Making Friends.

And month number two coming to a close, complete! It's one of those weird passages of time that feels like I've been here long enough to settle in but am still smacked around daily by the little things that make it seem like I just arrived yesterday. While I've got the daily routine down to a hot, sweaty, scurry about we still don't have access to our promised vehicle so my extremely limited knowledge of Bootyland consists of where I can walk during short bursts of perspiring exploration. That and working these silly split shifts leaves little to no opportunity to meet people or properly or do things. Not to be completely discouraged however, I've thrown myself out there a little bit with notable success so far. I've made some new friends!

There's a fancy pantsy super posh hotel just down the road that hosts their own private beach party once a month or so. It seems to be attended by the leagues of various European military personnel that are stationed here and the kids of expat NGO staff. Crew cuts and 17 year old French girls – yeah, that's not a recipe for disaster of any kind, is it? Oh, and Ethiopian prostitutes. I've been schooled that anywhere there are military men, which is everywhere in Dj, there will be a following of Ethiopian prostitutes. Djiboutians cashing in on this action? Nope, only Ethiopians. Oh. Ok. Good to know, I guess.

Back to the beach party ... so I'm super excited to follow Bruce, his friend L, and a friend of hers for a night out on the sand. Great sound system set up, excellent people watching. Yes, let's make this a regular thing! Sadly after about 45 mins, L and her friend have to leave for the airport and Bruce wanted to leave as well. WHAT?! There's hardly anything to do in Dj, can't we stay and hang out and people watch, and beach party it up for a bit longer? A little bit longer? Nope. Hound dog frown. I decide that it would look a little creepy for this old girl to be trolling the beach party by myself so I resign myself to heading home with them. Oh boo hoo pity party me.

As we were leaving the grounds I saw two very tall, very NOT military looking guys heading in and oh fabulous universe, they were speaking American English. Pure crazy kicks in as I rush over and stick my hand out - “You're speaking North American English Nice to meet you! Where are you from?!” A few seconds of stunned silence as they peer down at this strange, sweaty, frantic fool. Then … game on. Intros made and a quick explanation, my friends are leaving and I'm not ready to go, I've only been here a couple of weeks and would really appreciate some North American company, do you mind if I hang out with you for a bit?! Ahhhh... they were awesome! Swept me up in good ole US charm in record time. Bruce and L continued on their way, I stayed with my new “friends by force”.

25 year old J and 57 year old K work for an American moving company that secured the contract for installing new furniture into the quickly growing US base here. The US military doesn't have “mover” as a trade, obviously. Djiboutians are hired to do the labour but a US company needs to coordinate all the logistics and oversee the mess in addition to the physical moving job. Enter J & K. A 3 week contract, that turned into almost 5 weeks, and they may return again in the new year. I'll take it!!

A rapidly growing US base but these were the first Americans I have seen. Why, I ask, why why why? The French, German, Italians, Spanish, Japanese can all come and go around town as they please; you see them here, there, and everywhere. The Americans? Confined to their well-equipped, well-guarded compound. Whether histrionic American paranoia or legitimate threat, they are only allowed off base in chaperoned groups using issued buses and only for limited social events. The beach party … off limits. But as J & K are contracted, not military, they are free birds. Lucky me!

SUPER nice guys who tolerated my cling on approach and over-enthusiastic chat. It was so nice to be able to talk about … not work. And to have a back and forth conversation. It was really, really nice and they were really, really accommodating and yes, it was very, very needed. Shame that their time here is so short but I have new friends for now – woop woop!

What else? I've had some wanders through town with my camera and this is always fun. The responses to me walking around town were about 90 -10. 90% of the people I passed smiled, asked to have photos taken, posed proudly, or took the moment to chat and giggle. It was what I've come to know of the people in Dj; welcoming, friendly, approachable, lovely. 10% of the people, most of whom didn't even enter my field of vision, felt the need to go out of their way, whether they were sitting on a sidewalk somewhere, walking behind me on the road, or just in a random crowd, to confront me, finger wagging in my face, shouting “NO! No photos!” At first I was shocked into speechlessness. What?! My camera was down, I simply had it in my hand, who are you, and where THE HELL did you just come from? Yikes. Have never run into this before.

I was soon able to spot these over-inflated egos before they got too close and when they did come up with a shaking finger, bless them for being able to speak several languages other than English, I beamed my biggest smile and uttered a muttered “oh f**k off.” through shiny, happy teeth. They had no idea what I was saying and I had the cathartic release of standing up to these bullies. And that's what they were – bullies. When other locals saw these meanies they quickly shushed them, waved them away, or scolded back for the way I was being treated. Fair, fair. I know better than to take photos around government or military backdrops but in the local market or walking the streets, come on. Get over yourself. I can promise you that your country's secrets will not be given up in the midst of broken down mini buses, stray goats, and trash heaps. I promise.

Most of the time, it's women who feel the need to scold my scenery snapping and I've still not quite figured out why. While taking pictures of the street kids who love this game, men will come up and shoo the kids away as they try to protect me from the swarms but once they see that I'm alright with it, they smile and encourage the chaos. The women however, shoo the kids and me away, angry muttering, scowls in scarves. I've stood my ground in some cases, as I was in a public square taking photos of only the children, but it got a bit heated and I started getting shoved, so I chose to move on. Taking pictures via phone seems acceptable as EVERYONE does this but a small DSLR … nope, no way. Suspicions of journalists gone awry? Political spies? Military undercover rat? Have no idea. But my camera is now a social experiment, I'll let you know what I find out...

