You Know, I'd Update More Often If People Would Comment More Often. . . Aside From My Mom, That Is

Hiya! OK, so since I've been writing up emails like crazy because I've made a vow to answer everybody who emails me to encourage their good bahaviour (*winks* *nudges* *hands out pamphlets explaining the concept in point form and small words*) I haven't spent much time on this blog. This is because the only person who ever comments on them is my mom, and much as I love you, mom, it does feel rather pathetic and sad.

Thus I'm not going to put too much effort into this blog update, but rather just give you an excerpt from an email I sent to uncle Dale, because I think it sums up a lot of things you might want to know about India and also might drain some of the hot air that is making Canada's ego swell. To give you the context, uncle Dale is a really curious, inquiring-minded sort of guy and he was asking me all of these (much appreciated) questions about India, and I was answering his questions about:

a) how do they treat women here?
#2 - what do they think of the US here?
iii - what do they think of Canada here?

These are my answers:

If You Ask, I Will Answer

(excert begins here)

Anyhoo, as you already guessed, I am definitely not suntanning in a bikini. They don't have bikinis here. They rarely even have swimsuits . Women go swimming in what they're wearing. They look like drowned rats when they come out, and I can see why they don't do it that often. :S

If this doesn't already give you an idea about the inequality between the sexes I'll give you some more examples.

Inequality #1 - women usually only go to university because it's a good selling point for when they're trying to get married. I don't see why, though, because after they get married they almost inevitably stop going to work so that they can cook, clean, and have babies. You don't need a degree to do that.

Inequality #2 - when at home, women have to wait before their husband's finished before they can start eating the food they cooked. If the husband, after his long day's work at the office or whatever, wants to visit with his friends before he comes home, the wife has to wait until he returns.

Inequality #3 - When I ask men what they do in their spare time, they tell me they go out and have fun with their buddies, maybe play a game of cricket (they really love cricket) or something. When I ask a woman what she does in her spare time, they say
"'Spare time'?".
I say "You know. What do you do with your friends?".
They say "'Friends'?"
I say worriedly "You don't have any friends?"
They say, "My husband is my friend."
I splutter something about their husband having friends, and that they should be allowed to have friends too, and they laugh and bobble their head and say "You're really good at grating coconuts (which I am). You'll be a great housewife someday. (which I won't)"
I splutter, choke on my indignation about how stoic they are about their treatment, cough, demand water, and they give me "ayurvedic" water, which is basically water, pepper, and ginger, and it burns a hole through my throat and I die slowly and painfully.

As for Americans, they don't seem to much care about them really. I have to say, it's practically like India is even more wrapped up in itself than the US (or Canada for that matter). Except they do have a good reason. They do have over a billion people in their country, they're their own subcontinent, and they have enough different cultures in their country to be treated as diverse as Europe, if not more so. Canada they haven't even heard of. In fact, I remember (quite painfully) how much they don't really know anything about Canada, when, after about two weeks of being at this school, my paint teacher comes up to me and says in an excited voice,

"Hey Zeo? Is Canada where Eskimos come from?"

I think I laughed so hard some of my brain came out my nose.

I then had to try and explain that I'd never actually seen an Eskimo before, that they preferred to be called Inuits, and that I had seen Indians before. He looked at me, confused, and I said,

"Oh yeah. You're an Indian. . . er. . . I mean First Nation. . . oh yeah, you don't know politically correct English. . . er. . . you know, Indian, raindances, totem poles. . ." It took me awhile, but he eventually understood when I did my depiction of a raindance for him. Damn. . . if they didn't already think I was crazy. . .

So yeah, they don't really think much about Canada, or even know it existed. I can see why, though. I've been here for awhile, and while they're are a lot of British and French here, and a few Americans, I have yet to have even heard of another Canadian having been in the area before. I guess India's not a popular tourist destination for Canadians. . . it's too hot for us and there's not enough beaches that don't have evil parasites out to get you.

Well, I suppose I've written enough,
Hope you're having a blast in Canada,
Bisous,
Namaste,

Lentil,

The Girl Who's Randomly Taken To Referring To Herself As Lentil. She Doesn't Know Why. It Just seemed To Be The Right Thing To Do At The Time. . .

The Promised Bubbly (Aka - Happily Stupid) Entry

At my art school I live in a rainforest and it makes you know it's a rainforest. Every night (because it becomes night once the clouds roll in) at exactly 3:30 it starts thundering and lightninging, and, what do you know, raining. Everybody either proceeds to take shelter or whips out their black umbrella (they're always black. Always.)

