Doctor Typ0

You’ll be pleased, no doubt, to hear that I ended up going with my tour group to Humayan’s Tomb on Wednesday despite my vow to skip out on this site. Even though this was my 3rd or 4th visit, it was still fun as the weather had not yet grown terribly evil and hell-like. We ended the morning of site-seeing by checking out Sarfdajung’s tomb, which actually turned out to be super close to home. Go fig! I’m taking Big Bro S (BBS) to both places in a few weeks so I’ll save the blog-tour 'til then.

In the meantime, allow me to share with you my new views on the joys of Indian healthcare. Since we’re off to Kenya for the weekend, I needed my Yellow Fever shot ASAP as without it they won’t let me in Kenya or back into India after the fact. Stupid rules. Hubby gave me the 411 on the shot and explained to me that it had to be administered by an officially sanctioned hospital or health center and that these are usually government run. In fact, he continued, non-cool centers won’t even have the vaccine.

After debating where we should go for the vaccine Hubby shot down my vote for Max Med and called the Health People (I’m sure they had an official name but I don’t recall) and asked where we should head. The answer: an Indian-run hospital near Connaught Place. I wasn’t thrilled with the news but Hubby told me I had no choice so we climbed in the car and told our driver where we were going. He gave us a weird look and asked if we were sure. At our nod, he bobbled his head and started off toward CP.

We approached a series of rundown buildings that I thought was a stockade or at least a condemned area. Only slightly daunted, we headed into the main building where Hubby and I were the easily whitest people to have ever crossed the threshold. And, no, I’m not being a hater. We got such weird and astonished looks as we tried to read the signs and find the vaccination clinic that a kindly turbaned doctor finally took pity on us and took us into his office where our “fairness” could no longer offend or confuse the hospital’s general population.

The good doctor sent us out to another building to get our shots and even gave us his assistant to show us the way. The assistant naturally wanted a tip upon our arrival but we pretended ignorance, thanked him, and sent him away empty handed.

The assistant brought us to a tiny room filled and surrounded with people holding their passports and yellow vaccination cards – we were in the right place. We walked up to the scruffy-looking desk jockey whom, we were told, was in charge. He looked over my passport and yellow card and told us… Well, we’re not sure what he told us, so we just kinda stood there like bumps on logs and hoped for further direction.

A woman with dirty fingernails (seriously, I could see the dirt!) sat behind a table to my right and was administering the vaccine to people in no particular order. The vaccine itself came in a communal bottle we were told held 20 doses. After each shot, the woman dipped the needle in this machine that we determined, based on the smoke that appeared each time, melted the tip of the needle so as to render it un-re-usable. She then threw that out and opened a new needle. Despite viewing these precautions I felt really iffy about getting my shot in a room that looked like it hadn’t seen the happy side of disinfectant in at least a year.

I can’t say that I was deeply saddened when Scruffy Guy got all attitude on us and said that the clinic was closed and if we wanted a shot we would have to come back later in the week. Now, I’m not going to deny that I got slightly pissed at the guy. After all, we had been waiting for quite some time for this shot and the excuses he gave us held about as much water as my hot water gieser (AKA none).

Still grumbling, we left the hospital grounds via the rather smelly service road. Undaunted, yet still unwilling to admit I may have been right, Hubby directed our driver to take us to the Max Med Clinic in Pansheel Park. Max Med is a cash on service, private clinic cum hospital that caters to expats, and middle to upper class locals.

There is honestly no way to fully appreciate the modern-ness, efficiency, and organization of Max Med unless you’ve been to an Indian hospital. The people spoke decent English, were helpful, and even the waiting room appeared clean. She was even nice about the rather obvious fact that I am a 2 year old when it comes to getting shots.

The professional services we received took no more than 20 minutes. Why the heck didn’t we start with this world-class clinic rather than using as a last resort? Compared with the Real World, the medical care here is frightfully inexpensive. Hubby has even headed back to the Clinic since that day and had a full physical (including numerous lab tests) for less money than you’d pay for a night at a martini bar with me in the States. He even had all the results in less than 24 hours!

After our brief excursion into the Indian medical system, I can honestly say that while it isn’t perfect, it can be pretty darn good. So next time you need laser eye surgery, open heart surgery, or even need a broken bone set, head over to Delhi where you can get an incredibly well trained doctor to do a great job at half the price of your local Real World Quack.

Welcome to India, the doctor is in.

Picture This

I was quite the little tourist today and it wasn’t even Seven Cities day (That’s tomorrow and I’m trying to figure out a way of not going: Humayun’s Tomb and Safdarjung’s Tomb are so annoying! And I’ve been to both places twice and was miserable both times. Not really feeling the return trip for a third time, thank you). But on with our story… The Organization… well… they organized a trip to the new Temple in town: Swaminarayan Akshardham. And it was, if I may be so bold as to say, rather cool.

First of all, the place is wickedly clean if ridiculously run. They are militant about what you can’t bring onto the premises: no purses, no phones, and no freaking cameras! I’m sorry but the best way to advertise a new monument, which this is, is to let freaky expats like me take photos and brag to our friends back home about the cool places we’ve been (The photos on this blog have been borrowed from their website).

Unlike most sites around here, there is only one price to get in regardless of whether you’re a local or not: this is a good thing. Your 125 Rupees get you the mini movies, the Imax movie, and the boat ride. The mini movies are kinda lame, but since we went as a semi-organized group, we actually got to see these in English. They also weren’t really movies – they were more like animatronics dioramas. The minis were lame but seemingly informative.

Why only seemingly? Because the Imax (whose volume was on full blast) rehashed all the minis in one biggie. Lame but air conditioned so I expect it will be rather popular in summer.

(To Big Bro S: You will, I’m sure, be pleased to hear that we’re totally headed here during your visit!)

The Temple was built to honor Bhagwan Swaminarayan who became like a super cool yogi by the age of 11. We learned about his teachings and how everywhere he went people thought he was cool, deep, and way in touch with God (OK, they put it differently and brought up Hinduism a lot but that was the gist of it.). Despite what Grumpy Lady kept complaining about, they were not trying to convert us. It was actually quite interesting and explained why they got together to build a massively amazing monument/temple.

After the dioramas and movies, we went on the boat ride where we learned that Indians were the first in flight, invented the 0, algebra, and modern democracy. If you think I’m kidding, please understand that even I couldn’t lie about this. It was too funny for words. A Disney ride with revisionist history. What more could you ask for in a Temple ride?

The Temple itself is amazing (Have I said that already?). The workmanship on this thing is worthy of the Taj Mahal or Notre Dame. Along the outside of the temple are carvings of animals including lions and thousands of elephants of various sizes. There are also bronze reliefs on each side of the temple depicting different important moments and vignettes in Swaminarayan’s life. You can’t look at these and not be in wonder at the 11,000 workmen and artisans who constructed the temple and surrounding buildings (Weird but cool fact: they buried the architectural blueprints and design details under the temple so that if anything ever happens to the building in the future, the future people can fix it correctly).

Inside the Temple, the detailed carvings go on forever in literally every direction. The walls, pillars, and even the numerous domes are an art lover’s paradise. You could literally drown in the detail work: from dancing Ganeshes and celestial musicians to marble carvings of Swaminarayan himself with avatars and deities. I must again pout about my lack of camera because there were photo ops everywhere. How am I supposed to prove that I was there without a photo of me looking like a local tourist gone amok wearing my jeans, baseball cap, and salawar kameez top?

Ok, so you’ve heard me gush. You’ve listened to me rave. Now read about my doubts. This facility is only 6 months old, and while the grounds are fabulous (I haven’t even touched on the beautiful gardens) the washrooms are already gnarly beyond belief. *shudder* I admit that they’ve taken great care of the place so far but what is it really going to look like in 5, 10, or 100 years? I’m afraid that it may well turn into many other such sites around here: it will be in disrepair, gross, and vaguely sad. People will remember how wonderful it was in 2006 and reminisce about the beautiful place it once was.

