An Indian Christmas of sorts

It was early morning, Christmas day, before the sun came up. Walking in the deserted streets in an unknown city in India I quickly oriented myself. It’s fresh, people wear earmuffs and the buses careen through the streets. I’m alone but I don’t care. I have some hours to kill before I’m not and I welcome the opportunity to explore.

The curtain of darkness surrounding the night sluggishly lifts to reveal the wind-up theatre of the streets as it gains momentum for the coming day. Bus stand after bus stand – are now half empty – by noon will be a hive of activity, busses at a stand still. A flight of stairs leads me down to an underground walkway. Walls are marked with stains, small pools of water appear on the floor and rats scurry under scuffed, bare feet. A lady stands dressed in a sairee on the steps. She’s still there when I pass by 2 hours later. ‘What? Or who is she waiting for?’ I wonder. Beanies, flashing lights, chargers, shirts and speakers – touts, some children, shout to make a buck.

Above ground on the street, closer to the train station rickshaw drivers hiss, with forked tongues, ‘Yeesss, where are you going?’ I keep moving in the sea of people. A hare Krishna restaurant tucked from the street offers a sanctum for reprieve – a coffee buys a seat and time away from tracking eyes. I pick up my book and easily lose myself in the streets of another city in India. It’s not so hard to imagine a scene similar to the one that plays on outside further to the north.

“I’ll meet you at the entrance.” It’s a pretty vague meeting point. The theatre is in full swing as I retrace my steps, doubling back to my starting point. By now the characters’ faces are in full spotlight and audience numbers have multiplied. I’m just a face in the crowd. From the fly-over I look down. The entrance? I see a spot that might look obvious if I was looking for someone. And at street level it feels right. I look around, absorb my surroundings and lower myself to teeter on a broken wall. I look up and missed him as he appeared around the corner – he saw me first – so when I catch his eyes he’s already smiling.

He knows a place, he said. Finding the bus is the same story. It’s a game of Marco-polo, hotter-colder. Each iteration of questioning drawing you closer to the target. But the target moves, changes direction. You have to ask twice, move swiftly. Narrowing down the options we catch a bus presumably heading in the approximate direction. The theatre is unscripted and calls for improvisation.

My backpack is fuller than it was when I arrived in the mountains. For three days I’d packed it with the food I would have eaten had I not decided to fast. Those days the enjoyment of such foods was hypothetical – today a reality. Banana, passion fruit, sappota, a variety of chocolate, tahini and honey. Before we’d enjoyed simplicity – the subtle flavors of lightly spiced teas – and the quiet of a mind fuelled by an empty stomach.

Outside the city and far from ‘civilisation’ laid an oasis; or a mirage. It was difficult to discern if, after 4 days in the mountains and lost in thought, the lush green grass and gardens next to a towering pyramid were real. A golden Ghandi was seated in the middle of a pond, the Buddha was definitively more Indian than what I remembered him in Thailand and speakers filled the outside space with an ambient hypnosis. The grass was cool underfoot and a breeze cooled my skin. I reached my arms high above my head and stretched forward to join the rest of my body with my feet on the ground.

I started to reveal my loot. Placing each item, more excitedly than the last, on the grass in front of me. A small, uniformed old man approached. He held a wooden baton with a deformed left hand. I noticed three of his fingers were missing so he clasped it with his remaining thumb and pinky finger. He shook his free hand with an accompanied head wobble, “No outside food.” He insisted. The mirage started to show its cracks. A bulldozer was digging the ground one hundred meters to our left, a guy in plain clothes slipped a walkie-talkie in his pocket and the grass – at the edges – looked as though it had been freshly unrolled. When the guard wasn’t looking we not-so-discretely slipped chocolates, tasting sweeter in their concealed consumption, while we schemed for the perfect execution of our original plan.

A tall African guy and a small, blonde, white girl – with our backpacks we aren’t exactly discrete. So we circle to the backside of the pyramid to search for a concealed spot that might make our presence forgotten for long enough to cook and enjoy the Christmas feast we’ve been dreaming about for days. And there it was; up an embankment, under the shade of lined coconut trees – off the beaten path and radar of the Indian fuzz.