I however, have always loved getting soaked by the rain. For some mysterious reason it makes me sing aloud (showering and biking also do this to me). It also reminds me of home, which is nice in this exotic place which I find hard to believe is on the same planet as Victoria.

So when it starts to rain, I just walk blithely back to my room, singing Disney songs and happily reinforcing the locals' notions that Westerners are insane.

And then the monsoon started.

It started pouring. It started raining not cats and dogs, but tigers and elephants. It was raining not measly buckets, but swimming pools.

I laughed and clapped my hands in delight, which earned me a befuzzled, awed, and concerned look from Nisha, my cooking teacher.

"I've always wanted to walk in a monsoon!" I explained brightly. Which was true. Ever since Meggy had told me about walking in a monsoon just for the fun of it in the Caribbean (or was it South America? Someplace tropical, anyhow) I've wanted to as well. Seemed like the sort of fun-but-in-the-end-stupid thing I usually like to do.

Nisha's eyes widened.

"No umbrella?" she said in the same worried/awed/amused, but mostly worried voice that adults seem to use on me puzzlingly often.

I waved away her proffered black (see??? Black!!!) umbrella.

"Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaw," I said as I stepped out the door. "I'll be fi-"

I never did finish that sentence because it was just then that I stepped out from under cover.

Imagine jumping into a pool with your clothes on.

Except wetter.

And except that instead of you jumping into the pool, the pool is jumping onto your head.

This is what it's like walking in alotofrain à la monsoon.

When I say I was instantly drenched, it is not hyperbole; in fact, it's kind of an understatement. My kameez (Indian women's shirt) was plastered to my tummy instantly, thus parading my bellybutton around to all those skin-starved men who never even get to see ankles. I quickly realized there might be an evolutionary advantage to having down-facing nostrils. To avoid drowning.

As I walked, the gaggle of schoolchildren waiting for their bus and all clustered under identical (black!) umbrellas, all stared at me in curiosity, confusion, and amusement, which only made me laugh all the harder.

It took me only the time it takes to sing Hakuna Matata for me to reach my rooms.

The staff, who now all know me as "Uncle Maria" (curse who ever told them that name!) all laughed when they saw me flopsh into the shelter of the foyer.

I laughed too, because I think the pounding of swimming pools on my fragile head addled it up the creek and I said,

"I. Have. Officially. Walked in a monsoon."

And I have. And it was great. And I'll probably do it again.

Love/miss y'all tons and tons,
Bisous,
Namaste,

Zio,

The Girl Who's Going To Wash An Elephant Next

Poodles and Hammocks

The art school I’m staying at is called Vijnana Kala Vedi and it’s near Thiruvananthapuram.

But I just call it “my art school”.

It was founded in the 70’s by a French woman called Louba Schiel and it caters to foreigners who want to “learn the culture” of India without actually having to meet the distinctly grubby majority of Indians. That means that, despite that it insists on the “authenticity” of its simulation of Indian life, it still gives you four meals a day, including high tea, a wat load of staff enquiring as to whether you want your room cleaned, want fresh towels, etc. , and your rooms are easily twice the size of an Indian household of seven people. And that’s not including your balcony.

Alas, the majority of Indians don’t have the luxury of experiencing this “Indian culture”, which I think is more accurately called “rich-western-tourist” culture.

Not that I’m complaining.

Far from it, actually.

In fact, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in India, it’s this: if I were a dog, I would be a poodle.

A miniature poodle to be exact.

Confused? Good. But I’m sorry to break that fragile state and make it all very clear to you.

Some of the many reasons that a poodle would be my totem animal, is that they’re hyper, energetic, rather clumsy and awkward, and they’re allegedly smart.

The main reason, however, is that they like their creature comforts..

Now, I used to think that in that aspect I wasn’t very poodly. I fancied myself a non-materialist (or, at least less materialistic than the other people I knew) and that I would one day grow up to help the helpless in countries of need and despair. That I would become a doctor in Africa, helping the sick for free and living off others’ hospitality.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel for these people. I walk down the street and I see half of the men, stick thin with caves under their ribs and my chest hitches just a little. I see a family of seven packed into a shack smaller than my room, and I quickly look away so that I don’t cry. Then a little child walks up to me with helpless eyes and his hand going to and from his mouth, miming “Food?” and I run to my hotel, lock the door behind me and say,

“I want to go home. I want malls and libraries. I want chips and pizzas. I wan normal toilets that don’t smell and plug up if you use toilet paper. I want hobos who I can say no to because I know there is help out there for them and they’re just gonna use the money for drugs and booze. I want to be in a place where if I ask somebody “So what do you do in your spare time?”, they understand what “spare time” means.”