Maybe I’m a pessimist or maybe I’m simply a seer – you know me well enough to know which is more likely the correct guess. Either way, get your cute Dedicated Reader butts to the Swaminarayan Akshardham Temple. It’s worth the drive to Acton.

Call Centers R Us

The Crazy Insane Lady at the Washington Post is at it again. I realize that this article is from a few months ago but since I just read it, we’ll count it as current events. Crazy Lady decided to write about Call Centers in Delhi, the general outsourcing trend, and how it is affecting people locally in India. Not a bad topic considering that Lou Dobbs and his ilk go on and on about this topic as if BPOs were a plague of locusts.

Now I can come at this from several different angles: after all with nine-plus years working in Call Centers in both Canada and the US, I know just a little something about how they work. Plus, as somebody who lives (if only temporarily) here in India, I have a slight feeling for the local viewpoint also. Which leaves me with the delicious question of: Where to begin?

Paragraph 5 it is…

The Indian twenty-somethings laboring in these call centers not only work together -- they also drink together, dance together, date one another and, most important, understand one another. Their jobs compel them to cultivate American pronunciations and keep up with U.S. pop culture. They have their own hybrid vocabulary. ("No probs, yaar" means "no problem, my friend.") And they have boundless expectations about where their new careers can take them.

Hello, are you daft?! People in India are not a subspecies of homo sapiens, they are remarkably like you guys back in the Real World. Do people in Crazy Lady’s sacred offices at the Washington Post not work together, hang out together, participate in a bit of interoffice dating, or, God forbid, understand and get one another? Because no matter where I’ve worked, that’s been going on either in front or behind the scenes whether it’s at the local Barnes and Noble or Hubby’s rarified offices in downtown DC. Is it really news that it could happen in India??

I could comment on how different jobs have different forms of slang that go with them but Ms. Crazy Lady might not understand that since she also doesn’t seem to realize that people in India have been saying “No probs, yaar” for ages. After all, generally speaking, you spend more time at work than you do at home with your own family and you have to find new things to say to one another at least once in a while.

And in a best-selling novel, "One Night @ The Call Center," two BPO workers quit to open their own company, saying they were sick of working all night for Americans in jobs with no potential.

Written by Chetan Bhagat, whom CL should have cited, this is honestly a great book. If any of my Call Center friends want to read this I can bring you a copy back. While filled with some things only people in India would fully “get,” it is also endlessly hilarious when taken simply as a Call Center book: things like evil customers, the internal joy you feel when you realize that the phone system is down, and much more. That said, CL has way over simplified the plot of this book. Hell, she managed to give away part of the ending. Good job, CL.

On to page two…

Because of fears of customer identity theft and security breaches, agents leave all personal items -- pens, phones, any scraps of paper -- in lockers upon entry. They operate in highly regulated environments, including drug testing and monitored phone calls. "Tailgating" -- following someone through a door without scanning ID -- is forbidden.

Thank God that not one single company in the United States, the Washington Post included, uses drug testing. How rude and invasive would that be? *sarcasm meter will now be turned off *

Monitoring phone calls is, I hate to tell you, a vitally important part of Call Center and work reality everywhere. Doesn’t your boss at Job X ask to review your work to make sure you’re doing it correctly? Well, the recorded phone call is basically the same thing. That’s how I check that you’re doing your job up to standards (And despite what some former Team Members thought, not random ones that I made up). I, for one, am pleased that CL doesn’t need an editor to check up and review her work. Thank goodness for perfection.

Warning: Rant Ahead…

CL then goes on to mention that being a Rep is a damned hard job. She doesn’t say it in so many words but I’m here to tell you it is. Here’s the thing Mr. Desk Jockey, when you’re having a bad day or you’re tired or sick, or whatever, what do you do? You might slack off a little or even spend a paid day goofing off since you’re ahead on your current project. Rep World is a little different. We have stats that must be maintained daily – one day of goofing off can mess me up for an entire month. (Not to mention mess up my entire team’s stats!)

We have to take calls for 7-plus hours a day with no breaks in between. “Not Ready” and “Make Busy” time negatively affect my stats, which negatively affect me and my job and even you Mr. Caller. After all, if I’m in Not Ready with my head down for 30 seconds because my boyfriend broke up with me that means that you’re on hold waiting for me for 30 seconds. You and my boss can fight over who is madder at me later. In case you think I’m exaggerating, just ask the many people I have sent an email or pop-up to demanding to know why they’ve been in “Not Ready” mode for 2 minutes. It’s true.

End of Rant.

Supervisors motivate members of their teams with positive feedback and occasional gifts for good performance. As Khaneja offered a tour of his floor, decorated in balloons and a NASCAR theme to celebrate a new client, he gestured toward a glass case displaying employee perks: a silver flask, an Adidas T-shirt, Brut cologne.

I feel bad that Crazy Lady was never given a perk or gift by her boss. Here’s a *hug* from me to make up for it. Is it so difficult to think that Indian companies wouldn’t provide employee perks? Are such Call Centers supposed to be heartless sweatshops?

The Long Island iced tea plus an order of fish and chips totaled $13, a bit more than the average weekly income in India. But Pundir, the daughter of mango farmers, earns about $20,000 annually. "It is good money at the end of the day," said Pundir, who abandoned her MBA studies because she saw a better career path in call centers. "In 4 1/2 years, I've risen through the ranks."

I did a wee bit ‘o research into this before I began this blog and let me tell you that Ms. Mango is one very well paid Indian Call Center Representative. Nearly all are paid much less than that – try 20,000 rupees per month. Which isn’t to say that they’re being under or over paid – the cost of living is much different here than it is back home. That is just a fact of life. I can buy groceries for a week for under $10 including veggies here; I can barely get the staples for that back home. Different countries, different standards of living. One isn’t better than the other – they’re just different.

There were a few more things to mock in CL’s article but I feel that I’ve been mean enough already. Since today’s blog will trackback (unlike my previous jibes at her) she’ll probably actually read this… or not. It isn’t that she hasn’t done her homework, I’m sure she has. The cubicle photo in the article is very reminiscent of my cube in Maryland (Not the really great big one Lady J, the little ones before that). It is simply that she seems to think that her audience and her subject are both very stupid. India is too silly to realize that America is subverting its culture with outsourcing and America is too naive to realize that things on the subcontinent are more like they are at home than some people think.

“Thank you for being a Wandering The World customer. This is Delhi Typ0. How may I help you?”

A Muse Me

Have you ever had writer’s block? Not just “I don’t know how to start/work on/finish this essay” type writer’s block. I’m talking about full on “I can’t write a sentence that inspires me to write another let alone read the first” style writer’s block. If you know what I’m talking about, well then high five my friend. If you don’t know what I’m talking about – you suck and may the Muses desert you in your time of need.

That’s write… err… right, I have had a severe and unrelenting inability to compose anything even slightly readable. It isn’t as if I have a grave shortage of topics: India itself provides me with a multitude every time I step outside, from annoying beggars who can’t take a growl for a hint to stupid workmen who think that I haven’t managed to pick up any Hindi in the last 9 months and don’t understand it when they insult me to my face. No, there’s lots to talk about – I just don’t know how.

Shall I describe how perfect the weather is despite the fact that the thermometer reads 35 degrees Celsius? But then I’d have to admit that I’m forever sweating when we go out for walks in the afternoon. Of course that would require a moment of honesty in admitting that I don’t actually walk outside much unless I have to. Which would require a bit of self-defense since I’m not a lazy git (Shut up, Hubby!), it’s just really bloody hot outside and I hate sweating. But then I’d look at my initial statement about the nice weather and realize that due to my spate of honesty, I’d have to scrap the entire blog due to the fact that its premise, while partially true, isn’t entirely true unless one takes into account how lovely and cool my apartment can be. (Of course then I’d have to admit and realize simultaneously that that was the longest run-on sentence ever.)