Bullies aside, SUCH nice experiences wandering the inner city and being treated to big smiles and welcoming “Bonjour madame!” from doorways. A resource deprived, desperately dreary country with a fantastic mix of friendly faces. Wow. Well done Bootyland.

Bruce and I went on a boat trip / snorkeling day out to one of the nearby islands with the American guys – AMAZING, and we hung out or went to dinner with them as often as we could before they returned to the States. Fingers crossed they should be back in February for a few more weeks. Really nice guys who will be missed over these next few months.

What else have I done? Ooooo... I stormed a local dive shop and presented myself to the staff, Hi, I'm Janice, I live here, we WILL be friends. All fantastic people, of course, and have already been out on a day dive trip. Woop Woop! Two hour boat trip on their gorgeous liveaboard boat, two very nice and super warm dives with lots of colour and CLEAN water (no plastic or rubbish floating around) and sites all to ourselves. The American dive instructor, Sarah, has spent the last several years in SE Asia so we've already played the who-knows-who-where game; lots of similar friends in places we've passed through. Sitting amid dive gear reminiscing about this place, that site, or those people is an incredibly comforting feeling. Thank you dive world for helping me feel at home no matter how lost I may be. The other dive instructor is of course, fantastic, so I'm as happy as can be to have two great girls to spend some time with and hopefully explore the sea with over the next year. The manager is incredibly generous and accommodating so if anyone is looking to dive in Dj, wow have I ever got a great shop for you!

Our schedules make it difficult to socialize as we work mornings AND evenings but for two days a week, I'm slowly finding more options to occupy my time. This makes me happy. Hopefully we'll have a vehicle soon, the weather is starting to cool to just about tolerable (albeit still painfully hot midday), and I am learning to become more confident with my atrocious level of French so there will be more exploring on the horizon. Show me what you've got Djibouti!

10 Days Down.

10 days down. I've got 10 days in. Today is the first day I've had completely off since I arrived. Oozed my way off a plane, dripped into office life 6 hours later, and have pretty much been there ever since. Not exactly what I was prepared for, may have to look at a different arrangement, but for now, push on, push on.




Theme song for the moment: Ooo Child, things are gonna get easier, ooo child things will get brighter. Just when I feel like I can't possibly bear one more second of the necessary transitory moments of bubbling, boiling heat, when sweat is flooding from pores I didn't know I had (do elbows seriously sweat?! Yes, yes they do.), I'm forced to remind myself that I am simply moving from one A/C environment to the next, that my torture is temporary. The majority of those crammed in or walking beside me have no such luxury, no escape. In the office, the A/C kicks on quickly with the flick of a button and stays on for the duration. At home, I can turn it on when I need to (although I am trying to “need” it less and less so I can acclimate somewhat) and unless there's a power cut, the fan is always going. As September seeps towards October, as summer fades to fall, the mercury will dip from 40C closer to 30C, unbearable will become tolerable, and things WILL get easier. For now, I am sweating 24 hours a day, salt stains and damp spots line all of my clothes but things are gonna get easier.




It has been a rough go at work so far but that simply speaks to the indulgence of my last job in Indo. This is only the very beginning of year #3 for Oxford International Academy in Djibouti. Other than a workbook for various levels to go by, there are no materials. Leaves the door wide open to creativity though, yes? Sadly, I'm currently lacking in that department and hoping my brain kicks into gear at some point. Since my ragged and sweaty arrival, my office hours have been from 7 – 8am until noon, sweatbus home for lunch and small rest, sweatbus back to the office between 3 – 4pm to prep then teach from 6 – 10pm, sweatbus home. During our last days off (Thurs & Fri), we didn't teach but I was still in for several hours trying to learn the curriculum and prep for upcoming classes. This Thurs, I went in for 4 hours in the morning then my body simply stopped responding, refused to cooperate, decided enough was enough.




You know how when you really have to pee you can hold it until those moments just before you reach a toilet? Suddenly you have to grab and sprint the final distance as your body knows relief is in reach so it decides to just go ahead and get started. Yes? Yes. Well it was that, but on the exhaustion scale. I got home and thought I'd take a little nap but this time, with no intentions of returning to the office. I was going to try to explore a bit as I've not had a chance to do anything yet. Yeah, right. I fell asleep and was out for dead. I woke up a few times, read a little bit, puttered a tiny bit, but essentially … utter collapse until Friday morning. Exploring will wait for another day. Africa temporarily kicked my ass. Temporarily.




Bruce has invited me out a couple of times to meet a few of the many people he knows here and to show me a bit of what's what. The utter distance between street life poor and embassy wealthy is shocking. There's barely a middle. You have too much or you have nothing. Our apartment seems shantytown shameful in the embassy district where we live but we have excesses when compared to the masses. The enclosed compounds of foreign lives are luxurious, the houses and vehicles are shrouded in tinted windows and A/C units, and life outside the compound walls is marginally, if at all, registered by those on the inside. There is very much an “us” and “them”. My white skin alone lumps me squarely into one group or the other depending on what side of the fence you're sitting. Sad.