In a pot I mixed flour with eggs and milk and a little bit of coconut oil for good measure. Usually I put it in my hair but it’s turned out to be quite multipurpose. The flame from my tiny camp-stove was artfully shielded from breeze with a side-turned flip-flop and a folded piece of aluminum foil. Pancakes, on a campstove, under palm trees, next to a pyramid in India wasn’t exactly how I’d imagined Christmas just two months ago.

Spooning the first portion of mixture into the pan I prayed to Vishnu, or Ganesh, or Lakshmi, or Rama.. or whoever it was that would approve of Christmas pancakes to help make this mission a success. Keeping in mind that the first is always a dud I tried not to set my expectations too high and remained hopeful. The 5” pan started to warm up and so did my spirits – the second and third were looking good and from there we had full-scale production down. Tahini and honey; honey and banana; melted chocolate and banana! It was like a camping, food-fuelled science experiment and we were as happy as kids at.. um, Christmas.

After a while we regained real-world consciousness – or as real as you can get in India – and reveled in our full-bellied awesomeness. Looking up the afternoon sun broke the canopy of the palm trees and the west face of the pyramid was now more golden than grey-metallic – as it had been earlier.

As we left – our arsenal secretly stored, now, more in our stomachs than in our backpacks – we passed the old man in blue and smiled politely. A short distance past him we looked at each other and cracked up. With all its rules and not rules and contradictive duality we felt like we’d put a run on the board and flipped India a proverbial bird when it wasn’t looking.

At the gate we briefly considered the long walk back to the main road to start our next game of public transport Marco-polo before trying our luck on hitching a ride. I put my hand out, palm-side down, the way you would if you were signaling for a bus, to indicate the approaching car to stop. The pancakes must have pleased the gods because the old man seated behind the wheel – who looked somewhat like a mole – agreed to take us to the bus stand. We squeezed with our backpacks into the two vacant back seats next to an awkward looking twenty-something-year-old engineering masters student.

The dead-ringer for an Indian Steven Urkel had a lot to say in the ride, which took us – further than anticipated – most of the way back to the city. He was intelligent but his social skills would probably have had him identified as autistic in the West. He spoke of Indian philosophers and Western literature and had an insight into society gained only from isolation from it. He spoke of his passion for balance, a quest to know the mind and the divine. He proposed that all religions hypothesize the same goal and had a rare conception of equality that would have powerful outcomes if only the majority thought the same. He believed that you can learn something from everyone, that experience is the only way to gain knowledge and lowered his head shyly when we thought him wise. He also believed that ‘empty vessels make the most noise’ and that the best wisdom comes from those that don’t. I thought then of something Susan Cain said on introverts, “There's zero correlation between being the best talker and having the best ideas.” With that in mind I remind myself to listen most to those who have the least to say.

As we neared the city my eyes became impossibly heavy, the afternoon sun hot on my face and things started to seem more unreal. We passed through a eucalypt forest and stopped in a semi-constructed, or semi-abandoned housing area; the city a stone throw to the horizon. As we neared, the normal city signs started appearing; guys playing cricket in the dusty river beds, goats ate the streets, varieties of afternoon snacks being sold from carts pushed by wiry old men and horns blared around tight, blind corners. The streets became narrower before they finally opened up on to a main road where we had somehow magically reappeared in the city. As we climbed from the car I grasped at my wandering consciousness while trying to simultaneously taken in my sudden surroundings. We thanked our hosts with palms touching at our chests and I made note to take a good look behind the thick black frames perched on the nose of the inquisitive soul we’d shared the last hour-and-a-half with.

They pulled away and I watched the car disappear into the chaos down the street. I quickly recounted the events of the day and shook my head – struggling to imagine back to the days’ start and piece it all together. It was certainly a Christmas never to forget and without a doubt only possible in India.

Dear ants - Where are you going?

I was lying on my stomach, my chin resting on folded hands, not doing too much. Just thinking and watching the ants commute in their two-lane highway across the floor. Where are they going? What are they doing? How far had they come? And why? Why?!

Since the beginning there’s been no shortage of household pests in my apartment. Most go about their own business so we’re happy enough to leave each other in peace. With one exception - I’ve had a particularly challenging relationship with the ants.