So you can see where this abandonment by fickle Muses is getting on my nerves. I mean, it isn’t as if I’m trying to comment on anything quite so intellectual as the Shrub’s many wars, the annual seal hunt in my Maple Leaf waving home of Canada, or even something as silly yet intriguing as South Park’s Chefgate. I just want to wax poetic (dang I'll even take unpoetic) about the hotness of cricket players in Australia, the blissfulness of eating at Il Diva in GK2, and Hubby’s weird new obsession with the movie “Shaun of the Dead.”

So Dearest Reader, I apologize for my lack of blogs this week, I did, after all, promise to write to you more regularly. But until Little Miss Muse gets back from her vacation, I am without ability to write coherently or even incoherently about anything of interest to either of us. Sorry ‘bout that.

Command Me

This is now my 3rd attempt at writing a blog today. The first one was a really whingy explanation of why I still don’t have hot water after all these months. (Although it did include an amusing anecdote about tricking/gifting hubby with a one night stay at the Oberoi Hotel so that I could use the shower there.) The second was an angrier version of the first and included a laundry list of reasons as to why I hate my landlord and his condescending attitude toward women and me in particular.

Since this is now Blog 3.0 I have decided to try and put a happier spin on the fact that my apartment is falling down around me. (No hot water, the light in the kitchen doesn’t work, the lights in the stairwell have been dead for eons etc.) But I’m not sure on exactly how to do that.

Then somebody sent me these Commandments for Expat Living. I’m not sure what the source material is so I apologize for not giving credit where it may be due. In the mean time, I thought I’d share these new Commandments and my thoughts on why some of them are almost as silly as that “honor thy mother and father” nonsense the first time around. (Just kidding, Dad!)

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS FOR EXPATS

1. Thou shalt not expect to find things as thou hast them at home for verily, thou hast left home to explore different things.

I realize that I left home and civilization behind me but Hubby promised that I’d have freaking hot water like you guys do in the real world!

2. Thou shalt not take anything too seriously, for a carefree mind is essential for a healthy body.

I’m not too sure about the carefree mind part but I’ll buy the not taking life too seriously part for a lakh.

3. Thou shalt not let other expats get upon thy nerves, for one or both of you art likely to be transferred soon anyway.

Why didn’t somebody tell me this one months and months ago? Is it my fault that not everybody is perfect like me? (No comments from the Peanut Gallery please. Just be nice Devoted Readers and agree with me for a change!)

4. Though shalt refrain from acting exceedingly high and mighty, for thou art the same person you were before you had maids and drivers.

I’m not entirely sure that I believe this one. Not having to argue with Hubby about whose turn it is or isn’t to do the dishes and who left all the “stuff” lying around the living has helped create a happier marriage with at least one less fight per week. That makes me a better person… Or something like that.

5. Thou shalt not buy everything you see; thou already hast a houseful of things stored in your home country.

I am so positive that Hubby paid them to put this one in here. One little painting (or two) does not a spending spree make.

6. Thou shalt not sit and mope and feel unwanted or unskilled; there art many people who would be grateful for your donations of time and energy.

I believe that we have already had the discussion about how I don’t do good deeds. Ok so I do give my time to charities and several organizations here in town – but I do it out of boredom and a desire to be needed. Of course that may have been the point of Commandment… On second thought, never mind this commentary after all.

7. Thou shalt not worry, for he that worrieth hath no pleasure and few things are ever fatal.

I worry therefore I am.

8. When in India, thou shalt be prepared to do somewhat as the Indians do.

Some things. Not all. Trust me, if you guys knew some of the local customs (ex. How to wipe after going to the washroom.) you’d follow my example and vote real world over India world.

9. Thou shalt not judge the people of a country by the one person who has given thee trouble.

Again, something I think Hubby asked them to put here. I get it. I learned my lesson. I agree. Are you happy now?!

10. Remember that thou art a guest in foreign lands, and he that treateth his host with respect shall be honored.

I have no problems on this one. I treateth my host with oodles of respect – when She treats me the same way. Grrrr No hot water. Grrrrrrr

Now go forth now, my children (aka Devoted Readers), and spread the Good Word. For God created the Exapt - and it was good.

Typ0 Mahal

Today’s episode of Blog doesn’t really come under the heading of current events. Hell, at this point almost a year has passed since Hubby and I started our Indian adventure. When we started this little sojourn it began as a brief two-week trip to Delhi in the blisteringly hellish heat of June. It was under these oven-like conditions that Hubby and I set out for that great Mecca of Indian travel: the Taj Mahal.

The Taj (as everybody here calls it) is located in the town of Agra, which, as Hubby has often opined, is a bit of a dump. Agra Fort and the Taj are both World Heritage Sites and therefore quite well maintained – but not so much with the town they’re located in thus Hubby’s dumpish observations. That said, they do have good, strong beer in Agra from what we’ve heard.

Before I get too far into the history of Taj I’m going to interrupt for a moment to once again describe the heat of that late June day. Now, you may have realized by now that there are no photos of either Hubby or I on this blog as a rule but especially not of this trip. Why? Because, as my mother so kindly pointed out upon seeing them, there isn’t a single one where I don’t look bloody miserable and/or ready to die from heat exhaustion.

So back to our story... Agra is a long, four-hour drive away from Delhi and requires that you either get up at 5 a.m. for a day trip or leave at 10 a.m. and spend an entire weekend. Having done the former, I highly recommend the latter. Doing Agra as a day trip is a long ass, tiring day. But I will admit that it is probably worth it in the end.

First off I’ll share a bit of boring history that will explain, once and for all, why women are the stronger and smarter of the species. (Please note that this is the Delhi Typ0 version of the story and may or may not reflect a great deal of actual history.) Basically on her death, Mumtaz, the beloved wife of Shan Jahan, told her husband that in addition to never marrying again he also needed to build her a kick-ass monument. So being the incredibly powerful king (and whipped husband) he was, he shrugged his shoulders and set to building his now famous monument to love: the Taj Mahal. It took over 20 years and a lot of big time cash to build the Taj but it still wasn’t enough for our Shah, he wanted a second mausoleum: this time in black. You’ll note that there is no second Taj Mahal in black and this is basically because his son got pissed off at his father’s spending policy and overthrew him. But really all that isn’t important because in the end Mumtaz got her snazzy death digs!

Cool facts you may not have known about the Taj: it isn’t actually entirely white. Many of the marble inlays are really beautifully colored but you can’t see it unless you’re really close up. The detail work in the carvings is phenomenal in and of themselves but especially when you consider that this thing was built before modern conveniences that would make the process, even today, still cumbersome and time consuming. Go Indian ingenuity!

After you go through the gates (which have a fancy official name that I can’t remember in my current un-inebriated state) you’re confronted with the wonder that is the Taj Mahal. When we went back in June the water feature in front of the mausoleum, which is so often pictured as iridescent blue, was rather dirty and greenish. The gardens that line the approximately 1 kilometer walk (it may be more or less than this but we were so hot it felt like 10) were beautiful and lush. There were no pleasant breezes to mark our journey but we didn’t initially even notice this as we were so entranced by the beauty and wonder of the Taj.

It should not be forgotten that this beautiful building is in fact, a mausoleum – dead people hang out here. So as you finally reach the building, you are asked to remove your shoes and walk barefoot on the steaming hot marble tiles. Unfortunately, from this point, we don’t have a lot to share. Because of the heat we walked in and stayed only long enough to appreciate the beauty of the place then we walked out and I whined until we found some shade and respite from the Indian Oven. (Basically I whined for about 5 minutes as there is no shade to be found anywhere on the grounds.) (Hubby wants to note that he thinks that it was closer to 15 minutes. Hmmph!)

I’ve seen photos of the Taj Mahal before and thought that it was pretty but seeing it in person gives me a whole new appreciation for its status as a Wonder of the World. This thing is huge. And it isn’t just hunks of marble stacked up, this building has detail work and intricacies that would be amazing if they were fashioned today let alone back in the mid 1600’s.

Long story short (too late!) when you come visit us, you have to see the Taj Mahal: just not in late June when 40 degrees Celsius has people commenting on how mild the temperature is that day.

