Politicians yesterday, Raving Jains today ...
Does India ever stop?
I went for my first siesta today. An hour later, I awoke to the most violent trance music you can ever imagine. And this is coming from a former heavy duty drum 'n' bass DJ, you understand. The Jains were doing a full-on sound check for their party which starts at 8pm.
The Jains are from town, and well known to the hotel. I gather they have parties here on a regular basis. They occupy the room next to mine today - hordes of them it seems in a double room. They're gently spoken - unlike a lot of Indians I've come across - and quietly laughed as they made their flourescent party decorations and beautiful hanging things. They all wear modern western clothes. I bet they eat burgers too. Hilarious. An amazingly talented London jazz keyboardist who has Indian heritage laughed when he told me that he knew a Jain that ate McDonalds. That's just wrong, if you ask me.
I am exhausted. Not surprising really. I knew that things weren't quite right on my birthday when Bridget came round to my flat with an expensive bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and it tasted like vinegar. Since 29 December 2012, my body has been through the mill. Prior to that I split from a 5 and half year relationship. It's been an onslaught of events. Relentless since ... since ... Tanzania, thinking about it. Back in January 2010. Though the last four months have been spectacularly challenging on the emotions and this body that appears to be falling apart.
Pneu-fucking-monia? Whoever's heard of such a thing?
Incidentally, this hotel couldn't be more helpful. Reception faxed over a copy of my passport to Koyili Hospital. A member of staff got on his motorbike with my passport and met me at the hospital reception, while I arrived in a rickshaw they had ordered for me. Then Motorcycle Boy made sure that the registration went smoothly. That I was seeing the correct doctor. That the nurse on duty knew to call my number 13 in English. That's what I call service.
Mascot Beach Resort. They are my mascot.
Now please will this lergy go away?
p.s. Rickshaws and autos are the same things as Thai tuk-tuks. They are made by Piaggio.
p.p.s. One auto driver in on Cannon Shed Road, near Marine Jetty, Kochi, made me guffaw. I had to walk past a rank of them. They each made a mumble or noise. The third one said Ferrari, madame. Fan-bloody-tastic.
p.p.p.s. Auto is not pronounced Ow-toe - as I had previously stated. I don't know what it is about me and the word auto. I always have to say in a German accent. I think it's the girl racer coming out in me. Auto equates with Autobahn - those beautiful things of old when there were no speed limits. There are still sections of no speed limits. But rare, I think, in Bavaria - which is the part I know best. Too many cars, of course. I love land speed. Cars when I'm driving. And I don't mind riding pillion when on the back of some motorcycle boy's naughty roadripping momentary frenzy. Those days are well gone now.
Does India ever stop?
I went for my first siesta today. An hour later, I awoke to the most violent trance music you can ever imagine. And this is coming from a former heavy duty drum 'n' bass DJ, you understand. The Jains were doing a full-on sound check for their party which starts at 8pm.
The Jains are from town, and well known to the hotel. I gather they have parties here on a regular basis. They occupy the room next to mine today - hordes of them it seems in a double room. They're gently spoken - unlike a lot of Indians I've come across - and quietly laughed as they made their flourescent party decorations and beautiful hanging things. They all wear modern western clothes. I bet they eat burgers too. Hilarious. An amazingly talented London jazz keyboardist who has Indian heritage laughed when he told me that he knew a Jain that ate McDonalds. That's just wrong, if you ask me.
I am exhausted. Not surprising really. I knew that things weren't quite right on my birthday when Bridget came round to my flat with an expensive bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and it tasted like vinegar. Since 29 December 2012, my body has been through the mill. Prior to that I split from a 5 and half year relationship. It's been an onslaught of events. Relentless since ... since ... Tanzania, thinking about it. Back in January 2010. Though the last four months have been spectacularly challenging on the emotions and this body that appears to be falling apart.
Pneu-fucking-monia? Whoever's heard of such a thing?
Incidentally, this hotel couldn't be more helpful. Reception faxed over a copy of my passport to Koyili Hospital. A member of staff got on his motorbike with my passport and met me at the hospital reception, while I arrived in a rickshaw they had ordered for me. Then Motorcycle Boy made sure that the registration went smoothly. That I was seeing the correct doctor. That the nurse on duty knew to call my number 13 in English. That's what I call service.
Mascot Beach Resort. They are my mascot.
Now please will this lergy go away?
p.s. Rickshaws and autos are the same things as Thai tuk-tuks. They are made by Piaggio.
p.p.s. One auto driver in on Cannon Shed Road, near Marine Jetty, Kochi, made me guffaw. I had to walk past a rank of them. They each made a mumble or noise. The third one said Ferrari, madame. Fan-bloody-tastic.
p.p.p.s. Auto is not pronounced Ow-toe - as I had previously stated. I don't know what it is about me and the word auto. I always have to say in a German accent. I think it's the girl racer coming out in me. Auto equates with Autobahn - those beautiful things of old when there were no speed limits. There are still sections of no speed limits. But rare, I think, in Bavaria - which is the part I know best. Too many cars, of course. I love land speed. Cars when I'm driving. And I don't mind riding pillion when on the back of some motorcycle boy's naughty roadripping momentary frenzy. Those days are well gone now.
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