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.

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.

Along came a spider, who sat down beside her...

Our book-loving friend

And I wasn’t frightened away. Rob and I love spiders and happily share our home with them, although this year they have been bigger and closer. We don’t have a television but we do watch films and on the last two occasions we have been joined by what is clearly a relative of the tarantula family. It pops its head over cushions and watches us with a beady eye, next news it makes a dash and you’re never sure where it will appear next. The other night I caught it reading my book (pictured) so you can see that we’re living in close proximity with our arachnid friends.

            Perhaps a little too close.

            Today I was writing (as I do through the daylight hours), tapping away on my keypad, trying to put the finishing touches to an article on using yoga to improve your running. Twice I felt something brush my chest but put it down to perhaps a falling eyelash (yes, I’m like the princess, I can feel a pea under ten mattresses as well). Then I felt the distinct feel of footsteps over my knee, four pairs of them. Either I was being ambushed by four tooth-fairies or one of our house-guests had joined me. It was the latter, and I didn’t mind but it did remind me of our stay in Daman.

            We hadn’t quite been in India two weeks and, as my travel had been limited prior to this trip, I was a novice in much of the natural world. (On a train journey up to the Matharan Highlands I had excitedly pointed out the men sitting in the trees to Rob – they were monkeys!)

Our hotel in Daman was very nice, we had an ensuite room with hot water and a private balcony for 400 Rupees (£6.06 at the time) and, as we were staying there for several days we took the opportunity to unpack a few things, make use of the wardrobe and chill.

            It was in this hotel that I bothered to discuss the beetles with Rob, the shiny ones that joined me in the bathroom and scuttled round my feet. I thought they were quite beautiful in a dark and glistening kind of way. Rob told me they were cockroaches but, being the kind of person who judges others by how I find them rather than what I’ve heard about them, I was quite happy to share my bathroom with them. In fact you could say we got on well for the whole of our stay.

            Until the morning we were leaving.

            I got my pack out of the wardrobe (I always leave packing till the last minute) and started to stuff things in. At this point my things started to climb out – which was weird, we’d only been travelling a few days and our clothes weren’t that dirty. Within seconds my arm had turned quite black – moving black. I had grown a skin-tight, shimmering, gleaming, shrink-wrapped sleeve.

            Made of cockroaches.

Cockroach, courtesy of Just Animal

            And then I stopped liking them, I tipped my pack up and hundreds of six-legged armoured creatures ran out, covering my feet and filling every part of the room. And actually I flapped my arms about, became breathless and incoherent and rather like one of those screaming blondes that were popular in 80s movies (I’m thinking Goldie Hawn irrationality).

            There’s only one other creature that’s prompted such a reaction – and I’m afraid that’s another tale.

Why I Adore Public Transport

I love travel, for me the holiday begins the second we leave home – even if that means seven hours on various motorways traversing the length and/or breadth of England. (Actually the reason it takes so long is I never traverse England without a stop somewhere interesting so don’t feel sorry for me.) But if I can get anywhere by public transport I will do. Buses mean you can work, read or people watch; trains mean the same but you can also drink wine on a train without being frowned upon!

So I thought I’d share something I wrote on a recent train journey to Preston.

I am sitting pressed against the window, the fields flashing by in the corner of my eye, trying to distance myself from the smell of urine and the noise of the large family at the end of the carriage. In the seats directly in front of me a very overweight woman is talking noisily across the table. I cannot at first tell if she knows the lady to whom she is chatting or if these are casual train acquaintances.

            “Oh, by the way, you know that £200 grant I get for clothing?”

            “Hmm, no…”

            “You know, to help buy clothes for interviews – you lose that.”

            “Right.”

            “And the £40-a-week grant, you lose that; I’ll be £40 a week worse off if I work more than 16…”

            Her voice trails off into the distance, my mind wandering between the repeated shouts of “SIDDOWN” (a new word in my vocabulary) and memories of other train rides.

            The smell of cinnamon as the chai-wallah (tea-seller) darts up the carriage, the crunch of peanut brittle – a sweet, salty explosion – shared with the family of six squashing onto the bench seats with you. The feel of my knee pressing against my husband’s – the awareness of clammy skin in the early morning heat. The rhythmic clatter of the train against the tracks and the sight of a row of dark bottoms all attending to their morning toilet on the opposite track as we approach the edges of Mumbai.

           

Today I sent a competition entry, it wasn’t travel writing, but please keep your fingers crossed for me. Any comments on my writing - what you like/what I could improve would also be gratefully received.