The New Nerd King

I used to tease Hubby that he was the King of the Nerds. I was wrong.

SALEM, Va. - A high school student Tuesday recited 8,784 digits of Pi — the non-repeating and non-terminating decimal — likely placing him among the top Pi-reciters in the world.

Gaurav Rajav, 15, had hoped to recite 10,790 digits and set a new record in the United States and North America. But he remembered enough to potentially place third in national and North American Pi recitation and 12th in the world.

His ranking should be verified by the Pi World Ranking List within two months.

"I'm kind of disappointed, but I guess I did OK," said Gaurav, a junior at Salem High School.

But his mathematical feat won the praise of others, including the math and computer science teacher who got Gaurav interested in it.

"I'm still stunned," said Linda Gooding, one of three contest judges. She then joked, "That's a couple more than I can do."

Gaurav began memorizing Pi while a student in Gooding's class. Gooding holds the competition every year, and said she expected students to learn about 40 digits. Gaurav recited nearly 2,990 the first time.

Gaurav's parents promised him an Xbox 360 video game console if he had reached his goal. His father, Jogesh Rajav, jokingly offered to get him "an Xbox, but no game."

But Gaurav ultimately turned town his mother Seema's offer to buy him the game system anyway because of their deal.

He will try for the record again in May.

There are so very many things to mock here: from the giving back of his Xbox, to the mere fact that there is a society of people that actually think that he is cool. This kid is oh so very scary.

King Hubby of the Nerds has been deposed. Long live King Gaurav of the Even Bigger Nerds!

Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holi

Hubby is home from work today in honor of the messy and colorful holiday known as Holi. (Pronounced like holy.) There are actually religious and historical references I could give you to explain Holi but that’s pretty boring and I don’t feel like looking it up on the Internet.

Holi, for those of you who haven’t experienced it in person, is an annual festival of color. Basically, everybody goes outside and throws rainbows of paint on one another so that by the end of the day, you look like a color chart from pink and purple shoes to blue and orange eyebrows.

The methods used for dispensing the colors vary and include Supersoakers (I kid thee not), special Holi paint spatter-ers, colored paint dust, water balloons, and basically anything people can get their hands on. Yesterday, and for the last week or so, Khan Market was abuzz with people buying water pistols and paint tubes for today’s revelry.

It really does look like fun and everybody wears old clothes to ensure that there are no hard feelings. Oddly, there actually appear to be rules to this occasion. Our car, to date, remains unmolested, as does our door. We are not participating and people are generally respectful (if disdainful) of our killjoy attitude.

Needless to say, Hubby and I have locked ourselves inside the house. We have been enjoying Holi by watching the adults and kids in the park across from our apartment bedeck each other in paint. So far, the doorbell has only rung twice and we’ve been careful to assure ourselves who was there before opening the door. A better plan in theory than in action it turned out.

When the second bell sounded, we looked out the window and saw a car parked directly in front of our door. Figuring that it must be somebody we knew or at least something important, I sent Hubby down to see what was up. That is when he got Holi-ed.

Two of our friends, Kiwi and her Indian husband, took it upon themselves to make sure that we fully immersed ourselves in Indian culture for the day. Kiwi used perfumed powder paint to streak our faces Holi pink while Indian Husband, in his own paint spattered HSBC shirt, laughed at us. We thanked them by serving them mango juice and snacks before sending them off to see their next victims.

Holi is now almost over. The only evidence that this day ever passed is the splotches of paint that dot the roads and Holi-dyed shirts hanging from laundry lines. All in all, this may well be the coolest Indian holiday we’ve experienced.

Happy Holi.

My Deal with God

I agreed that I would try to be more like bran and post here regularly now that I’ve turned over a new curry leaf… or something like that. Tomorrow is a HOLIday (a joke I’ll fill you in on later) so I thought that I’d take you site seeing then. For today, I think I’ll stick with something you’re all a little more familiar with: a Typ0 has been drinking again story.

Every year around this time the Catholic Church likes to remind us that we’re enjoying life too much. As punishment for our happiness, we Catholics are asked to deprive ourselves for 5 weeks (aka 40 days and 40 nights) of that which makes us most joyful. They call this relaxing time of year, “Lent.” (Well, that might be the deprivation talking as opposed to actual theology but it’s pretty close to the jist of the thing.)

As Lent Eve (aka Mardi Gras) dawned, I was sick as a dog and on antibiotics, which meant in addition to taking a week to get well I was unable to drink alcohol for a week or so. That in mind, I reflected on things that I could give up for Lent that wouldn’t kill me… err… I mean that God would find a deserving and suitable sacrifice.

I thought about chocolate and realized that with at least 2 possible weeks of PMS during Lent even God would consider that going above and beyond. I next contemplated giving up making the bed, to which Hubby observed that I never do this anyways and it probably wouldn’t count. Darn loop holes! Hubby then piped up that my Coke (aCola) habit was keeping that company in business and could do with a short break. I thought about it and rejected this idea since I don’t think that anybody really wants to know what I’d be like without my morning caffeine jolt.

As I popped my 3rd Flagil of the day and thought about washing it down with a glass of Rum Punch it occurred to me: I would give up alcohol for Lent! After all for the first week of the holiday I couldn’t drink anyways or I’d end up in the hospital. This medical loophole seemed like a good forfeit for God.

I would now like to flash forward to that Friday… I still couldn’t drink and Hubby and I visited our new favorite Vodka bar with some friends. I had a Coke and everybody else had Vodka. (Except Hubby who had wine but he’s weird so we won’t go there.) After finishing up the evening sober we went home and planned our lovely, alcohol (for me) free weekend. How fun.

Let us now hurry onto the following Thursday. I started the morning at the Organization office working on the newsletter and sipping a can of Coke. After getting little to nothing done, I decided to go to lunch with my friend Letter at TGI Fridays in Basant Lok. While not a great restaurant it was near the Airtel office and I had a bill to pay.

Letter and I were seated and handed the cocktail menu. At this point all I could remember was that it was Thursday and I had been off my antibiotics for the requisite three days. This in mind, she and I each drank two Santa Fe Sunrises (aka frozen margaritas) with lunch. Some time in the middle of the first Sunrise I realized my oops and ordered my second. Double oops!

As Hubby and I got ready for dinner that night I confessed my alcoholic sin. Oddly, Hubby was ecstatic. He announced that my new Lenten promise would be to give up pop. Of course, I had already had a can Coke that day so that seemed rather like a cheat but one I was willing to take.

Well it took for about a day at any rate. That’s when the lack of bubbly happiness started to make me grumpy. So I made a compromise with Hubby and God: I would give up regular pop and only drink diet soda.

So God, here’s the thing, giving stuff up for five whole weeks is way, way too hard. You can’t actually expect anybody to succeed at this sick endeavor. It is now the 3rd (?) week of Lent and I’m on my 3rd Lenten promise. I promise to keep this one up for as long as possible if you promise to keep “Becker” off the airwaves here in India. Deal?

The Return of Slacker Girl

Ok, I admit it: I’m a giant slacker girl. I have not blogged or emailed anybody in months. Flog me, beat me, or, worse yet, deprive me of chocolate: it is nothing less than I deserve for ignoring you my wonderful friends, family and dedicated readers.

I could give you excuses like: I’m lazy, or I’ve been blah, or I finally found some semblance of a life. All of these excuses would be true to a point but taken together they’re closer to the truth than I’m likely to get in this venue.

So what’s been going on in my life? Well, I’m pregnant. No, no I’m not! Mum, please stop hyperventilating I’m kidding! I swear I would call you before I announced such a thing online... or at least SMS you.

The truth of the matter is that I have become a true Delhite in the last few months. I love Delhi and I love living here. I’ve been taking parts in tour groups, joining societies and getting myself voted onto the boards of organizations. And, of course, I’ve been practicing my favorite of all hobbies: doing lunch. We have really cool friends here and have been participating in sports (Ok, that one is Hubby not me), and going out to dinner and evening drinks (That one is me!) with alarming regularity. Lest my parents worry, we have also been eating-in more and rediscovered the joy of cooking.

