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 3^rd or 4^th 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.