Which reminds me of the time we refuelled on The Tonle Sap

My sister was putting some fuel in her car Saturday afternoon – the dashboard had been bleeping at her for days and the ‘miles-left-until-your-engine-dies’ were getting lower and lower. Whilst we probably could have squeezed the last twenty-one point five miles out – it wasn’t worth the stress of wondering. As she filled I busied myself with people-watching (just in case there was a story there). No burglaries took place, no-one was having a full-scale row with their partner over the bill, no children were screaming. It was all pretty boring apart from the man in the passenger seat of the car next to ours. He was adjacent to the pump (said car having a passenger-side tank) and he was smoking, with the window down. Now I tend not to be a health-and-safety freak (despite having been elected Health and Safety Officer in previous lives); I am happy to play conkers, watch as children run full-pelt down slippery slopes and I have been known to forget my nieces hats, coats and gloves on cold days. All that aside, I did think his choice of smoking venue was unusual.

            I watched and listened intently. There were plenty of signs about prohibiting smoking and the use of mobile telephones. I also know that the pumps are fitted with speaker systems whereby the attendants can prompt you to tell the pump where you are paying, enter your pin-code and (witnessed on occasion) tell you to switch off your mobile so I knew it was only a matter of seconds before this crazy passenger would get the admonishment he was due. It never transpired and I was left with palpitations and sweaty palms as I studied the glowing stick – trying all the while to work out how many seconds smoking he had left and hoping fervently that he wouldn’t drop the stub out the window. We left before he finished his smoke but, given that I’ve not heard of any forecourt explosions, I guess he took his cigarette safely home.

            All of which reminded me of our time in Cambodia. Having just spent a wondrous three days at Siem Reap, marvelling at Angkor Wat, The Bayon and all the other architectural and tree-coated delights in the vicinity we were making our way, by boat to Phnom Phen. It’s a lovely journey along the Tonlé Sap – which is more a huge lake than a river. The ferries are rather large but nobody sits down below – well at least back-packers don’t – they sit on the roof of the boat. This is at once self-preservation (more chance of survival in an accident) and self-destruction (the breeze, spray and relentless UV-rays managing to play havoc with even the best protected skin. About two-thirds of the way along we had to change to a smaller boat, an interesting exercise given that we were already over-crowded and no-one was staying behind and the whole exercise takes place mid-river. Once we’d all managed our ungainly exodus we had to hang around whilst our new boat was refuelled, from a third boat, again mid-river. Sitting on top we had good views of the exercise – all carried out straight-forwardly enough, one Cambodian chatting and shouting the occasional instruction from the fuel-boat whilst two Cambodians from our boat stood astride the tank inlet, fuel pile trailing through their feet. And smoking.

Muck for Luck

Diwali at the Shiv Niwas

The beginning of Advent always reminds me of our time in India. We were in Udaipur through Diwali (the Hindu festival of light) and it was a magical time. In the days preceding, people decorated the outsides of their houses with Rangoli patterns of coloured powders and filled every windowsill, nook and cranny with earthenware pots burning oils and candles. The streets were filled with fairy lights and garlands and the newspapers were full of stories about the dangers of illegal fireworks – not only were they made without regard to Health and Safety and liable to explode in your face but they were generally made by hand by children paid pitiful wages (or no wages at all) and then sold on the streets to anyone who had a spare rupee.

            Most evenings we ate at small cafes or at street stalls and always had wonderful food but the posters for the Shiv Niwas Hotel’s Gala dinner caught our eye and we decided to treat ourselves and booked a table. I bought a new Salwar Kameez for the occasion and we took a leisurely evening stroll through the crowded streets to work up an appetite for our meal.

            Now cows are sacred in India so it is not unusual to walk the streets and have to make way for a rust coloured bovine barging its way along the pavement and this was just the case on Diwali night as well only that night many of the cows had garlands around their horns where revellers had shared their decorations with the beasts – a mark of respect I think. The early evening had brought everyone out to enjoy the festivities, take in the twinkling lights and cower from the illegal fireworks. We both had huge grins – from the infectious excitement, the beautiful lights and the prospect of a very posh meal and we walked along in the melee, holding hands and lingering round gift and trinket stalls. Taking our time till we went to the Gala.