This isn't all just expats though. There are excessively wealthy locals. Somalis, Ethiopians, Djiboutians, other Africans who work for expat agencies or are connected somehow are included in the screaming financial division. An Ethiopian who lives in Djibouti but is contracted through a European military will be rolling in money but obviously must have come from money to have been educated enough to work for an expat company. The complexities here are staggering. Despite current financial struggles, we, of course, tend to socialize solely with the elite. I'm learning that most things simplify down to who you know, being a big fish in a small Djiboutian business pond, and the luxuries that come with those associations.




I've been to the excesses of The Sheraton, where the German military who are stationed here live, and paid $6 for a Coke, a local “downtown” watering hole that attracts mostly expats or locals connected to expats charged $3 for that Coke, and a local market where those who can afford some foreign foods, asked 60 cents for the same Coke. Amazing. A tight-lipped foreign face assigned to duty in Djiboutian foreign port would never step foot inside one of these shady shops so will never know my bliss of a 60cent Coke fix. It's a tricky little world on these shores, isn't it?




Connections seem to be the only life lines here. The company I work for, and it IS a company, not a school, is focused on finding new “clients”, not students at the moment. Each client may be, and often is, a wealthy, new contact who can hopefully bring in more wealthy business. Thankfully there doesn't seem to be much competition for English services at the moment so it's working, the business is growing, contacts are coming through, but slowly. Money is still a big concern for those in charge at Oxford, expenses obliterate profit, so things are tough. I know there are ambitions of expanding to do more local teaching, providing education to kids and locals who have no other resources but for now, it's all about who you know and what they can bring in. I leave that game to the boys. Makes me feel slimy and I'm barely handling the sweat. Business is a rough TOUGH go in Africa but they're making it work; I admire what they have created here.



I'm still finding my ground. It's not a beautiful city, by any stretch of my imagination, but I'll find it. It's always there, sometimes we just have to look for it, right? The seas surrounding our little part of the peninsula are harbour and business front, full stop. Not swimming seas. A far cry from the squeaky white exotics of Tofo, Mozambique, but I'm not in Moz anymore, I'm in Djibouti so I'll find the beauty in Djibouti. I haven't had a chance to explore the diving / snorkelling opportunities here yet, I understand that they're a good distance off, but it's on the list. Once I settle a wee bit more, once the surroundings are low 30sC instead of high 30sC, I'll be up for more wandering. Time, time, time, it will just take a bit of time. And in Africa, there is nothing but time.

First day drowning...

Darling Djibouti, barely a blip on the radar, a tiny desert dwelling parked inconspicuously on a sparse, booming seaside. Enormous port rigs and shipping containers overwhelm the waterfront while construction debris and dry, hot dust litter every street and corner. French, Somali, Afar, and Arabic sounds mix with brightly clothed, ever so beautiful African women and ratty tatty street urchins. Men gesture and shout at each other in everyday conversation, clothed in everything from the shreds of physical labour to casual Friday at the office, fresh from the mosque wrap arounds, to London business lunch until the overwhelming heat forces them to retreat to random bits of shade that do almost nothing to cool the daytime's barely breathable, sauna-like air. Even the glimpses of sea, with spotty, rubbish-engulfed beaches and small patches of sand, seem too hot and hazy to offer any respite. But in the midst of all of this sweating and wilting, (from me that is, as they seem barely affected by it) they carry on.




I'm not a novelty here, there is a significant multi-national expat population in this very tiny city, so no one seems shocked to see me in the limited exposure I've had so far. Those whom I have met shout "Bonjour!" and genuine smiles, no slack-jawed staring. It'll be a while until MY open-mouthed gape turns into a comfortable stroll but the adjustment shouldn't be too difficult. Knock on wood.




It was 10C when I left Halifax at 530am and it was near 40C when I was blasted in the face by hot, desert sun as I stepped off the final plane and walked across the heat-wavering tarmac into Djibouti's one room (okay, maybe two room) airport almost exactly 24 hours later. I remember Asian hot but I had forgotten African hot. Near the equator hot, where you are instantly swimming in pools of your own suffering body's attempts to tell you that Canadian blood isn't meant to be here kind of hot. Good devil in hell it's HOT!




One bag arrived, one didn't. Seemed to be the norm as the lineup of people waiting to talk to the already prepared missing luggage guy was significant. Luckily the one that DID arrive was the one with clothes and toiletries, the missing one was mostly dive stuff. Was not looking forward to wearing a wetsuit to my first day of classes.




Was met at the airport by Bruce, the UK English teacher who had joined the set up of the company and curriculum at day one, Robleh, the company manager, and another man (I forget his name) who is … get this … the nephew of The President. Seriously. The nephew of the President of the Republic of Djibouti was our driver. He's an old college buddy of Robleh's from a time when they were partying it up as young Djiboutians do in the distant land of the UK. Probably a name I should remember but sweat was blinding me at this point and I could barely remember my own name. That and they didn't actually tell me who he was until after we had been dropped off. Either way, I probably would have forgotten him anyway as my cerebral fluid, my only remaining fluid, was draining from my body. Did I mention that it was hot?