Which, of course, brings us to the news many of you may know by now. We are moving again. In just a few months, our wandering will take us to Nairobi, Kenya for span of time I hope will exceed the brief flash we’ve spent here in Delhi. This move has made Hubby very happy. I just hope that will sustain him when I go into insane mode during the packing phase of our relocation. Muhahahaha!

You guys are probably wondering what this means for you. Well, strictly speaking nothing. I mean you’re not the ones who are actually moving. But in a deeper, sweeter manner of speaking it means that you can all plan to go on safari and visit us in Kenya.

I have also pledged to be a better Blogger Bitch while we get ready for the big day. Which means that you can look forward to lots of stories about traveling in India, the seedier sides of Delhi, how I broke my Lenten promise because I’m a lush but then re-promised something else only to tweak it again to make it easier, and even stories about how I can’t wear a Sari without supervision.

I sincerely hope that you will all forgive me for not blogging and, worse yet, not emailing those of you to whom I owe emails and letters. I am… I was a lazy slacker. But no more! I have turned over a new leaf and will heretofore be known as… well whatever the opposite of lazy slacker is. :D

In Loving Memory...

Happy Birthday!

Happy BDay to my brother-in-law E!!

Welcome to 30!!

More Random Thoughts

I’ve been giving you in depth thoughts on everything from what we ate and drank (mmmmm rum) to what we saw and even what we drove. But there are things we experienced in Mauritius that don’t fall quite so neatly into a category or even a normal blog. So I’ve decided that it was time for another random blog to explain some of the weirdness.

Please note in advance that basically every paragraph is a new story and there is little to no continuity involved here other than that they are all about Typ0 and her Hubby and Mauritius.

I’ve got to start with “Teri Garr Chick” as we dubbed her. Teri Garr was this middle-aged woman who seemed to think that she was 23 and had a body that rivaled JLo’s. She wasn’t and she didn’t. Teri could, at any point in any day, be found lying on a lounge chair by the pool topless. I am not a prude but this was a scary sight by anybody’s standards. He... I mean she, had small saggy breasts that just didn’t need to be shared with the world on an annual let alone daily basis. (Hubby wanted to interject that they weren’t saggy just leathery from too much sun. He should know; he was looking often enough!) Plus she smoked which only served to make her look even less attractive. The worst of Teri’s crimes: she and her lapdog of a husband took our table one night for dinner. Grrrrrrrrrr.

One of the things Hubby and I always judge when we go to dinner or are wandering around a mall or the like is the soundtrack. What music an establishment is playing while I share oxygen with the other inhabitants of that space happens to be very important. Pizza Place, for example, always played great music. Our hotel’s selection was rather erratic and occasionally moved in favor of really bad 90’s music rather than sticking to the good Sega Remix that it did so well. The one crime the entire island nation shared was an obsession with Celine Dion. Every-freaking-where we went they were playing Ms. Dion’s music in either English or French. It was enough to drive a body nutty.

The height of unfairness happened during our second week in Mauritius; I got a sunburn and Mr. Pasty White didn’t even get pink. Life, like so many things around me, is unfair. After a day spent in the sun with, what turned out to be not enough SPF 60, I returned to the hotel with a red back, red arms, pinkish legs, a red face and parts of me we don’t discuss in blog were also rather pinkish. Ok, so I didn’t use any sunscreen until around 1 in the afternoon that is no reason for nature to punish me. Is it? Of course, good genes (and what Hubby called unfair) came to my savior early the next day as I woke to find that my face, arms and legs were all now a rather happy shade of tan. See, sometimes life can be fair. That reminds me, my molting back is itchy again… Hubby!!!

We all know about my obsession with food in general and with the sweet treat from India known as Jelabi. Well on this trip I learned where Jelabi come from: the Jelabi tree!! (Hubby says that I’m wrong on this one but look at it!)

Ok more to come later…. Seriously though, we hope you’re having as much fun reliving Mauritius with us here in the Blog as we are. And if you’re not… *sniff* Well, there’s only a few more days to tell you about then we’ll get back to the usual blogs about Delhi and our lives here.

I Am Not the Only Hater

Although there is more news from Mauritius yet to come, I thought I'd give you a brief break from travelling and blog about something we all know and love: my dislike of Becker!

I get a lot of flack from Hubby about the repeated haterations on Becker in this Blog. I actually watched an episode of this program once and can honestly say that if I never have to watch it again I’ll be a very happy Typ0. Our new habit when this horrible half hour of “New to Me” TV is on is to watch either South Park or Chappelle Show on DVD. It was while watching the former that I came to realize that I wasn’t alone: I was part of a community of Becker-Haters.

We were watching the “Future Self” episode from season 6 when the following exchange occurred on the show: (all dialogue copyrighted by South Park and courtesy of this page.)

Stan: Four months?? And you never told anybody that you were living with yourself in the future??
Butters: Nobody asked.
Stan: Where is he now?
Butters: Probably watching Becker.

[Butters' house, afternoon. A future Butters is watching TV and eating chips at the sofa]
Becker: My name is T. Becker. The T stands for Terrific. [laughs. Future Butters finds this quite funny. Stan and Butters enter the house to meet future Butters.]
Butters: See, here he is. Future Butters. Future self, this is my good friend.

See!! Much like Raymond, nobody likes or watches Becker… At least not willingly.

Another Day in Paradise (Part 3)

Ok we have now reached the part of our perfect day that turned out to be slightly less than perfect. In fact it left me pretty much wishing I knew how to fly or glide or get anywhere without needing my feet. After almost being dumped into the water by the speedboat guy, he dropped us off at Ile Aux Cerfs for what was supposed to be an hour of chill time. The island was filled with partiers who wanted to do nothing more than drink and soak in the warm water.

We waded through the warm water from one end of the beach to the other. The tropical water was the same “just right” warm temperature as a newly drawn bath. Warm but then you get used to it and it transforms into lukewarm without your consent. (My apologies and thanks to Colin and Penelope for borrowing their descriptions.)

We laughed when we found cooler spots of water and stood for a moment in them to relish the difference. No frigid North Atlantic waters were these, we remarked as we plunked ourselves down to sit in the warmth of the water as it lapped upward every time a speedboat passed by.

After a while, Hubby decided that we should go up on the beach to look around. Now do you remember what we brought with us when we left the catamaran to go parasailing? (Go scroll up, I’ll wait.) Now the more apt question should be: what didn’t we bring. Exactly: our sandals.

We walked up the beach to a chorus of “Hot! Hot! Bloody effing hot!” as we searched out sand that was still in the shade and therefore cooler. Around the time we found a cool spot to stand, Hubby had another brilliant idea: let’s walk up the stone stairs to the covered bar area on the top of the hill. Now at first glance this would seem to be a good idea – but let me assure you that it wasn’t.

The surface of those stone stairs wasn’t as smooth as one might hope. They were, in retrospect, what appeared to be chunks of coral reef. Each chunk seemed designed especially for two things:
1. To retain heat and burn the bottoms of my already tender feet.
2. To cut open the bottoms of those tender, now burned feet.
By the time I ascended to our seating area in the closed café my feet were so sincerely sore I could barely walk.

I’m sure that in his guest blog Hubby will refute some of the following statements about what transpired next. But this is my version and I’m sticking to it.

Realizing that we had to return to the jetty for pickup, we began the 1 mile walk across more coral hot rocks, steaming hot sand and coral remnant line sand. I’ll admit that I whined a tiny little bit while we crossed these hazards but I was in serious pain! By the time we arrived at the jetty I literally could go no further.

When the boat arrived, Hubby battled with the skipper for my shoes so that I could have covered feet for the final 10 feet of my walk – this time across wickedly hot concrete. The only bright spot for me was the realization that we weren’t the only ones in this predicament. None of the other parasailers had brought shoes and several of the wives mentioned that their husbands hadn’t been as kind as Hubby. (Of course none of their husbands had the inspirational idea to walk across jagged hot stones either but I’m not going to go there.)