And I feel horribly guilty for it, for this selfish reaction to other people’s plights. But I can’t do anything for them .There’s too many of them. It would be like trying to dig out the sand from the under the water with one shovel, your back aching, your neck burning, and your throat parches, and putting it to dry on the beach behind you, only to find it being washed away by the tide.

(By the by, if you’re struggling with the metaphor, the ocean is the crushing weight of poverty, the grains of sand are people, and the edge of the ocean is the poverty line. . . OK, so it's a terrible metaphor, but you get the point.)

So, because I see the hopelessness of the situation and I’m aching all over, I’m going back to my hammock, swinging in the shade of the palm trees and I’m going to pull out a paperback novel, enjoy myself, and occasionally glance over at the few people struggling with the sand and admire them for their tenacity and idealism. I may even call out a few words of encouragement, and, once I’ve finished smarting and am starting to feel a little restless, go out and join them again for an hour or two.

But only for an hour or two.

Because it’s scorching out there, and the dead fish smell, and the novelty of it all is quickly overwhelmed by sore muscles and burnt skin.

And can any of you really blame me for it? Because aren’t we all just sitting in our hammocks, shouting out words of encouragement to those scarce few, battling the vast ocean with a shovel?

. . .

. . .

. . .

Whoa. That was far too deep for a blog. . . Anyhoo, the gist of the story is:

I still want to become a doctor, but only because it’s challenging for my mind, I can go anywhere in the world with it, I like the respect that comes with the title, it’s a romantic job in my eyes, and it pays well, so I won’t ever have to see poverty and dirt again if I don’t want to. Every five years or so I might (might) go with Medicins Sans Frontieres somewhere for half a year or something, but I’m not gonna live in a poor country. I need my creature comforts and that’s that.

Miss y’all tons and tons,

But miss malls and bookstores more,

Zee-O,

The Girl Who Pines After a Good Wasteful Feast of Consumerism

PS – I swear I’ll make the next blog a little less angsty and a lot more bubbly. ;)

Actually, do you know what? Not only am I lazy, but I"m also selfish. This leads me to two conclusions:


#1 - you guys are stupid for being my friend but I love you anyhow ;)
b) I'm not going to explain what happened in the first four weeks of India.

If you want the full story, ask my mum (if you don't have her address, email me and I'll be so generous as to give it to you) and she will give you the whole shebang.

If you're too lazy to do that, you'll have to make do with my very. . . succinct summary below.

The Mother of All Run-On Sentences

(English teachers avert their eyes)

After world-wide panic and the (odd) idea that had been kidnapped I was forced to return to Delhi where I was held captive by a (evil) Scotsman, then I went to Shimla, found out that I'm just not a monastery girl, took lots of pictures of monkeys, returned to Hell and Satan (aka - Delhi and the Scotsman) and took a 48 hour train down to my art school in Kerala, where I felt homesick (still do, really), ate lots of food, became addicted to doing anaerobic exercises, applied to Acadia university, and got The Sound of Music seriously stuck in my head.

. . .


Tadah!!!!!


*breathes a sigh of relief*


And now you are finally up to date. Of course, there are about 9 bajillion things I haven't told you, but as you can no doubt see, with all of that happening to me, and the fact that I'm very. . . wordy when I write, it would simply be impossible for me to tell you through this blog. So email my mum, and she, who is a heck of a lot less lazy, marginally less wordy, and stunningly more beautiful and more intelligent than me, will fill you in on the details.

Love you Mum. :)

Now, I know you're probably disappointed that you didn't get to hear about the rest of my trip, but guess what?!?!?! Now that I'm finally caught up with myself, I'll be in the mood much more often to tell you what's going on because it will be much more recent and that's a heck of a lot more fun to write about. So get ready to hear a lot about:

a) the giant spider the side of my hand that comes into my room every night a creeps across my walls ever so slowly towards my bed
#2 - the dozens of geckos that hunt the stupid bugs that keep on banging onto the ground repeatedly, like they're trying to be eaten
iii) how I'm really starting to realize how acclimatized I am to the heat (28 degrees average) because last night it was 26 degrees and I was cold!!!! I'm going to die when I come back to Canada

So please don't be too upset that I skimmed over so much. The details will probably come out of me slowly but surely. You know that I can't help myself. ;)

So continue being stupid and being my friend (or, if you insist, you can stop being my friend, but at least leave a comment),

Miss 'yall tons and tons,
Bisous,
Namaste (goodbye/hello in Hindi),

Xyo,

The Girl Who's Tried To Catch One of the Geckos But Who Stepped In Elephant Poo In The Process

I Think His Name Was Timo. . .