The apartment is basic but a good size; not Asian luxury living by a far cry but definitely well equipped for life in Africa. They had only moved us in last week so it's a work in progress. I saw a hazy, blue shimmer of sea at the distant far end of the road and was hopeful. As it was the middle of the day and blisteringly hot, it was siesta time for Djibouti. After a little chat, Bruce retired to his room and I attempted to empty the one bag that had arrived and organize a bit of my life. The overhead fan in my room mocked my Canadian ridiculousness as it did little else other than move around the suffocating air so I caved and turned on the little A/C unit they had installed. Electricity is meant to be very expensive here so we are trying to conserve it. I've just arrived and my face is melting off, I'm turning on the A/C. Sorry, but it's happening.




Ummm... the A/C works, but it's a little unit in a big room in a hot country. If I was moving, I was sweating. Eventually I just threw everything on a shelf and laid on the bed, defeated. Fell into a travel induced, heat exaggerated, much needed mini coma. The shower I took to try to wake me up and cool me off was pointless. The water is pumped from a tank outside so it was … hot. Not boil your skin off hot but hot as in, not cool in any way at all. I was sweating IN the shower. As I attempted to dry myself with the stolen airline blanket I had thankfully shoved into my carry on, (my towels were in the missing bag) I knew I had no choice but to keep pushing on. It's hot. It's going to be hot. I'm in Africa for crying out loud, get over it. But yeah, it's hot.




At around 5pm, Bruce and I ventured to the office, as Wednesday is a work day. My schedule is meant to be Sat – Wed, 8am til about 11am, come home and sleep as everyone does, then back to the office around 4 or 5pm as we teach from 6 – 10pm. All adults, a mixture of backgrounds, a very relaxed environment. The curriculum is partially computer based so the two classrooms have meeting room tables with computers at each seat. I'll take some photos as they are unusual classroom set ups for me.




I met Fouad, the academic director, at the office and sat in while he taught what will be my classes. I was openly nodding and bobbing as I tried desperately to keep my over-travelled, suffering body focused. I did okay, I didn't fall off my seat or anything, but I was doing a lot of walking around. Dude, I just got off the plane six hours ago . They didn't expect me to come into work but hey, why not try to make a decent first impression, right? Not sure the half closed eyelids and trickle of drool running down my chin in the classroom were a good first impression but they seemed pleased that I made the effort.




Oh, we took the little local mini bus to and from school. For my Mozambique connections, yes, it was a chappa. Same chaos, same hot, smelly rust buckets held together by bits of gum, rope, and tape squeaky and bumping at every turn, threatening to disintegrate at the hint of a strong wind. Crammed full but not to Mozambican levels of utter claustrophobia. Ahhhhh, I'm back in Africa. The centre of town is small and surprisingly empty but I have lingering images of insane India in my head so probably not a fair comparison. I couldn't quite comprehend the dry dirt roads and dusty atmosphere considering we are right on the sea but then it was pointed out … the construction. While there are trees and a bit of shrubbery, most everything on the waterfront and beyond has been stripped away. This is sea level desert and everything is under construction.




Bruce is the walking encyclopedia to my annoying questions and it appears I've stumbled into a pretty interesting little place. Former French colony but current Somali money; the piracy has proven to be successful. This is all hush hush but common knowledge obviously. The Somalis are running the show with an endless supply of cash, the French are still here and peacefully part of everyday life as is the German military, there's a mix of Ethiopian and Yemeni influence in the faces and the shops, the American military is here but tucked away and not allowed to leave their compound, and the Chinese are constructing railroads and other infrastructure in exchange for I'm not sure what. A surprising number of foreign embassies, the WHO, the EU Commission, a load of NGOs, the UNHRC, and an assortment of other international colours dot the flagpoles of nearby buildings. The more questions I ask, the more confusing it gets so for now I'm simply just trying to absorb things as they come. A full first day with an overwhelming week ahead. And oh yeah, did I mention it's devil bloody HOT?!?!

4 months of India go here.

I have 4 months of backlogged India stories to update in this spot.  For now, here's a little from JeeBOOTY land...

Chennai & Pondicherry. Check.

Trying to decide what is scarier:  the gut-wrenching, gag inducing, lung destroying odors of the trains or the speed of light, deafening horn blaring, on two wheels tip over, veering dart & weave toss around of the buses.  While yes, overnight trips save you 1. the cost of accommodation and 2. a day to see things instead of whiz by them, the lack of sleep and agonizing hours of endless terror wipe you out for the entire next day anyway.  This is how I arrived in Chennai.  Somehow I still managed to find my way on to a city bus and across town to where I was going to stay for the next few days.  I had intentions of flying from Chennai to the Andaman Islands to do some dive, dive, diving (oh how I miss you underwater world!) but a look into prices left me blue and confined to city limits.  That’s fine.  India on my own.  Let’s see what’s going on. 