Diwali celebrations in Udaipur!

            And then I felt a new sensation – a warm, wet sensation that crept between the toes of my right foot, oozing under the straps of my dainty sandal. I think I must have made some kind of audible expression of surprise or distaste as the crowd parted, duly revealing my foot. Or rather a couple of toes sticking out from the thick, greeny-brown swathes of cow muck – and judging from the warmth, this was fresh cow muck!

            At once I was the centre of attention – a kindly stall holder found me some newspaper, another brought a bowl of water and one way or another we got my foot reasonably clean – all the while being assured that this was in fact lucky. Auspicious. Something I could be pleased about. Indeed, many passers-by commented that I would undoubtedly come into money (now that’s something you like to hear when you’re on a year’s backpacking).

            We made it to the gala dinner with only a faint hind of aroma and a pale tinge of green. And, as the dinner was taking place in the pool garden, lit by candles and fairy lights, there was little chance of anyone spotting the offending foot anyway. The meal was great, we splashed out on gin and tonic before our beer (we could not bring ourselves to pay for the wine) and enjoyed the festivities whilst listening to the conversations of rich Indian families. Finally, we came to the prize draw. It turned out every person there had had their name placed in a hat and there was a table with three beautiful Diwali hampers, packed with sweet treats, ornaments and other goodies. There was great anticipation in the crowd as the waiters and maître d’ managed to make the event as exciting as an X-Factor final. And who should be drawn out first?

            Me – of course – so the muck really was for luck. Second place went to a lovely lady on the opposite side of the pool and then, third place was drawn and it was Rob! Now I hadn’t thought there was so much slurry but there you go. Being kind-hearted souls and also backpackers (would you want to carry two hampers round the world?) we asked them to draw again for third place. But we took my winning hamper back to our room, picked a couple of souvenirs to take with us on our travels and left the rest for the hotel maid.

            A perfect Diwali.

Now for some food, this is a lovely quick recipe that’s full of Omega 3s, very flavoursome and also very cheap (especially if you grow your own free-range eggs).

Recipe: Sardines with home-made Alioli

Inspired by: loads of chefs – but I like Gary Rhodes’ measurements for mayo

Ingredients:

Sardines          (I bought fillets this time as they were on offer but I wouldn’t again – they were badly filleted and full of bones – if you cook the fish whole it’s easy to remove the bones afterwards).

2 x egg yolks

2 or 3 garlic cloves, peeled, chopped and crushed with a pinch of coarse salt

150ml extra virgin olive oil

150ml sunflower oil

Vinegar or lemon juice (I judge this based on what I’m serving it with)

Dijon mustard (optional in Alioli)

Salad ingredients to serve

Here’s What I Do: Put the egg yolks in a bowl and add the mustard, garlic, vinegar or lemon juice, blending to a paste (for these quantities I start with a tablespoon of vinegar or a whole lemon and a teaspoon of Dijon). Start to add the oils (you can mix these in a jug) a little at a time and beat with a balloon whisk (I used to use my food processor but it doesn’t take long to make by hand and is very therapeutic). When you’re about 2/3 of the liquid through, start to taste the alioli and adjust the flavourings as you like. You may not use all the oil (choose the consistency as you prefer), equally you may want more garlic or more acid (lemon/vinegar). When you have a lovely mix, put it in the fridge till you’re ready (if you have a sterile jar available it should keep a week (two weeks without the garlic). Next prepare your salad and carbohydrates (I served this with new potatoes but it’s also nice with beerbread). Lastly grill your sardines (if you’re using whole ones you may like to stuff the cavities with some herbs and slices of lemon.