I’d made a few rookie errors in the beginning leaving the perfect opportunity for invasion. I probably couldn’t have been annoyed at them coming for the honey and dates but was a little more surprised that they also liked oats. (There was something else inedible that they scouted out which had left me particularly perplexed but I’ve since forgotten what it was) In any case I’ve made a note of being exceptionally diligent when it comes to leaving food vulnerable to assault. Food lives in individual stacked containers. Which results in an added feeling of pleasant contentedness when I stare at my shelves, like I did an outstanding job with that one. I wash my dishes as soon as they’re done – all I had to overcome here really was a little bit of laziness. And sweep my floor with a regularity that would probably be little closer to what would be considered acceptable. There’s still room for improvement.

Alas, the ants kept coming. I’ve had ants everywhere. They’ve found their way into my water dispenser and into my kettle. I discovered this one-day staring for a while down into my cup of tea. I remember thinking, “Hmmm.. that’s inconvenient,” and drinking it anyway. At another point I’m sure there was a nest in my laptop – why else would they be marching from the ventilation slots at the back? But the one that equally entertains as it does not – I’ve even had ants in my pants. With all this I’ve basically accepted that ants, like dodgy plumbing and sleeping on the floor, are a part of my life here.

Until I couldn’t sleep on the floor. I could feel them crawling over me as I slept but decided to ignore them – if I attempted anything they’d bite and I had no better alternatives that night. I don’t know if it was the ants or something else, but under coincidental circumstances I awoke with an unquantifiable amount of bites covering the backs of my legs. What ensued was an extremely uncomfortable few days comforted only by frequent applications of Tiger Balm. So I started sleeping on a hard, green metal cot that you might expect to be the only furniture in a solitary confinement cell. I could still feel them crawling over me in the night although I could no longer tell if they were real ants or phantom ants; a manifestation of my ongoing preoccupation.

One night halfway between the sleeping and waking world a sharp sting just above my left eye yanked me from my semi-conscious state. I yelped. (Because that’s exactly what it was) In my vagueness, when I finally worked out what had happened, all I could think was, “Really?” I calculated what I could possibly do and with no solutions or better options I let myself slip back into sleep. Awaking in the morning I could feel something was up. A haze blurred my mind, and to my surprise, my vision. The mirror revealed someone who looked like they’d been up all night on the booze and had either gotten in a scuffle or fallen headfirst into something on their return home. Knowing my luck it would probably have been the latter.

I desperately wanted to go back to sleeping on the floor. I even more desperately needed an uninterrupted nights sleep. I could feel the accumulating fatigue creep over me and was becoming increasingly annoyed at trivial incidences. The comedy series, which is my ant problem, is well known in the office. “Oh yeah they’re still there,” I reply casually every day when I’m asked how they’re going. I’ve been recommended to use a range of chemicals, to which I have a strong reluctance, and to purchase an ant-eater by a guy who I’d previously not given enough comedic credit – regarding him as unimaginative and boring.

Google thankfully revealed some alternatives (I’ve no idea where I’d find an ant eater – neither did my colleague). Alternative one: petroleum jelly at the source. Simple enough but in my case I’d tracked them every-which-way across the apartment and there really didn’t seem to be a source. Two: create your own ant trap. All right! En principio this one had some appeal. I imagined myself creating some elaborate rat-esque trap and retreating to the corner to watch my brilliance unfold. Further reading revealed that this technique was no more than honey laced with borax – lame. Later on my way home I passed the store armed with a list of items for alternative three: natural remedies.

Vinegar, lemon, turmeric, eggshells, cinnamon sticks and garlic topped the handwritten note titled “ANT REPELLENT!” appended at the bottom of the days’ work to-do items. At my place I left no natural-remedy ritual unperformed. I completed a first sweep, cleaned with lemon and vinegar, created demilitarised zones of turmeric powder and scattered cinnamon sticks and garlic across the heavier worn travel paths. In the madness I felt like a witchdoctor crossed warlord as I executed my counteroffensive. I stood back with hands on hips and nodded – well if this doesn’t work then.. well, I decided I’d cross that bridge when I we got to it.