For most of that first day, I was super lazy.  I napped and did laundry.  Yes the bus journey was that devastating.  Oh, and I watched TV.  My room had a TV with a couple of English channels – woop woop!  You have no idea how exciting this is until you’ve lived without a TV.  Okay, okay I know there are some of you who have evolved past the need for mindless monitor watching but I haven’t had TV in as long as I can remember so yes, this was brain switch off, noodle rot, jolly good fun.  There wasn’t even anything good on but it was English and I was entertained.  I did go for a little walk, got a little intimidated, held my own, and made it back without too much of an issue, but yeah, most of the first day was a much needed write off.

Chennai is on the coast so if I can’t dive, then beach here I come!  My place was within easy walking distance from the beach through city streets that doubled as cart vendor sell anything spots by day, sleeping spots by night.  Homeless in India, as we all know, is a level unequalled anywhere else in the world.  Undeniable.  Got to the beach and was promptly knocked over by the smell…  Toilet.  This as-far-as-you-can-see beach was covered in trash, vendor carts, and the smell of yep, you guessed it, pee and poo.  I thankfully didn’t see any droppings (well, I may have then quickly blocked it out of my mind) but even walking as close to the water as I could, I didn’t smell the salt air of a major coastline, I smelled toilet.  Possibly human, possibly equine as there were horses meant for tourists to ride but yeah, stinky. 

I tried to sit and watch the waves for a bit with a tissue over my nose but was quickly spotted by a variety of sellers turned beggars once they sniffed out fresh, white traveler.  Funny how they zoomed past all the Indian holidayers on the beach and turned up the masterful sad and broken faces only when I was within reach.  So no sitting on the beach for me and walking on the beach was revealing a variety of disturbing bits so yep, exit to the street.

A second visit a couple of days later was much more fruitful.  As I adopted a sandy but sweet mama and pup to fill with clean water and biscuits, I became the centre of attention for the camel and horse owners who prowled the beach with their dolled up rides hoping to make a bit of cash. They couldn’t quite understand why I would care for these little creatures but after a broken English chat, they seemed to buy into the whole “be kind to all animals” kind of thinking.  We sat around under the shade of their decorated beasts and discussed how to best care for said money makers as well as whatever else crosses their paths.  Very nice men who wanted nothing other than to visit.  Nice, nice, nice. 

Not a bad city.  A university town with all the sadness of Indian inner city but an attempt at culture, it seemed, some order, it felt, and it was working, for the most part.  Highlight of Chennai (equal to the glee of TV) was finding … SUBWAY!  While wandering the downtown area I looked up and singing angels, a Subway.  A REAL Subway, not an underground train station but the king of sandwich shops of which is near and dear to my heart.  I yelped out loud and zoom!  I was in!  A near empty shop but identical to the western world (minus the beef but adding the curry and tandoori).  An unexpected comfort that I indulged in, guilt-free.  It has obviously been a long time, folks if instead of appreciating the local culture I am embracing sights from home.  I felt it was well deserved however, and enjoyed every lingering second of it.

That was the highlight of Chennai.  It was an okay city but an unremarkable city.  A jumping off point for the glories of the Andamans that lay just out of my reach.  Next time, next time.

Oh.  And I went to a movie.  I found a shopping mall which was limited in its offerings however it had a cinema and an English movie was playing; “The Life of Pi”, appropriately enough.  Let’s do it. 

So remember we’ve talked about how loud life is on this side of the world?  Yeah, that does not stop for something as silly as a movie.  Despite several signs, commercials on the screen, and audible requests to turn off your phones, it was irrelevant.  Not only did the phones ring, people answered them and had full on normal volume (shouting for Indian) conversations.  If they weren’t on their phones, they were having full volume conversations with each other or shouting at their shouting children.  It was jaw-dropping ridiculous.  Why are you here?!?!  Did you even want to SEE the show?!  Do you understand the concept of WATCHING A MOVIE?!?!   Oh, and I forgot the other part – you are given an assigned seat here in India.  All movie goers are packed nice and tight, close together whilst the majority of the theatre remains empty and they get quite distressed if you try to change your seat.  I moved, slightly, but it did nothing to ease the annoying non-stop chatter.

I was powerless.  So I focused and tried to close one ear to the chaos and focused and got through more or less all of it without entertaining too many graphically murderous thoughts.  Oh one more thing!  They had an intermission.  In a movie of less than two hours.  An intermission.  They paused the movie and turned on the lights so people could get up and go get more food.  At least that’s what it said on the screen and that’s what people seemed to do.  The couple next to me had boxes of popcorn for the first half and bags full of samosas for the second.  The intermission lasted a good 15 minutes and all I could do was put my head down and breathe.  What a country. 

But what a great movie for me to watch whilst here, just up the road from Pondicherry!  So what did I decide to do the next day, the same day of my 10pm train out of Chennai?  Yep, hop a bus to Pondicherry.  I was told it was only a couple of hours by bus so up and off to the bus station I go, a mini road trip before I head out.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

That 2 hour bus trip turned into just over 4 so I quickly whizzed my way round the very French streets of a now Hollywood famous town and parked myself at a rocky beach front lined with typical Indian food cart sellers.  A more peaceful Indian coastal town.  The street life poverty was slightly overshadowed by white-washed touches of elegance as sculpted hotels and cafes boasting real French boulangeries and “avenues” tunneled with leafy green trees drew your eyes up and away from the unpleasantries.   People seemed a bit more relaxed but sellers a bit more aggressive.  As I walked away from the alarming rate of a tuk tuk driver, he spat out a response of “you have French money, this is not expensive!”  Wow.  Pretty to look at, not anywhere I want to be. 

