India
The warm air moves around me like the tow of water. Crystallised salt has formed on my skin, and my hair is stiff and rough. Earlier I sat in a beach bed attended a friendly boy named Sam. I drank giant bottles of Kingfisher beer for a dollar each. My little sisters wrestled with the crashing waves of the Arabian Sea. I joined them, and when a lull in waves was present we searched for starfish and hermit crabs within beautiful tan and cream coloured cornet shells.
The endless brown sugar sand is interrupted only with beach shacks and a singular mammoth freighter. We’re staying in an old-world Portuguese villa, the beach is a minute’s walk through a small village of well-drawn water, and free roaming pigs, chickens and roosters.
My initial impression of India was an abrupt arrival in Bombay after three days (time zone factor) of travel. After complex hours spent confined to a diminutive seat, we’re greeted with bright sun, late twenties temperature, and a sign that reads, “ARTHUR COWAN PARTY”. The following forty minutes was unlike anything I’ve ever encountered or could have possibly prepared myself for. Subsequently my first impression of India could only be summed as “crazy”, or “insane”.
There are people everywhere. The poverty is akin to that square block of Vancouver’s downtown eastside, but instead of pushing past junkies stumbling to their next fix one is surrounded by people doing things. Wherever one may look there are people, and they are all doing something different. Many are working, some are talking, a few are begging, lots are selling, some are sleeping. The traffic in many ways conveys the culture. On the road the lines bear no importance and every possible spot is filled with a car, bus, rickshaw, bike, cow, horse, cart, motorcycle, large colourful truck, three-wheeled car, stray dog, or pedestrian. Horns are used constantly, but not as a form or aggression but to alert the drivers around that you’re within a few inches and approaching fast. It flows like a school of fish, or sand through an hourglass. Life here is real, and people do whatever it is they need to with no reserve. Life is full of competition and people make something with nothing, treating everything with a smile and a handshake.
The enormous contrast was demonstrated well with the grand hotel we stayed in; a giant atrium, flowing water, many plants and glass elevators attest. The negligible wages people accept allowed for a boy to do nothing but constantly polish the lobby floor for less then twenty rupees (fifty cents). The hotel is located on one of Bombay’s many peninsulas, and the view reveals the density of the smog. Only when the temperature is at its’ peak does the smog lift allowing one to make out the towers obscured on the opposing side of the bay.
--break-
It’s morning. I’m sitting on the Balçao, a Portuguese innovation to enjoy life and deal with heat - essentially a covered porch. The house is a bright pastel yellow, with an earthen red and white trim. My father has just joined me with a similar idea as he’s cradling his laptop and taking his power cord for a walk. Unfortunately, I’ve occupied the revered corner spot with the additional bounty of ten pillows to fully saturate my back in comfort.
This is what it sounds like right now.
You can hear the rooster from the small village I pass through to reach the beach. They have many, as well as adorable pigs and complex smells. You can also hear one of their children crying faintly. Perhaps there are horns in the distance. The many species of birds can also be made out, I’m sure you’ll recognise the crows - they’re eating rancid coconuts.
In regards to regaling history I’ve decided words are boring.
I’m going to gather photographs an annotate them.
My father is taking a picture of me. His artificial lens oscillates like a throbbing penis as it attains focus.
However, due to my present comfort with words, my incomplete photo library, lack of present internet access, and something else very crucial I cannot recall as I’m shaking flies from my leg while listening to the four people who just arrived to the village on their singular scooter….
I forgot where this sentence was going. I believe I wanted to some how work in my new years evening as there are no complimentary photographs, but I’ll do so upon request rather then bore you with a story that is likely more interesting to me then anybody else.
--break--
Actually, only some of them will be annotated.
Airplane
Slums in Bombay... they appear often
Hangning outside the train
This man is doing laundry
More laundry
Cab driver
I took a picture as the smog was particularly thin and I could actually see the buildings.
Some fruit in Delhi
A rickshaw driver
Agra in Delhi
My meal on the train from Delhi to Agra
SOme people in Agra
Tiara being cute
Kinana being serious
Butter in sunny Goa. It had a much cooler Hindi side, but I forgot to turn the package around
Myself in Goa
Tonic Water.. the gin was in my drink
Peanut Butter
Monkeys
This post is really lacking. I can't really convey anything.