At first the results were promising. When I returned home from the weekend away there were no visible signs of return. But the ants aren’t gone. They’re still here.

Today I noticed though that they’ve changed their path. No longer do they forge across the middle of the room, instead they cling to the walls and side-skirts. Mercifully my designated sleeping zone is no longer obtruded. At first I thought I was going for extermination – a zero tolerance approach. On reflection this was highly unrealistic. So instead I’ll re-frame my perspective and go for acceptance and happy co-existence. The ants, like dodgy plumbing and sleeping on the floor, will continue to be highlights of my continuing Indian residency.

Lessons learned while traveling

The other night I couldn’t sleep. I had a conversation that left me pondering..

So the meaning of life is englightenment; considered by the Buddhists. It’s referred to time and time again in other cultures and belief and value systems – achieving a fully developed consciousness and self-awareness. It’s a drive toward knowing more and thinking critically. The theory of positive disintegration (TPD) calls it ‘The third factor,’ which expressed broadly is a motivation to become ones self.

I like this theory – I think it puts a lot into perspective about the things I set out (unknowingly) to learn when I packed my backpack, got rid of my laptop, threw out my phone and traveled one-way into Asia. If I can apply the TPD here – then this could be considered a fairly convicted level of disintegration. For so long we live by the ‘first’ and ‘second’ factors that we lose sight of what’s our own. Keeping in mind that each society has it’s own individual factors I was able to challenge, through the continual experience of culture shock and readjustment, what I carried because of my upbringing – peers and family – society and what I could truly call my own.

I also think this theory applies strongly to the story of Alexander Supertramp in Into the Wild. He describes it as a ‘quest to kill the false being’ – noting those characteristics of desire, envy and an attachment to ‘things’ as undesirable characteristics. While many admire the story because of his adventurous spirit – I empathise with his quest to find what lied at his core. People do this through different ways – for him, for me, I did this through travel and a parallel questioning of myself.

But the process is iterative. What may seem like the end of the road turns out to be a bend when you approach it. Sometimes I experience moments of pure calm – when I experience no conflict at all. I’m happy doing nothing, living for the moment and neglecting responsibilities – whether real or self actualized. But there’s always something which drives me forward. At some point I am always drawn back to see if I reflect differently from what I knew before. To bring my learnings and knowledge to a previously familiar context. I wonder how the story of Christopher McCandless would have continued?

Me? After a continual period of readjustment I found an immense calm during my travels. I found a place where I chose to settle for a little longer time. There I found people displaying what Dabrowski calls positive maladjustment. A bunch of misfits – travelers, cavedwellers, musicians and artisans - who conflicted with the status quo of ‘normal’ society. Their views could be categorized as ‘anti-sistema.’ Although here it was seen as a highly positive personality trait. Gaining respect couldn’t be bought and you certainly couldn’t fake it. I found myself surrounded by surprisingly like-minded individuals and comfortably at home. Positively maladjusted individuals congregate – they form communities, protest and work tirelessly to create the world they want to live in – to inspire action and social change.

Although I felt as though all this knowledge was lost unless I could take it with me wherever I went. And had a great feeling of responsibility - a recognition of the fortunate circumstance surrounding my birth and those of my parents - to consider those who weren’t born so lucky. I feel like coming back to Australia was my way of making sure those learnings were consolidated, continue to share what I know and throw myself way outside my comfort zone to continue the journey.

So in times when I’m feeling conflicted I try to make peace with the uncomfort knowing that it’s necessary to ‘disintegrate’ and gain further insights about myself. I know I’m not quite there yet because I’m often conflicted – but it also means I know I’m progressing.

As a favorite spoken word of mine says, ‘In the end the race is long. And it’s only against yourself.’

Where’d the lights go?

I’m standing on my terrace when suddenly everything is swallowed by darkness. But still the math’s classes continue on the opposite terrace – the tutor seemingly unaware that students can no longer see the lesson he is presenting.