So how bad were my feet? By the time we were dropped off for the day I couldn’t even walk across the sand to get to the taxi without the slight cushioning of my shoes for the pain. Typ0 = wimp.

But let it be known that as a while the day seriously ROCKED. My sunburn turned into a tan and my feet were better by the next day. Parasailing was seriously wicked fun. And crossing the sapphire blue waters off the coat of Ile des Cerfs was amazingly romantic. And doing all that with the goofy boy you kind of, sort of like was pretty cool too.

Another Day in Paradise (Part 2)

As promised there was a really wickedly cool part of the day yet to come… And a wickedly sucky part of the day. I have decided to start with the awesome part first – it doesn’t hurt that it also happened first chronologically speaking.

After lunch we were told that if we wanted to there was an opportunity to go parasailing. Now Hubby and I had actually discussed this very idea less than a day before this particular outing; so it seemed rather odd (and cool) that we were being given this opportunity. So we gathered the details: it wasn’t going to be too pricey, it fell into our scheduled free time, and we could do it in tandem. After a brief powwow we grabbed our towels, sunscreen and camera and piled into the motorboat.

Our speedboat driver was certifiably insane. I seriously wonder if he got paid more if he dumped one or more of us out of the boat prior to arriving at the floating dock. He seriously had the boat vertical with Hubby, me and the other 3 couples screaming in glee and hanging on for dear life. In case I forget to mention it later: he did the same thing on the return trip.

Parasailing took flight off a floating dock situated right of Ile aux Cerfs. At my request we did not go first. When it was finally our turn we were strapped into our individual harnesses and life jackets. As with the other couples from our boat, we opted to go together in tandem for this adventure. The team before us touched down lightly and we were urged forward. Hubby, as the taller of we two, was strapped in behind me. After a few very brief instructions we saw them give the OK sign to the boat driver.

To start off, I was sitting in prep for takeoff in what must have been the wrong way because I ripped my foot along the carpeted runway at takeoff. Picture rope burn: now move it to your foot and that was me. After that bumpy start we were aloft, at least 100 feet in the air with only a parachute and a piece of rope keeping us from falling to our doom. All that said, it was exhilarating, not to mention quite romantic – the two of us alone in the sky with only each other for company. Perfection.

With my hands grasping the harness above me, I was essentially sitting/dangling between Hubby’s legs, as we looked down on Ile aux Cerfs and its surrounding lagoon. Each shade of blue water seemed somehow more vibrant from our lofty vantage point. We waved at the miniature people on the dock and wished that our ride could last forever.

Then suddenly it was as if the boat driver got tired or bored or something. Below us he cut his engines and we began to float down toward the warm coral lined waters beneath us. When we reached the rather worrisome height of about 10 feet the driver woke up and pulled away. Squealing with delight we touched down briefly enough to soak our legs and bottoms and then we were quickly flying high again.

Of course we had to land sometime… unfortunately. Ours was not only not the smoothest landing of the day; I would venture it to guess it was one of the worst ever. Ooops! The bruise on my thigh is a reminder that next time we should ask for landing instructions before actually coming in for a landing butt first.

I officially and thoroughly recommend parasailing to you if you should ever get the chance. It was a thrill that we hadn’t planned on and one of the true highlights of our entire trip to Mauritius.

...to be continued again...

Another Day in Paradise (Part 1)

I should begin by explaining that I literally have almost ten pages of notes just on what we did on the Tuesday we were there. With that in mind, I’ve decided to split this one up over a couple of days so as not to kill blogger with my squeals about how absolutely awesome a day we had. How awesome? Well you’re going to have to read to find that out but let’s just say that this is the day when I get sunburned, have the adventure of a life time, and had my the bottoms of my feet flayed. Cool, huh?!

The day started with us getting picked up at our hotel in a taxi for what turned out to be an hour and half long drive to the other side of the island. Do any of my Canuckian readers remember that show on TVO with the mime and the French voice-over dude? I can’t for the life of me remember what it was called but I do remember that I hated it. (Naturally, TV addict I am, I still watched it though. Expect a future blog about the coolness of TVO back in the day.) The reason I didn’t like it was that the voice-over dude had this weird accent that gave me the creeps. Well I have now realized that the voice-over dude must have been Mauritian because our taxi driver sounded *exactly* like my memory of this show.

The ride to Trou D’Eau Douce was long but uneventful. When we finally arrived we saw a bay filled with various sized boats: all, it turned out, there for the same purpose: day trippers like Hubby and I. Our boat was a medium sized catamaran crewed by the skipper (and his daughter) and three crewmen who helped keep us fed, watered, and kept the sails aloft as needed. I should note that “us” consisted of Hubby and I and about 20 other guests including a leathery old woman that should not have been wearing a bikini but probably should have been wearing some sunscreen. There were also several families and a couple of honeymooners along for the ride.

We sailed into the perfect blue of the bay and around the craggy reef in water shallow and clear that I could see the bottom. Hubby kept me from trying to touch it by threatening my book. Evil boy.

One of our first stops was a cool little waterfall. (No I am *not* obsessed.) They took us right under the falls in the little motorboat that had been attached to the catamaran with some rope. The cool water from the Falls was refreshing after the heat and had everybody in the boat giggling and covering their cameras for dear life.

I spent much of my time getting some sun and reading my book. It was an incredibly good book that I simply could not put down until I had finished it. Of course, I probably should have started the day by using sunscreen instead of waiting until after lunch to apply my first coat. Oops, my bad!

Before lunch we snorkeled off the back of the boat and I tried to consume as much salt water as I could in as short amount a time as possible. I wasn’t all that good at snorkeling although Hubby, as always, proved a great gun and stayed in the water for quite a while. (It turns out that this isn't actually a photo of Hubby just some random guy. But at least you'll get the idea of what we did... or something.)

Lunch was a relaxing affair consisting of fish that was cooked on a grill off the back of the boat. The fish was amazingly tender and flaky yet still tasted sweetly of the coal and fire. This was accompanied by saffron rice, potato salad, break and wine which turned out to be slightly too sweet for my taste. The meal was topped off with slices of coconut and bananas for dessert. Light and yummy all around.

After lunch we got started on what turned out to be both the highlight and lowlight of the day. But those will have to wait for the next episodes of Blog.

… to be continued...

A Cool Dip in the Ocean

We awoke the day after Christmas to realize that too much rum doesn’t hurt that much when you have fresh crepes and hot chocolate (coffee for Hubby) to soothe you when you wake up. Since we had definite plans for the day, Hubby was not going to let me sit around reading my new book, “Outlander” no matter how much I pouted. (Dang, this is a good book! Thanks Aunt B!)

After I graciously gave into Hubby’s desire to do touristy stuff, we piled into the car. Our first stop was the “Sugar Adventure” in Pamplemouses. Despite signs that boasted that they were open 7 days a week, the evil sugar adventurers were closed. Damn false advertising. (Their excuse that it was the day after Christmas was not a very good one, if you ask me.)

Dejected, we headed over to the nature walk in Pamplemouses proper. Ok, a moment of interjection if you please. I love grapefruits either in their halved form with a sprinkling of sugar, in sections for breakfast or better yet in juice form. So the thought of going to a town named after these yummy fruit sounded very cool. That said they didn’t even give away free Pamplemouses at the door. *pout* Again with the more false advertising.

But we had a walk to do so we parked the car, slathered on sunscreen and wandered into the nature preserve. The coolest part of our nature walk was getting to see where Kermit the Frog lives: these wickedly cool giant lily pads that come in both pink and green apartment options. We also saw where Kermie goes to romance Piggy when she’s in town: the tiny lily pads probably wouldn’t hold her but I’m guessing that she likes the flowers in this pond.

In keeping with my new obsession with waterfalls, we saw another cool one. From the top of the bridge it looked like a tropic forest. You looked into the oblivion of nature in every direction.