The feel-good film of the decade

Although we don’t have a television, we do try and watch a film once a week. This weekend we watched two but it was Rob’s choice for Sunday that has sparked my imagination. Rob chose Slumdog Millionaire which, as it says on the box, was The Feel-Good Film of the Decade back in 2009. Watching it always gives me a warm glow, despite the fact that I worry what happened to the child-actors and wonder whether being plucked from the slums to stardom has helped them. Putting that to one side, I can’t help but smile knowingly at some of the scenes. If you can’t go to India then surely watching this film is the next best thing – right down to the finale with the obligatory Bollywood song and dance routine – a genuine Indian film could not get away without one.

            Just in case you haven’t watched the film (or have forgotten its wonders) I’ve attached the clip where the boys ride the trains in search of food, comfort and Rupees. The trains are a major part of Indian life and for a while we travelled them, taking seats in the ordinary carriages.

            I will never forget our journey from Mumbai to Daman (Gujurat is a dry state and Daman offered the benefits of both beach and alcohol). We arrived at Mumbai’s Victoria station in plenty of time and managed to arm ourselves with India’s Trains at a Glance – a ridiculously large red book but nevertheless a must for travel across the country as it details every single train route and timetable – and had got our tickets for the 09:15 train – a simple four hour journey to Vapi. As we were in bags of time we had a very tasty breakfast on the station (a spicy omelette with milky tea) and then made our way, leisurely, to the platform. Although there was still half an hour to go, our train was in and boarding so we got on. The train was already full and all we could manage was to squeeze in at the end of a carriage.

Sunday 1^st October 2000

The journey was awful, as [the train] set off people jumped on and there were about 16 of us crammed in at the end of the carriage. As this was a sleeper train, the end space was very claustrophobic and of course the toilets stank. I looked at my watch after what I thought was at least half an hour but it was only 10 minutes. At the first stop some got off but more people got on, despite the other passengers telling them there was no room. At the next stop not only did more people get on but also a ticket checker which found incredible. Vapi was the next stop and the man next to Rob (who had shared his suitcase as a seat, told Rob to get off and he would pass our bags. The man next to me was also getting off, it wasn’t going to be easy as there were already 23 men and me crammed into that small area. The train stopped but even before it stopped people were pushing to get on. The man next to me was telling them to let us off but they wouldn’t – I was getting squashed tighter and tighter, my glasses got pushed and squashed to the top of my head. The man with Rob signalled for us to get off track-side but I was still getting squashed – in the end I just stood on my pack and then climbed on people, finally escaping to the track – Rob caught me as I jumped down, it’s quite a long way.

            The saddest thing about the whole episode was knowing that for all these commuters this is regular train travel. The man who helped us made this journey twice daily and, as he walked us to the platform, I noticed that he had a shoe missing – lost in the crush. I pointed to it as I thanked him for his help – he simply smiled and said it was nothing, this was his country, their culture.

Ah - the sweet, fresh smell of farming...

Courtesy of The Guardian

One way or another our water source has been contaminated this week. We first became aware of the fact when my shower smelled like cooked Pig Sty – not the kind of aroma you want clinging to your skin on a Saturday afternoon. Still, I’d bought a magazine with a rather smelly free sample of moisturiser and I think (after caking myself in many layers) that I managed to get away with it! We’re now drinking corporation water (purloined from kindly relatives) and my skin is very, very soft – though whether this is the added effluent in the water or the copious use of fragrant moisturiser I guess I will never be sure.

            So now, for the first time in ten years, I am using non-environmentally friendly washing powder. The kind that comes with special scents included – I believe this one is something like fresh air and white lilies. Oh and it smells delicious and it’s so exciting hanging my washing up and inhaling the artificial delights of scented shirts and sheets. I feel like a regular 21^st Century woman! And I feel terribly, terribly mean. My washing is cleaner, smells great and I’m polluting the environment – I’ll be buying veg in plastic bags next and leaving my Bags-4-Life at home. Or putting bleach in my toilet.