We’re without power for the 3rd or 4th time today. I can’t remember which. Power cuts have been happening more frequently and at sporadic time intervals. I’ve learned to boil the kettle before 7am when the power disappears for the first time for about 2 hours. Then I’m sure to put in a few good hours at work on my laptop to make the most of the morning power and a fully charged battery. The power usually cuts out again early afternoon and I’ll work until the battery indicator in the top right corner of the screen flashes red for a conveniently timed lunch break. Later in the afternoon I’ll wander to the guy selling tea at the corner – who by now knows I like my chai in a glass with no sugar – when I’m bored of working at 10% screen brightness and I’m threatened to save my work alas we’re forced into back-up battery mode.   

Back at home there’s not much I can’t do without the power - I can still complete my third-world washing workout (for better results I prefer to handwash to punk rock); my bucket shower feels a little more romantic to candlelight and the neighbours can’t see me hang out my washing on the terrace in the nude. Although I’ve thought about what would happen if the power suddenly comes back on so I make sure I’m back inside well before the strike of the hour when this is likely to happen.

Navigating my way up the two and a half flights of stairs in the dark has been an adventure when returning home during a blackout. Leaving in the darkness I don my trusty headtorch - quite pleased reflecting on the amount of times it’s paid to have had it stashed in my backpack; exploring abandoned asylums, navigating the to-be-discovered loot of a back-alley dumpster and navigating off a rock-climbing route we’ve started much too close to sunset. When I go downstairs the hostel ‘madam’ and her daughter crackup laughing, pulling the light from my head and take turns illuminating various objects as they pan their heads around the room – not yet aware of the necessity to keep your head down if you’re not wanting to blind someone.

In the streets people come out of their homes. They sit out front on the ground or their doorsteps if they have them. It’s usually too hot to be inside and the kitchen quickly becomes a sure-fire ‘no go zone’ without fan aided air circulation. Neighbours talk – mostly about family, familiar faces are greeted as they pass and the children continue to play until their mothers eventually coax them back to the house for dinner.

My neighbor seems a little more bothered by the lack of electricity. She asks me how I can sleep. I’m a little confused at first as to why I wouldn’t be able to sleep without power but come to understand that the trusty old pedestal fan is a sure way to a good night sleep undisturbed by heat and mosquitos. I’m glad I’ve grown accustomed to the heat and grin imagining my super-mosquito-net-setup back in my room.

I wander up the street to dine in one of my local haunts – a small concrete room, a quarter of the size of my bedroom, with a rolling garage door opening to the street. A candle, 4 stainless steel tumblers and a bucket of South Indian dahl are the only items to sit on the table in front of me. The place is modest with two plastic tables, the kind that occupy the surrounds of your local public swimming pool, and 8 matching plastic chairs. There’s a singular sink in the corner and a wooden table spaced far enough out from the wall for someone to stand behind. On it are 2 buckets of chutney – one coconut and one tomato – and an insulated container of steamed fermented lentil-rice flour cakes.

My dinner is served on a banana leaf – which I’m careful adhere to Tamil custom and rinse down with a little water first – and I eat with my right hand receiving an approving nod for my efforts. People come and go; buying banana leaf and newspaper wrapped parcels to take back home or preferring to sit in. The patrons are mostly male and sit on the table that I’m not occupying – it’s not customary for men and women to sit together. However, in the past I’m sure I’ve sat down next to a guy unaware of the social faux par I was making.

The fluorescent light tubes, affixed at the corners where the walls meet the roof, flash a few times before abruptly filling the space with a bland white light. It’s hardly a mood for enlightenment and suddenly a little of the slow-paced, power-out magic is lost.

Back at home I don’t turn the lights on, even though I can, preferring to opt for half a dozen candles instead. I retreat hastily to my mosquito-net fort with my current book ‘Namesake.’ Mispronouncing, phonetically as the Tamils would do, the first two weeks I had it. I don’t extinguish the candles - they’ll burn themselves out in a couple of hours when I’ve probably done the same.

My Indian Pad

I moved to India and I finally got a place. I negotiated to rent the top floor room of a usually crowded working women’s hostel and it’s alright. As in alllright – not just OK. I was startled to find out at 5am the next morning it’s right next to a mosque.

I sleep on a hard mattress on the floor. I shower out of a bucket filled from the only running faucet. I wash my clothes by hand over a stone slab. The extent of my furniture is an ugly steel bookcase and a broken plastic chair. I cook from my mini Trangia and own a nice set of stainless steel crockery for one.