A couple of hours and I was back on a bus, trying not to look at my quickly approaching train departure time.  But as we neared Chennai, and the sun had set at while ago, the traffic became denser then altogether ground to a complete stop.  The bus driver actually switched off the engine.  So I waited, enquired, was somewhat reassured, then we were on the move again.  I knew that I had left my room in complete disarray and that for as late as everything else in India is, trains are painfully punctual.  We were crawling along in familiar territory when the bus veers off in a different direction to where I was sure we were meant to be going and again, we stop.  After a frantic head-wobbling discussion with a few men on board who knew the efficiency of train travel, I decided to hop off the bus and see if I could convince a tuk tuk to take me the remaining way with the very few rupees I had left in my wallet. 

Knowing that distress can be somewhat helpful in appropriate doses in this country, I tried to keep mine in check, stowing it up for when the situation became dire.  Sheep-like I followed hundreds of others who had also gotten off of log jammed buses and hoped that the wave of dust filled push and shovers  would take me to the main bus station.  I stopped several tuk tuks along the way who either didn’t know where I wanted to go or were asking an amount that would have taken me to the moon.  I knew the local bus I needed to take to get back to my place but even that no one could seem to find for me.  And the time was flying by. 

Although train tickets don’t cost a whole heck of a lot, they are often booked to over-capacity so I knew that should I miss this train, it would mean not only one but possibly two extra nights in a city I already wasn’t too fond of as well as missing and having to rebook an overbooked train I was to connect with after this train.  All of it was possible to reschedule and it would cost less than the end of the world but it was the thought of being stuck that was pumping my heart.  Come on Ganesha, get me out of here!

On a main road, weaving and fretting through rush hour traffic (which is all hours of the day), waving my hands to communicate my over-exhausted emotions, and with the help of a phone call to my guesthouse and two shop keepers, we were able to convince a tuk tuk to take me for the all the bills I had left in my wallet (which was a very fair Indian price but an unacceptable foreigner price).  And it was on.  At first he leaned back and tried to Rico Suave chat me up until I shrieked over the squawking horns and barreling down buses that he needed to go “FAST!  FAST!  TRAIN COMING!”  So fast we went.  Dangerously, several near misses, engine screaming fast we went, until I could barely take another second more.  Tuk tuks will forever be my nemesis. 

In 10 agonizing minutes I threw all of my belongings that had somehow exploded throughout the room inside my bag, threw money at the reception, and threw myself into one last but thankfully readily available tuk tuk to the train station.  I was down to minutes until departure.  As I dropped my bags on a seat, confirmed I was in the right space, took a look around, and breathed out, the whistle blew and we were on our way.  Holy Hanuman, I made it.  How is it possible that I actually made it?!  Thanks to “Life of Pi”, Pondicherry is now checked off the list and I have a few more grey hairs.   Moving on!

Light.

Light

Some people alter the paths we are on, others stop us in our tracks, and others still become part of us, continuing on with us, their world becoming part of ours.  I've met each of these types in the last 6 months and it's the last kind, the Light, that I have to share with you. 

My path was altered a short while ago by allowing myself to be blinded with a foolish and naive sense of awe.  I swallowed wooing words of flattery in a time of self-induced loneliness which foolishly made it easy to internalize the switch from woo to critical, loathsome words of deceit and destruction when the universe quickly changed directions for me .  Then I met someone who rebuilt my shattered self with loud and carefree displays that reminded me to simply live for the joy of living.  I considered stopping there, it felt good there, my fragility disappeared and I looked forward to possibilities of this comfort.  But I continued on.  Because I allowed myself to stop, I was able to continue on and because I continued on, I met someone who showed me Light. 

While I continue to deny connection to any godly being, I pray to none, believe in no one, and worship nothing, we arrived at the ashram, only we two at the same moment and I know that there was a reason for it.  Some meetings happen by chance, many by coincidence or even by accident, but this one for whatever reason, was placed as it was meant to be.  Although I had no idea and would have denied it if someone had told me so, I needed this meeting, I needed this Light.  I still don't believe in gods but I do believe in … something.

I looked and saw eager life shining through inquisitive eyes.  I heard words spoken, questions asked, and thoughts formed that seemed older than a short lifetime.  I was near love that is so simple, so unbiased, so universal that it transcends all physical limits; age, gender, country, language, or distance.  I felt peace just by being in someone's presence.  This is my Light.

Connections develop quickly but often superficially when you are confined to mind bending, body bending regiments 24 hours a day with very strictly monitored moments to socialize.  Some unions are fast yet fleeting once outside the guarded gates, others are the beginning of a lifetime of new possibilities.  Our blessed one day a week "free day" allowed for connections to develop into something more should the spark be there.  The first free day filled my heart by finding a soul sister, the second found me Light. 