When we wandered down the path to the bottom of the waterfall it had a wondrously different view entirely. It was like the door to fairyland had opened and was giving us an achingly brief peek into its enchantment. I swear that I saw some sort of ethereal creature fly by and wave at me. (Of course I was very hot and we had run out of water so it *may* have been a hallucination. Maybe.)

The overall effect of the entire preserve, other than being wickedly hot, was one of peacefulness. There were beautiful tropical flowers and tiny multicolored birds in every direction. I wish I could share all the photos we took so that you could share, electronically, the beauty we witnessed in Grapefruit-land.

After our walk we headed to Grand Baie and, since this is me we’re talking about, to lunch at Spur, a South African chain we remembered from our previous trip to that wonderful country. In typical Typ0 fashion I had a cheeseburger while Hubby munched on fajitas. Some things, no matter how tasty, never change.

From there we made our way to our big destination of the day – the Under Sea Walk. First we had to meet our water taxi at a jetty not far from our lunch spot. And we waited. And waited. And waited. The other people who had signed up for our time were quite late and, as we watched them on the shore, had no intentions of hurrying themselves. The boat driver and I exchanged (in French) pleasantries and insults about the lateness of the other guests to pass the time.

The French chatting turned out to be a good thing as he shared our confab with his cohorts aboard the main boat and they made sure that we stayed underwater the longest and, in think, had the most fun. Yay French immersion!

Unfortunately we have no pictures from our digital camera of our time under the sea so you’ll have to use your imagination. We do have regular photos that the tour operators took but we still haven’t had them developed. As we listened to the dive instructions we donned our swimsuits, ocean shoes and a weight belt: the latter two were provided by the he boat operators.

We then descended the ladder at the stern of the boat. Once we were mostly immersed, they put these glass and steel helmets over our heads and settled them on our shoulders. The helmets were glass above and 360 so that we could see the beauty of the ocean’s depths (all 3 feet down of it) in all directions. The helmets weren’t secured and we occasionally felt the helmet filling with salt water.

(Quick note, the photo to the right was taken at Pamplemouses and not on the Under Sea Walk but Hubby and I felt that it needed to be included. Naughty giant turtles! You go boy!)

The fish we saw the most of was this cute little black and white fish that Hubby kept trying to capture by the tail. Thankfully he was unsuccessful. We also saw little Nemo fish and other tiny clown fish living in a bit of coral near our dive spot. In total we were under the water for just over 30 minutes.

I must say that it was a wickedly cool experience despite the salt water in my hair. But having the chance to breathe, swim and dance under the ocean was a priceless opportunity.

Nature at Her Best

The time had come, the walrus said, to talk of many things: of sight seeing and souvenir buying, of cabbages and kings. Or something like that. (BTW, bonus points to those smarties among you who actually know where my slightly bastardized quote comes from.) Well, the walrus had a point: we needed to stop drinking long enough that he would stop talking to us, and we really did need to get to seeing this island before it was too late and the rum monster came to take us prisoner again.

We piled into our crappy car and headed off into the wilderness. Now, I need to explain that our car was slightly crappy despite the fact that Hubby is an awesome driver on the stick. Here’s the low-down (which he will, I’m sure go into in more detail in a guest blog): basically the Malaysian POS, Proton Wira for the curious, came with three options: Drive, Use the AC or Listen to the Radio. Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to do any of these things at the same time without the car conking out on us. We met our goal of seeing ½ the island in 2 days but the car was a big chunk of the adventure.

One of our first stops was this Chamarel Falls. If you’ve ever heard me talk about Niagara Falls then you’ll know that I’m a huge person for water falling over rocks. *yawn* Niagara Falls can only be described as majestic during the height of its tourist season. (I, on the other hand prefer it during its frozen, iceberg time in February). Chamarel isn’t majestic; it’s certainly not in the running to help the island create hydro electricity, what with its three small steams of water. All that said - it was beautiful.

We had to walk up a small incline to get to the viewing plateau. The first thing I noticed was that there was beautiful forest all around with hundreds of beautiful trees just waiting to be climbed. Then I turned and saw the falls from across the distance of the vividly green valley. At the top was a shallow river that looked like somebody should be skipping rocks. Then it broke off into three steams that fell 83 meters straight down into what seemed to be a movie set of a valley.

I can’t really explain why this place impressed me so much except to say that it was incredibly peaceful in its existence. It didn’t want to be Victoria Falls it just wanted to feed water into depths of forest that surrounded it. It was so peaceful standing there watching the Falls with Hubby’s arms around me. I found a point of serenity at Chamarel: a chapel of nature if you will. Life was at peace with itself in that tiny corner of the planet.

Only a short distance from the Falls was a Chamarel Colored Earths and, more importantly, the turtles. Allow me to explain the mundane first: these sands are naturally colored for reasons that have something to do with lava and its cooling effects. The sands really were cool and ranged in color from vibrant purple to dusky orange. (Sadly not all the colors show up to their best ability in our photos, sorry.) They sell bottles of the sand for a slightly more than nominal fee so that you can take home this amazing wonder. Here is the actually cool part: you can mix up your bottle by shaking it like martini, but the sands will automatically rearrange themselves back in order. Freaky deaky huh?

And now for what I thought was the cooler part of this stop: the Turtles! For reasons that nobody shared with us, the Colored Earths site was home to four gigantic turtles who hung out in a shaded pen. When we were there one of the turtles was active while the others looked like they were embarrassed to be there. Hubby said they were embarrassed of the way I was going on (they *could* be mutant ninja turtles!) but I think they just wanted the option of wandering over to the sands and putting their shell prints in the purples parts. Either way they were sooooooooo cute and despite what Hubby things, probably would have been happy to come home with us.

Before I sign off this episode of Blog, I need to further expound on how beautiful this island can be. You see, in order to get to Chamarel, we had to drive up one of the many mountains that dot the landscape. Fear of the car dying on us half way up not withstanding, it was a beautiful drive. I swear to you that I have before seen quite so many shades of green in one place. Each tree on the mountain was a different variation on the jade theme. The Green Island indeed…

Hubby and I have traveled all over and rarely have we both been in agreement about how singularly beautiful a place was. I now finally understand why Hubby says that this is one of his top three favorite nations. Of course he came to that conclusion when he was there on vacation with out me… Hmmm….

Dreaming of Figgy Pudding

I have many firm beliefs about Christmas. But one that is pivotal is that it requires snow. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” isn’t just a song people it’s a way of life. Hubby on the other hand, grew up in California and never knew snow until much later in life. It is with these two divergent views of the holiday season that Hubby and I arrived in paradise. But one thing we both agree on is that Christmas-time is about food: lots of great food! With that in mind, today’s blog is all about FOOD!

Christmas Eve we did fun touristy stuff that I’ll talk about later but more importantly we ate some very yummy food. After touring around the southern part of the island, Hubby drove us to this Creole place that he had been to during his last visit. . Keep in mind that Creole food here isn’t what you get back in the States – it’s more of a mixture of Indian and island cuisines. I feel that I should also explain that the while the ambiance was great (an outdoor terrace surrounded by tropical greenery) the food was divine.

After a nice salad, accompanied by a glass of rum punch, they served our lunches. I had a shrimp and chicken curry that was so light yet flavorful that I wanted to order seconds after trying only a few bites. For dessert we shared Banana Flambé that could never, ever be served to minors. There was so much rum in and around those bananas that I’m not sure that Hubby should have driven home. Dang that was good dessert. (Yes, Hubby also ordered food but since mine was better so that’s all that I remember.)

We eventually made it back to our hotel and got ready for dinner. Dressed in one of my silk salawar-kameez and the necklace Hubby gave me for Christmas I accompanied Himself down to the dining area that had been decorated for the occasion. We plunked ourselves down in our usual seats and asked the waiter to open the bottle of Argentinean red wine that we had purchased in the Dubai duty free for just this purpose.

