foundering due to a combination of lack of resources and frustration amongst the team. Not to worry, I'd thought, I can rally my spirits and still contribute something. As the cold sunk into my rain-soaked bones, I started to worry slightly at
They jail dogs here
We were starting to feel equally trapped... my ability to rally in Indo-Bray. I need not have worried. The email I received a day before we were due to arrive advised that the organisation had been having problems with a planned relocation and essentially there was no room at the inn for us. They weren't sure when they would be able to take us in.
So, no job, no home, no sun tan (Goa seemed so long ago). We sat in the rain and wondered what we should do. Should we sit it out in Indo-Bray and see if the job would come through after all? Should we try to find somewhere else in India to work? Should we just scrap the whole bloody thing and go home? And it rained and rained and rained...
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Emily B
non-member comment
monkey business
Hey Clare, thanks so much for sharing. Lovely pics too. Sorry to hear about the job, but when one door closes... Youll figure something out. Rocky is slowly adjusting to Sweden, and Im seeing my country through new eyes, which is very interesting and sometimes daunting. Im also learing about swedish law and cultural history that I had forgotten about being away for 12 years.... Big hug to both of you and keep those blogs coming. :)