            Joking apart, this whole episode has reminded me how much we take clean water for granted in our comfortable Western lives. It’s now a year since the Cholera epidemic decimated Haiti and still the people suffer; Pakistan is again suffering from terrible floods and the situation in Bangkok and Ayutthaya Province gets worse each day. The people of Bangkok have particularly been in my thoughts these past few weeks. Please spare a thought for all the people across the World who suffer insanitary conditions and/or yearn for clean water whether as a result of natural disaster or the disastrous politics of their countries.

            Bangkok is one of our favourite cities and we engineer visits en-route elsewhere whenever possible (it’s not on any of the Manchester-France flight-paths so it’s now five years since we were last there) and the pictures and videos that we have seen of the disaster are a fitting reminder of why we love the city and, indeed, the whole of Thailand. In the face of the most desperate adversity the people still smile, still take the time for each other – their Buddhist philosophy and kindness shines through even in these terrible images. I just hope that next time we do visit, our favourite street-stall will be there selling DIY soup-on-coals (just on the corner, past the temple with the blue stars on the ceiling) and that we’ll still be able to enjoy a banana pancake for supper.

A Chicken at the Kitchen Sink

I could start this blog by telling a small lie – but I won’t. Rather, I will admit straight off, that the photographs which I have lately been taking are flat and non-dimensional because I’ve been using my camera like a Muppet. The lie would be that I’m an artist – and the resulting photographs are art.

            Take for instance this rather fetching photo of a deer (all jokes gratefully received). This was taken with my zoom lens, carefully honed in on the deer that was taking its morning stroll in our garden. Technically, it shouldn’t have been there – it’s actually in our tree plantation and was probably nibbling bark off our young trees – we should have been trying to get rid of it (which would have brought a whole new meaning to the phrase 'getting the perfect shot') but, fortunately for the deer, we instead admired it and I struggled to get the perfect shot (of the other variety).

            Note also this lovely photo of a chicken at our kitchen sink. Rob was not impressed – apparently I should have been getting the chicken out of there, not taking photos. See the flat quality to my photograph? The lack of depth?  I spent five minutes trying to adjust things – until the bird got fed up of looking at my pots and went on its way. Five minutes of wondering what was wrong but failing to note the readings on my camera – the focal length of 4.5 or the shutter speed of 40 – important readings which would have told me that I had my camera set on Macro (close-up) yet I was taking a picture at a distance? Arghh. Why did they start making cameras that have brains? Think how lovely my deer pictures would have been if I’d had it set on landscape – or even just on auto and left it up to the camera.

            Now, if you’re at all interested in how far you can stretch the boundaries of visual representation and call it art; take a look at this year’s Turner Prize winners. Whilst George Shaw’s humbrol enamel paintings of Tile Hill are, for me at least, spectacular; I have to admit to being left rather stuck for words at Karla Black’s sculpture which, being crafted from soap bombs and peeling paint, is possibly not even there now.

            And so for some food. I thought I’d spend some time on light meals – the kind of food where you enjoy the flavours but feel virtuous afterwards (and you can glug an extra glass of wine without wrecking your calorie count). But, even if healthy salads aren’t your cup of tea – please do try the beer bread – it’s great with everything; in fact I’d go so far as to say, beer bread is the new black.

Recipe: Warm Goats’ Cheese on Beer Bread Toasts with salad

Inspired by: Something we ate in Café Rouge many years ago

Ingredients:

(for the bread)

225g Strong white bread flour

115g Rye flour (plus extra for dusting)

1 teaspoon salt

1 packet fast action yeast

225ml ale or stout

1 tablespoon of olive oil

2 teaspoons of runny honey

Here’s What I Do:

(Use a mixer if you have one as this is a very wet dough.) Combine the dry ingredients, then add the oil and honey. Stir well. Slowly add the beer (you need to make sure the froth has died back so that it’s measured accurately but also add the beer slowly – you may not need the full amount). Knead the dough in the mixer for several minutes then finish off by hand on a cool work top. As this is a wet dough you need to persevere if you can but if you really have to then add some flour. You are aiming for a smooth dough though it probably won’t get as silky as a traditional white dough. Shape it into a round and place it on greased and floured baking sheet. Slash the top with five deep slashes. Leave to prove in a warm place until doubled in size. Bake in a pre-heated oven at Gas Mark 6/200°C for 20-25 minutes. (For a less rustic but less stressful loaf you can make this in your bread-maker – if yours doesn’t have a beer bread recipe, just choose one of the Rye bread recipes and substitute some or all of the liquid for beer.)