I complete most activities on the floor; hanging out, cooking, stretching and looking at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the roof, courtesy of the previous tenant. Apart from my mattress there are 3 rolled out woven bamboo mats covering the bare tiles. I try to get around the room jumping from one to the other like little islands – lest I get swept out to sea by the torrents running between them.

I’ve got a terrace. It’s good for breakfast and hanging out my washing. In the mornings and most evenings math tutoring takes place on the adjacent-terrace-cum-open-air-classroom. I listened for fun for a few days but quickly got bored – as I’m sure most of the students are too.

I have daily battles with common household pests. Those ants get into everything – score currently stands at 3-0. But I’m looking at options for retaliation. A large bug decided to go swimming in my shower bucket – I liberated him outside my bathroom window. I’ve got a mosquito net but it lives on my bookcase so I sleep cocooned in a sheet instead. I’d prefer it if the geckos talked and I just leave the cockroaches to their own devices.

The area’s pretty quiet. On my morning exploration missions I pass by wandering cows and goats, the other day I saw a donkey. From early dawn local ‘wallahs’ pop up vending their goods – dosa batter, fruit, milk, yoghurt, tea, coffee, the local paper and jasmine and roses which I buy to put in my hair. Coconut trees line the streets and houses are a pretty variety of faded pastels. When it rains there’s varying options for aquatic sport activities in the street – although it’s best try not to think about the sketchy sewerage situation.

All-in-all it feels kind of like camping. Which is good because it’s one of my preferred pastimes. Only now I do it everyday.

‘Life’s an adventure because that’s the way I live it.’ – Amber Adams

¿James Que Pasa?


Deciding to embark on a journey, which I had heard about long before I knew what it was called, found myself chasing my shadow and yellow arrows hundreds of kilometers across the north of Spain along a pilgrim route little known in the nearly-antipodes of my own home country Australia. As I looked out the window of a plane amidst another journey I felt a strong curiosity about the date – 18th of September. Quickly locating one of my many tattered journals I’ve kept along the way – I think this is number 6 – I flick back through my musings to see that it’s exactly two years since I set out to start the pilgrimage. I guess this should be an opportune moment for reflection. 

My route began on 18th September 2011 in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port just over the frontier with the Pyrenees in France walking along the Camino Francés passing through Pamplona, Burgos, Leon, Ponferrada reaching Santiago and continuing to the Atlantic Ocean over 34 days, covering more than 870 kilometers.

‘The way’ is to Santiago or better known as the Camino de Santiago (Way of St James). Traditionally ‘your’ camino begins at the foot of your home door as you make your pilgrimage by foot to the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in the northwestern corner of Spain to receive your compostela. The route has existed for thousands of years receiving many pilgrims. Times of hardship such as the Black Death in the Middle Ages and political unrest in the 16th century with the Protestant Reformation meant that by the middle 1980’s less than 1000 pilgrems were arriving at Santiago annually compared with 180,000 in 2010 and over 270,000 in the Holy year of 2009.

Somewhere along the way

The Man on the Road

A lone man walked along the road. We thought he was a hitchhiker but as we approached he barely batted an eye. He wasn’t looking for a lift. Driving along the long highway in the mid-afternoon heat our eyes followed him as we passed, “What the hell was he doing?”

“Should we stop and give him some water and snacks?” Glenis was the first to speak. “Yes!” Of course. We turned the car and returned to stop on the opposite side of the road. “Should we all go?” Lulu took a tentative approach and Glenis agreed, “Yeah I think I’ll stay here, maybe it would be weird if all three of us ran across the road.” “Ok Bianca come with me.” We didn’t have much; a few bottles of cold water, some Gatorade and a fruit and nut bar.

As we approached we were greeted with a smile when we asked if he’d like some water and snacks. It was hot and there wasn’t a town close-by. By my reasoning he’d been walking for some hours. We asked how long he’d been walking for and casually he replied, “Oh I’ve been walking back between Queensland and Victoria for about 30 years now.” We didn’t expect that. I was at a loss for what to ask without sounding like a naive child.