We had exchanged daily greetings, had several brief chats, and had become accustomed to seeing each other around, noticing when one or the other was missing.  We had arrived, lost and confused, together, after all.  An ashram road trip to the cape of India was an opportunity to begin a series of conversations that wouldn't end for many, many days.  It started as so many travelers' talks start; where have you been, where are you going, what's your plan?  The pleasantries lasted a few minutes but soon the questions became personal, challenging, innocently confrontational without a hint of hostility.  They were genuine, soul prodding questions about my life, my heart, and the sometimes lonely journey of a girl traveling solo at this late stage of the game.  Perhaps the same questions that many people have wanted to ask but felt were off limits.  The earnest and honest approach of truly wanting to know about how I felt made nothing off limits and while I initially stumbled at the openness of the inquiries, something made me comfortable enough to just talk, walls slightly down, heart starting to open.  Why am I telling this complete stranger these things?  Why does this complete stranger even want to know?  Then, I simply stopped questioning myself and it began.  It was a long day of life and Light.  A long, liberating day. 

At the end of my two weeks, I left the ashram and my Light behind for a few days of frolicking at the beach but was firm in the belief that our paths would cross again.  And they did.  Light was waiting when I at last set out on my own towards my first real city in India.  6 days followed wherein we travelled a bit, laughed a lot, talked until we couldn't stay awake, and saw the world from the midst of giant eucalyptus trees.  We found our way to a small "farm", a collection of simple huts scratched into the side of forested cliffs miles and miles from the nearest town.  We walked until our legs ached, got lost until the stars lit the way, and were just we two despite the nearby chaos always available. 

I loved to listen and as I listened, I learned, not altogether surprised by the depth and the ideas on the inside of an outside that so many others may have dismissed.  Stories of unconditional love, of childhood, of the future, of wonder, of strengths and doubts, of curiosities and certainties, of wishes and beliefs, all free from judgments and filled with hope.  While I couldn't relate to the life-giving love of country or religion, I questioned it and envied it; I wanted to know what it felt like and what it meant.  I listened to a wide open soul searching for itself, wanting to know who it is, what it means, and how to become complete despite already having found so much. I felt peace in Light's presence, in the questions and the answers and the unknown because for Light, love is the life force behind all of it. 

Not the hippie dippie hold hands and chant mantras with flowers in your hair kind of love but the love that ties us to one another, that allows us to wake up and hum off tune in the morning, that lets us laugh instead of cry when we miss that last bus, that draws people close because they feel good when they're near, that makes us want to be close to others because it's how we're meant to be.  Finding our way to those that live life instead of those that simply get  through it, seeing reasons to laugh instead of finding reasons to complain, letting go of what hurts us and holding on to what heals us.  All of the questions and all of the answers came back to love and how simple it can be when you can put cynical aside.   

Of course being asked many questions makes me question myself and this is what I will take with me on my journey.  Chilly mountain days & wood fire warmed nights with a wise old soul, a kind, gentle heart, and a presence full of life.  It was easy to stay, to get lost in the peacefulness of Light despite the odd glances from others as they attempted to complicate the simplicity of the two of us together.  Oh how we are compelled to put a label on something.  What do we do when there is no label? 

During our conversations, I got glimpses, clear ones, of what I want for my life, out of this life, in my life.  Because of this, I felt ready to move on.  How is it possible that after LEAVING the ashram, I found something to believe in?   While Light thanks me for being a teacher I bow my head humbly.  A brilliant, beautiful mind with a deep, peace-filled soul has set me off to explore India with my eyes and hopefully my heart wide open.  Thank you, dearest Light, for your love of life.   

A Beach, A City, & A Hill Station.

A beach, a city, and a hill station.  All in one little state. 

Varkala

After the ashram, it seems that most escapees head for a tourist friendly beach town called Varkala.  Western cafes and European themed restaurants  are jammed between over-stuffed shops spilling out radiantly colourful bits of silky clothing and tinkling trinkets that you are compelled to ogle over, if only for a quick fondle.  Stunning scenery as the long, broken cobblestone walk weaves along the top of jump to your death vertical cliffs overlooking the end of India open sea.  The beach itself was relatively clean and the rolling waves weren’t too overwhelming which encouraged surfers, swimmers, and fully-clothed waders to be constantly splashing about the water.  It was easy to see how travellers, local and foreign, could get stuck there.  A very comfortable holiday destination. 

And all of a sudden there were familiar faces everywhere.  Yes, the ashram was in Varkala.

While it was lovely to visit with people outside the confines of holy life, I had just spent 24 hours a day with some of these people.  Yes, you are lovely but I need to get outta here.  So what did my universe do to help me out with that?  Delhi Belly.  Bombay Bum.  Ganges Gut.  Whatever you want to call it.  Ugh.  I had one rough patch in the ashram just before I left where I slept for an entire day occasionally doubled over with stomach pains that thankfully never progressed to anything more.   Apparently once out from under the watchful eyes of cartoon gods, my body decided to show me the power of India.  A 1:00am wake up call that kept me no more than 5 steps from a much appreciated western toilet for a full 24 hours.  Nice beach vacation.  Thanks.

Really though, it wasn’t so terrible.  I was a bit fragile for a couple of days but I have no doubt there is much MUCH worse in store for me yet. 