(for the salad)

Good goats’ cheese (usually)

Salad ingredients to your liking

Plus

Onions

Tomatoes

Garlic

Olive oil

Here’s what I do:

Put the tomatoes (quartered if large) in an oven proof dish and roast with olive oil and chopped garlic. Thinly slice your onions and caramelise them in a frying pan with olive oil (and a dash of sugar towards the end if you like). Grill the slices of beer bread. Assemble your salad ingredients on your plates. Depending on the type of goats’ cheese you may or may not wish to grill this (I like to let the firm, log style ones melt down a bit). Plate up the meal so it all looks nice, adding salad dressing or olive oil as you prefer to your leaves.

Chimpanzees, Children and Chickens

I’m back – after two weeks of story writing, deadlines and then illness. And (as I’m rather late for my post-Diwali story) I thought I’d kick off with this one.

Whilst reading Last Chance to See I was reminded of the fact that chimps can count. What surprises me with this is the amount of research that scientists will put in in order to confirm such a fact. After all, it seems obvious really – given that much more lowly animals are also fine in the counting stakes. Take my hens, and particularly my cockerel – not only are they very family oriented and protective but they do a mean job of counting too.

            Each morning when I let them out of their cabins (the younger ones still insist on sleeping in a separate cabin) they all undergo the registration rigmarole imposed upon them by their very loving (though rather bossy) cockerel. Before he will touch a morsel of grain he runs around, taking a count and checking they are all present and correct. It’s a lovely sight. Similarly at bedtime, you will see him carefully rounding them up – and he won’t stop and go to bed himself until he knows they’re all accounted for.

            So if a lowly hen can count then it really isn’t much stretch of the imagination to think that chimps would also be able. Of course, You Tube reveals that chimps recognise numbers – and I haven’t seen that replicated in hens yet so maybe there is a point to the research.

            What I did find interesting was the following experiment – a test to see who are the better learners, chimps or children? Watch carefully.

            Now I’m not sure the researchers have covered every possibility of why the children fail to learn for themselves – I think there are other issues, not least of which is that the researchers talked a lot when they were showing the children how to tap and slide (they don’t do this with the chimps because they don’t expect them to understand spoken language). Were the children given the chance to learn for themselves? Did the artificial setting alter their reactions?

But I thought it was worth sharing and as far as I know, no animals were hurt in the making of this film – though the chimps do appear to be living behind bars which is a shame.

I guess we were blessed

Diwali in Udaipur

All the Diwali celebrations and newspaper reports remind me of our time in Udaipur (the Octopussy city – and still cashing in on it). We arrived in Udaipur after a traumatic overnight coach journey. You are supposed to sleep on such journeys but, with front seat views and a chaotic driver, sleep was never going to be easy. (Perhaps I have always had insomnia?)

            It was on this journey that I first encountered communal women’s toilets – this had always been a recurring dream of mine so I was understandably astounded to find that they actually exist (I just hope the monsters under the bed, the plane crash in my back yard and the day when all my teeth fall out simultaneously don’t turn out likewise). I had thought that this was going to be the worst part of the journey but I was wrong.

            Like all journeys by coach in India, and indeed most of South East Asia, it was carried out to the soundtrack of Hindi music and incessant horn blowing. The music I don’t mind – though it isn’t well loved when you are trying to sleep on an overnight journey – the horns are another matter. Sure, in the daytime you can get over them and it is only the dull ringing in your ears as you retire to the bar for a teatime beer that reminds you of the cacophony. At night it is another matter. It’s not the fact that they’re blowing them that matters – it’s the why.