OK, so if you couldn't already tell by the date of when I wrote my last blog entry, I did survive Kashmir. It might have been a close call, as I'm famous for being oblivious (hey, that rhymed!), but forgive me if I toot my own horn and say I thinkI would notice if someone was trying to kill me.

At least eventually.

The point, though, is that I'm lazy. Don't follow that logic? Well I"m too lazy to tell you there was no logic. And, since I"m lazy, I'm not going to tell you all the details about what's happened in the last month.

Why?

The reasons are fourfold:

#1 - I'm too lazy
b) I've already forgotten most of it
iii: if I did, I would get to the present date on this blog by X-mas
fourthly - I've never said "fourfold" before and I wanted to try it out

Thus, here is the basic rundown of what I shall call. . .

Kookoo for Kookoo Kashmir

Like the title? It's pretty klever, eh? (God I kill myself.)

Firstly, a cute Finnish guy accosted me at the airport, and it turned out that not only were we on the same plane, but we'd both fallen for the SAME SCAM!!!!! WE both found this hilarious, exchanging stories that went like this:

"So I got into this 'pre-paid taxi'"
"Hey, me too! And did he say that couldn't find your hotel?"
"Yeah! And then he-"
"Took you to a tourist tout?!"

We gazed deep into each others' eyes and he took my hand and he breathed

"Let's promise never to get scammed again."
"Agreed," I proclaimed and I shook his hand firmly.

We talked and joked and exchanged stories on the plane (he was seated far away from me, but there were plenty of empty chairs so he came to next to me once takeoff was over). We also read all of what the Lonely Planet (more commonly referred to as The Book) had to say about Kashmir (it was hardly comforting. . . ) and decided to follow its advice and check up at the Houseboat Owner's Association so that at least somebody in Kashmir would know which houseboats we were staying at and for how long. This was all part of our pact to not scammed, see? Unfortunately the touts had organized different taxis for us so that we had to meet up at the Houseboat Owner's Association separately.

Alas, things did not go as planned.

The owner of the houseboat, who was accompanying me on the taxi drive over to the lake, did not want to stop at the HBOA. He said that the houseboat was very safe and his family was very nice. I'd be safe.

To try to persuade him to stop I used logic, diplomacy, joking, and anger, but to no avail.

I sighed inside.

I had to do it. The thing that I swore when I was in elementary school that I'd never, EVER do.

I had to use my feminine wiles.

(Hey! Don't laugh! I do sohave feminine wiles. Just not many and if they ever show their faces, I beat them with a hose.)

I opened my eyes really big, let my lips pout ever so slightly, and said in a soft voice,

"Please. . ."

He did the Indian head-wobble (more on that later) and said,

"I treata you lika my daughter," and he told the taxi driver to stop at the HBOA.

Success! But at what price? . . . .

I waited there for 15 minutes after I filled out their forms.

It was around after 10 minutes of waiting that I realized something: my cute Finnish guy didn't have feminine wiles to get the taxi to stop (at least I hope he didn't. . . )

It was around after 15 minutes of waiting and looking apologetically at the Houseboat Owner and taxi-wallah that I realized I'd forgotten my Finnish guy's name.

I got back into the taxi, dejected, because I'd really liked that Finnish guy and had been rejoicing that I'd found a potential travel partner so soon.

One of my little voices made me feel better through the following reasoning: don't lost hope, Zeo. Srinagar (the capital of Kashmir) can't be that big, you know he's staying on a houseboat, and there can't be that many of those or Finnish people, so you'll probably see him before you leave Kashmir 7 days from now.

But Srinagar was big, it had over one thousand houseboats, and while I didn't really see that many Finnish people (any at all, really), I didn't see much of anybodybecause I didn't get the chance to stay in Kashmir for 7 days.

So if you're Finnish, you were scammed into going to Kashmir, and you're cute, I"m sorry I didn't find you, but I have a really good excuse.

Really. I do.

It has to do with panic around the world, kidnappings, tears, an Evil Doctor and-

Hey, that happened to you too?!?!? Wow!

Well then, I guess I won't have to explain what happened. That's good because I just realized that despite my saying that I was too lazy to give you the details, I just went on a writing frenzy. I think it's just because talking about my lost Finnish guy makes me feel a lot better than thinking about what happens afterwards.

Unfortunately, I will have to give you the details about that, because it's quite impossible to relay the injustices and disappointment that happened if you don't know the whole story. But that's for another entry when my muse visits me again, and she seems to think that since I'm on vacation, she should be on vacation too.

Lazy girl.

Till next time,
Zee-O,

The Girl Who Thinks That It Would Be A Good Survival Tactic For Men To Develop Feminine Wiles