I recovered enough to ring in a mellow new year’s eve with fellow ashramites watching locals explode arsenals of fireworks without the slightest ability for foresight hence running for their lives and stomping out small fires, shocked but howling with laughter at the outcome of their ridiculousness.  Ahhhh India, where safety is just a silly waste of time.  2013.  Beach, waves, pyrotechnics, peace.  A good one indeed.

I had a ticket booked to my first real Indian city and I was looking forward to getting on the move.  I have loved the time I’ve had so far but the travelling has been a bit… stagnant.  This is a massive country folks, there is lots to see.  So off to Madurai I go.  My first overnight train.  Ganesha help me. 

Madurai

So yeah, trains.  In India.  There are no words.  It’s absolutely pointless to try to explain them, you just can’t imagine.  It’s one of those things that you have to (or not) experience to believe. 

For the daytime trains it’s utter madness.  There is no way in the world that people other than guilt ridden fools like me actually buy tickets and try to remain orderly.  It’s a full on push and shove match with every possible inch of space occupied, often over occupied, by body parts and packages of all sorts and then once everyone is JAMMED in, vendors stomp their way through peddling everything from toxic waste like coffee and tea to e-coli laced samosas to random bits of who knows what you just might need.  You get sat on, stepped on, spilled on, and manhandled for the majority of the journey.  You just bear it.  They do. 

For the overnight trains, sometimes someone does come by to check tickets in the “sleeper cars” as you’re meant to be assigned to a bunk.  Sometimes not.  But the white face pays off and if someone’s in “my” space, they move.  Despite my bag being insanely oversized, I am quite short (this seems to be paying off in India!) so I manage to squeeze into my allotted space without much huff.  It’s too small and difficult to get a good photo of the sardine scenario but I’m sure there must be some horrifying renditions of it online.  I’ll try to find something.  Apparently there are 1^st class cars, tourist class cars, less cattle herding cars but I have yet to find them.  Ahhhh the elusive “nice trains”.  Where are you?

So yes, Madurai.  The overnight was relatively uneventful but I did have to do some watch and learn to sort out the sleeping thing.  Being my first go in a far too strange sleeper car, I of course didn’t sleep.  This meant that at every stop (and there are usually no less than seven thousand) you are gagged into fully alert consciousness by the suffocating smell of toilet.  I mean you literally cannot breathe.  And these are the small towns and cities.  I very well may die if ever I make it to the big ones.  I would gladly LIVE in a Canadian highway outhouse than have to face these rancid railway routes.  It really is that bad.

Okay.  Arrival.  It was something ridiculous like 5am but had the name of a place where I was to meet a friend and I was off.  Every time I asked directions and showed the address, I was sent a different way.  So I walked and I asked and I got turned around and I asked again and again and again every few steps and each time, someone sent me confidently in the wrong direction.  After an hour I was about ready to maim somebody by harnessing up one of the several stray dogs that were eyeing me over.  Finally after much consultation and head scratching within a group of men which included the likes of a shop owner, a policeman, a rickshaw driver, a taxi driver, a couple of coffee drinkers, and a few other stand arounds, a very kind man stepped in and confidently walked me to where I needed to go.  It took all of about 5 minutes.  Don’t ever ever  EVER ask an Indian for directions.  EVER. 

Woke my friend, got a room, cringed at the immediate decline the hygiene standards then set off to explore Madurai.  Early morning streets filled with all things Indian and I was doing okay.  Despite needing to get my head around a drastic drop in sanitation levels, it was exciting.  This is India. 

We explored a very impressive temple (I mean VERY impressive), walked market streets full of every and anything, took a rickshaw out of the city to see another temple, found our way back without incident, played cards and drank coffee on the rooftop of our guesthouse as the sun set, and celebrated a day well spent in a big city.  Next – mountain air and the middle of nowhere.

Karuna Farm

Hours and hours winding up up up on a horn blaring, corner cutting bus got us to Kodaikanal, a town high up in the hills where the air was cleaner albeit a lot colder.  A lively little hot spot with magnificent views and friendly faces strewn up and down vertical streets leaving this chub happily gasping for breath.  Again, more ashramites but it helped in sharing the cost of the obscenely expensive 4 X 4 we needed to hire to get us to our destination, about 5 kms outside of town.  Karuna Farm.  Just google it.  It’s not really a farm, well, I guess it is.  It’s a kinda sorta self-sufficient cluster of very basic cottages built deep into the hillside forests and oh my goodness, it is amazing.  Look into it.

I fell in love with the place instantly.  The little cottage with a wood burning stove hidden within morning mist filled jungle mountain views, with a long walk into town which takes you through sky scraping eucalyptus forests and small villages.  Quaint and simple and cozy and perfect.  We spent our days walking and getting lost and talking and exploring and living a very good life.  A one room cottage with a tiny little kitchen, boiling water on a gas cooker for bucket showers, freezing cold nose poking out from under piled on wool blankets, absolute nature-filled silence.  Dreamy.  I wanted to stay.

But there was India to see.  Despite a heavy heart my wandering ways won out and I had a bus to catch.  I think my time in that mountain town will remain a highlight of my travel days for a very long time.  A good shove off as I set out on my own.  I was heading to Chennai, an overnight bus this time.  Let’s  see how it goes.