            In India they generally drive at night with their lights extinguished (actually, I’m going back ten years now so perhaps they’ve updated their safety regs – you could Google it and let me know). I think it is to save fuel and prevent light pollution – I’m only guessing. So they blow their horns at night to warn of their advance and, should they hear a horn, they generally fire their lights onto main-beam in a last ditch attempt to avert a crash. It’s fun (in a kind of Tarantino, black humour kind of way) – imagine, you’re pounding down a rough road, headlights off, interior lights on and suddenly your driver lights his lights – just as the driver in the oncoming coach lights his. You don’t sleep.

            We passed a crash on the journey – we should not have passed the crash – we were in a huge tailback. But our driver decided he wasn’t being part of the tailback and instead pulled onto the opposite side of the road and passed every car, van, wagon etc. At one point we were in a stand-off with another wagon, coming (quite legitimately) in the other direction – on a head-on course for us. Our driver won. So we arrived in Udaipur, as scheduled, at 5 in the morning.

            I guess we were blessed.

            Tomorrow I will actually write about Diwali. We were blessed then too.

A bad workman always blames his tools

I am well aware of this fact and would never dream of blaming my tools. Clearly if something isn’t working then I’m doing something wrong – unless I’m dealing with a computer, photocopier or vending machine. Then it usually just needs a swift kick. Or, in the case of the computer, which is luckily too high for my feet, I find that shutting it down (for a few hours or even days) and praying hard usually works. If that fails then swearing, slamming things and audibly wondering how you are ever going to make ends meet as an aspiring writer when you’re computer won’t even work generally does the trick.

            Two weekends ago when I tried to make an alioli following a Rick Stein recipe (I’ve often made my own but I’ve never felt I had the balance of salt/garlic/creaminess just right) so on this occasion I faithfully and carefully measured out all the ingredients exactly as Rick suggested. I had a new mixing bowl and, to save my arms, I decided to use my new electric hand-whisk. I drizzled the oil in as slowly as you could possibly imagine, I whisked, I changed hands, I whisked some more. I let my mixer have a breather because it was getting very hot and emitting that strange, burning plastic/electrical smell that you get from very over-worked motors. I changed bowls because I wondered if it didn’t like being in stainless steel. I added another egg yolk just in case. And I wondered if perhaps the Spanish favour a very runny type of alioli that looks like garlic floating in gallons of cloudy oil.

            In the end I made a different salt-cod recipe (delicious nonetheless) and couldn’t get the alioli out of my mind. I compared other recipes – Gary Rhodes uses roughly the same oil but more egg yolk. Someone else did a blend of vegetable/olive oil (as in most mayonnaise recipes) but still I could not pinpoint what could have gone wrong – for it had gone wrong, the Spanish do not favour a pourable version of alioli.

            Facebook users will know that this Friday I had to make a strawberry soufflé at the last minute when we had a wine mishap and opened a €13 wine on what was just going to be a simple supper night. I quite enjoyed rising to the challenge and love separating eggs so I was not perturbed. I think I’ve heard that egg whites whisk better in steel bowls (but I don’t know if it’s true and haven’t bothered to google it) so I put the whites in my new bowl and proceeded to whisk. With my electric whisk. And they would not form peaks. Now I’ve done this a million times so I know that you don’t need icing sugar, salt or anything else – if you have a clean bowl they will form peaks. I tilted the bowl, I changed the speeds – I even had it on full speed with the turbo button depressed (or was that me depressed?) but all I got was frog spit.

            I gave the machine a rest, I tried to tell myself that the frog spit was getting thicker and then it dawned on me. These were not balloon whisks staring back at me – I was trying to form soft peaks in my egg white with two very feeble looking dough hooks.

            So that also explains the alioli.

            Does this mean there are times when we should blame our machines? Or is Rob correct?  He simply looked across and said,

            ‘It’s not the tool but the tool that’s using it’ and carried on drinking the very delicious wine.