This was certianly the best trip I've ever been on.
The endless brown sugar sand is interrupted only with beach shacks and a singular mammoth freighter. We’re staying in an old-world Portuguese villa, the beach is a minute’s walk through a small village of well-drawn water, and free roaming pigs, chickens and roosters.
My initial impression of India was an abrupt arrival in Bombay after three days (time zone factor) of travel. After complex hours spent confined to a diminutive seat, we’re greeted with bright sun, late twenties temperature, and a sign that reads, “ARTHUR COWAN PARTY”. The following forty minutes was unlike anything I’ve ever encountered or could have possibly prepared myself for. Subsequently my first impression of India could only be summed as “crazy”, or “insane”.
There are people everywhere. The poverty is akin to that square block of Vancouver’s downtown eastside, but instead of pushing past junkies stumbling to their next fix one is surrounded by people doing things. Wherever one may look there are people, and they are all doing something different. Many are working, some are talking, a few are begging, lots are selling, some are sleeping. The traffic in many ways conveys the culture. On the road the lines bear no importance and every possible spot is filled with a car, bus, rickshaw, bike, cow, horse, cart, motorcycle, large colourful truck, three-wheeled car, stray dog, or pedestrian. Horns are used constantly, but not as a form or aggression but to alert the drivers around that you’re within a few inches and approaching fast. It flows like a school of fish, or sand through an hourglass. Life here is real, and people do whatever it is they need to with no reserve. Life is full of competition and people make something with nothing, treating everything with a smile and a handshake.
The enormous contrast was demonstrated well with the grand hotel we stayed in; a giant atrium, flowing water, many plants and glass elevators attest. The negligible wages people accept allowed for a boy to do nothing but constantly polish the lobby floor for less then twenty rupees (fifty cents). The hotel is located on one of Bombay’s many peninsulas, and the view reveals the density of the smog. Only when the temperature is at its’ peak does the smog lift allowing one to make out the towers obscured on the opposing side of the bay.
--break-
It’s morning. I’m sitting on the Balçao, a Portuguese innovation to enjoy life and deal with heat - essentially a covered porch. The house is a bright pastel yellow, with an earthen red and white trim. My father has just joined me with a similar idea as he’s cradling his laptop and taking his power cord for a walk. Unfortunately, I’ve occupied the revered corner spot with the additional bounty of ten pillows to fully saturate my back in comfort.
This is what it sounds like right now.
You can hear the rooster from the small village I pass through to reach the beach. They have many, as well as adorable pigs and complex smells. You can also hear one of their children crying faintly. Perhaps there are horns in the distance. The many species of birds can also be made out, I’m sure you’ll recognise the crows - they’re eating rancid coconuts.
In regards to regaling history I’ve decided words are boring.
I’m going to gather photographs an annotate them.
My father is taking a picture of me. His artificial lens oscillates like a throbbing penis as it attains focus.
However, due to my present comfort with words, my incomplete photo library, lack of present internet access, and something else very crucial I cannot recall as I’m shaking flies from my leg while listening to the four people who just arrived to the village on their singular scooter….
I forgot where this sentence was going. I believe I wanted to some how work in my new years evening as there are no complimentary photographs, but I’ll do so upon request rather then bore you with a story that is likely more interesting to me then anybody else.
--break--
Actually, only some of them will be annotated.
Airplane
Slums in Bombay... they appear often
Hangning outside the train
This man is doing laundry
More laundry
Cab driver
I took a picture as the smog was particularly thin and I could actually see the buildings.
Some fruit in Delhi
A rickshaw driver
Agra in Delhi
My meal on the train from Delhi to Agra
SOme people in Agra
Tiara being cute
Kinana being serious
Butter in sunny Goa. It had a much cooler Hindi side, but I forgot to turn the package around
Myself in Goa
Tonic Water.. the gin was in my drink
Peanut Butter
Monkeys
This post is really lacking. I can't really convey anything.
This was certianly the best trip I've ever been on.