After a while we started looking around to see what would be served at the buffet this evening. We were both amazed at the plethora of food that awaited us, but especially at the literal mountain of giant prawns sitting next to the grill. While I first readied a plate of salads Hubby made a beeline straight for the prawns. Noticing that the line for these mammoth delicacies was huge, I wisely asked Hubby to grab one for me.

Much of the food we had over the two weeks at the hotel was rather average to below average – but not on Christmas Eve. Dang that was some good BBQ’ed prawn. Now, keep in mind that I’m not known as a seafood fan but these prawn were so tender and flavorful that if they hadn’t all disappeared in less than 30 minutes I would have sent Hubby back to get me more.

While we ate were serenaded by a keyboard player and the singer that we dubbed Barry White. Barry had a deep, hypnotic voice as he sang various English and French holiday songs for us. The problem was that he didn’t actually speak English as his first language so some of the English songs were slightly different from what we remembered. “Jinge bells, Jinge bells, jingal all da way. Oh what fun it is to ryde in a one horse hopen Slee!.” We joke and mock but he was quite good entertainment and excellent fun even more so because he was so earnest.

I’ll comment on dessert for the evening if only for my Mum whom I’m sure will be jealous. Along with the fruit salad, chocolate cakes and profitte rolls was a giant Croque en Bouche. The best part of this dessert (other than the taste) was that I finally learned how to serve one! They cut into the middle and served from the inside out. Neat, huh?

The final touch of the evening was live Sega music and dancers. There were four musicians: two on drums, one on triangle a singer. The drums were a cool island hybrid: they sounded like cross between Jamaican steel drums and looked like Irish Bodhrans. After the dancers each had their turn in groups and solos they invited the guests to join them. It should be an indicator of how much Hubby had to drink of that bottle of wine that he actually danced with me.

But now it was time for all good little tourists to go back to their rooms and sleep and await Santa. Not being good kids or tourists Hubby and I decided to go to bed anyways just in case Santa got lost and felt like dropping of some gifts for fun. Nighty Night!

A Sleigh Full of Rhum

After a blissful night’s sleep we awoke to find out that Santa had visited and left us with all sorts goodies including French books about Dodos and model ships among other goodies. We toasted in the warm Christmas morning by getting toasted on a Swarovski Crystal studded bottle of Moet and Chandon champagne. The chilled bubbly was the perfect start to a day that would be highlighted by lots of alcohol.

We drove around the island rather aimlessly for much of the day. Our attempts to go on a tour of a rhum factory were thwarted. Just because its Christmas they think they can be closed? How rude! The countryside was a beautiful mélange of green interrupted only by the blues of the ocean that surrounded us. But all that fresh air and nature only served to remind us that we were hungry – as usual.

Lunch was a disaster of Chinese food that should never again be spoken of. The ginger beef was literally gelatinous. *shudder* But it was ok because we were going to move on from there to a traditional Christmas dinner shared over candlelight with romantic music and a general buzz of Christmas in the air. Ok, so it was a tasty if less than traditional meal, and the buzzing came from the mosquitoes that were stalking me but there really was a lit candle!

The dinner being offered at the hotel looked less than appetizing so we wandered into town to see what local delicacies might be available for Christmas dinner. After realizing that most restaurant proprietors were closed for the holidays we turned down an alley and found our perfect meal.

The building was actually a backpackers haven with a semi-Italian restaurant attached. We had heard that the pizza here was some of the best in town and, after a cursory look at the menu, were seated in the corner under an awning of trees and other local greenery. We were presented with the drink menu first: since I didn’t want to spend my entire vacation under the haze of lush-hood I ordered a coke. Hubby had no such compunctions and ordered a drink called Planters Punch, which was a concoction of rum, juice, soda water and grenadine. I was dubious and awaited my coke.

While we debated what we wanted to eat on this holy day our drinks arrived. Hubby’s rum drink was a pretty red color and, he claimed, quite yummy. Not trusting his ability to decide what constituted a good drink I stole his glass and had a sip. Then another sip… then another. Worried, our waiter rushed over to our table wondering if there was something wrong with the drink. I insisted that there was something wrong: that I didn’t have one too.

By the time Hubby and I had both eaten our decidedly yummy pizzas we had also managed to each drink 2 more Planters Punch each. Well, we had to see if the first ones were flukes! We were doing our civic duty.

During the meal we were serenaded by a very talented guitarist who sang romantic songs that, when combined with all the rhum punch, made for a perfect evening.

We then made our way back to our hotel where we enjoyed two more glasses of punch each. This time we drank while watching the stars and sitting on the beach. It was quite a romantic (and slightly alcoholic) end to a pretty wonderful day.

So there you have it: traditional Christmas dinner of pizza and rum punch, a visit from Santa all on a romantic island. Even though we didn’t have a white Christmas we had a wonderful one. Happy Christmas in Mauritius! (See it does rhyme!)

Welcome to 2006!

Happy New Year!!!!!!

Let's let 2006 be the best one yet!

Random Thoughts

Our arrival in Mauritius was heralded by the grand event of our standing in the immigration line for about an hour. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the need for immigration lines but damn the thing could have moved faster. At least, in a rare occurrence, Hubby actually picked the fast line and we were out of there more quickly than most.

We took a taxi from the airport on the South Eastern coast to our hotel in Flic en Flac on the Western coast. If you’re looking at the map, we were just north of Tamarin. The entire village basically serves the tourist trade and the umpteen hotels that dot the azure blue coastline. If you’re an NPR fanatic like me, you can join my new revolution of calling our base town Flic en Flac the Tappert Brothers… or not.

Our hotel was not the fanciest one in the village by any means but it served our purposes well – a place to come back to after a long day of sightseeing and breakfast and dinner thrown in for free. The food wasn’t always great but the view from the dining area could not be beat. I never realized before how many shades of blue made up the ocean.

The views at night were no less amazing. The southern sky in a night with no light pollution is beautiful beyond words. At home you’re lucky if you can see a dozen or so stars in sky… Mauritius was completely different – there were a dozen different stars in every square inch of sky: I had never before realized how many stars there were. Mars lit the night sky directly in front of our room. The clusters of tiny stars made even a cynic like me wonder for the days when sailors guided their destinies by these pinpricks of light in the darkness. (Of course for true geeks like me it also made you wonder about how cool they would have looked up close for Picard and his crew on board the Enterprise D.)

The stars seemed to move through the velvet sky on their own volition. Hubby said that they weren’t actually moving that I had just had too much to drink. But I disagree. They were dancing through the sky for the benefit of believers like me.

During the day, the view from our balcony changed again: a series of palm trees and a million miles of blue ocean. Perfect day or night from as far as I was concerned.

Ok weird note: one of the few days we turned on the TV two things happened. First, there was no Becker on and this made me very happy. Then we found a channel where Dallas was just beginning that day’s episode – in French. Even the theme song had been translated. It was beyond funny!

Mauritius, for those of you who may not know, is a French-speaking nation. Which meant that I had to dredge up a language I once knew so well I would dream in it. Of course, it’s been more than a decade since I had last spoken at any length in French so I was a wee bit worried about how I would sound. I needn’t have worried. Every time I opened my mouth and spoke French two things happened: First a look that said, “I thought she was American” passed over their faces. Then they’d immediately say, “Oh, you’re Canadian! From Quebec?!” While I’m pleased with how much French I remembered I am more than a little perturbed that my accent so expertly pinpoints me. It’s not that bad a Québécois accent is it? Ok never mind, don’t answer that.

Port Louis, the capital, is a cool place to spend some time.There can be little doubt that the inspiration for the harbor here was that of Cape Town’s own Victoria and Albert. Small shops to deke in and out of, bars that played loud Sega music and just generally happy people lined the harbor area. Although I didn’t do as much shopping as I had hoped, I still helped out the GDP of the island nation by purchasing a few Christmas gifts for both Hubby and myself.

Our first day in Mauritius was amazing. Still to come was Christmas Eve, Christmas, and a week of nothing but fun, relaxation and sun. Each day got progressively better and we became progressively more relaxed. The only problem with Mauritius was that the vacation didn’t last longer. Dammit.