Another week, another two days off. I really must get my arse in gear. This week though I drew the joella mela to a close by managing to go out for dinner with three ex-schoolmates simultaneously. Which was quite good going as one of them was supposed to be in Australia and one of them was supposed to be giving birth.
We reminisced about being teenagers in Blackpool for about 30 seconds, before remembering that it didn't have a whole heap to recommend it beyond the fact that you could buy single Cocktail Sobranies from Smoky Joes in town to coordinate with your outfit. We pre-dated alcopops, so to drink it was Blue Bols, Campari, Pernod and black or Midori, depending. I feel a bit ill just thinking about it.
We are altogether more sensible these days of course, *and* have better hair. It perhaps wasn't the best idea to squelch back through South Park, but the view was nice and the mud will come out eventually.
It was all a bit anticlimactic yesterday though (well possibly not for ex-housemate S, but haven't heard anything yet). I waved Australia R off, put the laundry on, ate posh chocolates, sprayed WD40 round the place to loosen things up, but still felt edgy and weird. M settled me under a blanket before I could cut through any live wires, and turned on CBBC.
On came Blue Peter, which I can't have watched in the last 20 years. They have a presenter from Northern Ireland now, who'd have thought. They showed us some footage from Andy's trip to Malawi, where he has been visiting children living with HIV. Apparently 300 pairs of shoes make a bicycle. I remembered lying under another blanket in another place when I had been visiting people who were, largely, failing to live with HIV. Big fat tears rolled out of the corners of my eyes and splotched onto the cushions.
I guess I've just been too bouncy recently. It's going to catch up with you sometime. Now I'm going to send all my shoes off to save the world.
joella
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The stopping train to Hangover Central
I don't have a good record with Burns Night. The first one I went to was in my first year at university. I was just getting it together with my Significant Ex and I got so pissed that he had to a) stop me lying down and going to sleep in the middle of Whewell's Court b) take my contact lenses out for me and c) hold my hair back while I chucked up in the sink. I saw him down the end of a long tunnel and said 'I love you'. It must have been a terrifying experience for him.
The one on Friday wasn't quite that bad - I got myself home, kept the tatties and neeps down just fine, took my own contact lenses out and (probably) did nothing too much worse than waking everyone up by singing happy birthday to myself in the early hours - but on the whole I think I should not be allowed more than one whisky at a time. It's a fine and noble drink, but too much of it and it hollows out your soul while you sleep and leaves you in no fit state to cope with your birthday leg wax appointment.
So that part of the day was quite unpleasant, but I pulled it together valiantly for a lovely birthday walk, hair-of-the-dog at the King's Arms (sitting outside! In January!) and brief art interlude at MOA, where guest of honour was an enormously pregnant ex-housemate S. She was an installation in her own right.
Brief interlude for a bit of whimpering under the duvet (no, that's not a euphemism) and then we were off for dinner at the lovely R's with other guests of honour including Ms Y and plumbing S. Home late for merlot nightcaps and the Ballad of Lucy Jordan. Yes, I am that old, and today I felt it. However, I have Aveda body products and Benefit lip products to go with my MAC eye products, so at least I am sparkly and smell nice. I also have a Gerber multitool with auto-recoil needlenose pliers and a milk bottle full of worm urine, so don't mess with me.
joella
The one on Friday wasn't quite that bad - I got myself home, kept the tatties and neeps down just fine, took my own contact lenses out and (probably) did nothing too much worse than waking everyone up by singing happy birthday to myself in the early hours - but on the whole I think I should not be allowed more than one whisky at a time. It's a fine and noble drink, but too much of it and it hollows out your soul while you sleep and leaves you in no fit state to cope with your birthday leg wax appointment.
So that part of the day was quite unpleasant, but I pulled it together valiantly for a lovely birthday walk, hair-of-the-dog at the King's Arms (sitting outside! In January!) and brief art interlude at MOA, where guest of honour was an enormously pregnant ex-housemate S. She was an installation in her own right.
Brief interlude for a bit of whimpering under the duvet (no, that's not a euphemism) and then we were off for dinner at the lovely R's with other guests of honour including Ms Y and plumbing S. Home late for merlot nightcaps and the Ballad of Lucy Jordan. Yes, I am that old, and today I felt it. However, I have Aveda body products and Benefit lip products to go with my MAC eye products, so at least I am sparkly and smell nice. I also have a Gerber multitool with auto-recoil needlenose pliers and a milk bottle full of worm urine, so don't mess with me.
joella
Friday, January 26, 2007
Kicking off the joella mela
It's my birthday on Saturday. As usual, I reject the entire concept of the January blues, preferring instead to embark on a week long celebration of existence, particularly that of Aquarians and extra particularly mine. Most people come out to play in summer, I do it in the middle of winter. Frankly, and I don't know why this should be, it's when I'm gladdest to be alive.
Now, most of the things I want for my birthday (or indeed want full stop) can be purchased from the Screwfix catalogue. After some challenging from nearest and dearest, I conceded that this was a bit one-dimensional. So my mum is getting me some French safety boots (practical yet glamorous -- they come in green and in proper girl sizes!) and I asked M for some new make-up, as most of my limited supply dates back to the 20th century, and some right back to the 1980s.
And so it was that in pre-birthday spirit we went for a long frosty walk on Tuesday, followed by posh lunch at the Ashmolean, followed by a trip to the new MAC concession in Debenhams. It was mildly terrifying, but I dabbled around in the eyeshadows until the uber-glam assistant came to help me. I liked her look, kind of goth with extra pink, and she had a fabulous leather apron full of make-up brushes.
Last time I owned make up brushes I was 18 (I know, I am not a proper woman). But I now have two for eyeshadow alone, on the strength of what she did to me with matt jet black and murky brown.
I'm going back next week to find out what to do with the rest of my face.
In other joella mela plans: Burns night, winter walk, curry spectacular, Sunday lunch, tea and cakes, whisky macs, open fires, duvet day. February can wait.
joella
Now, most of the things I want for my birthday (or indeed want full stop) can be purchased from the Screwfix catalogue. After some challenging from nearest and dearest, I conceded that this was a bit one-dimensional. So my mum is getting me some French safety boots (practical yet glamorous -- they come in green and in proper girl sizes!) and I asked M for some new make-up, as most of my limited supply dates back to the 20th century, and some right back to the 1980s.
And so it was that in pre-birthday spirit we went for a long frosty walk on Tuesday, followed by posh lunch at the Ashmolean, followed by a trip to the new MAC concession in Debenhams. It was mildly terrifying, but I dabbled around in the eyeshadows until the uber-glam assistant came to help me. I liked her look, kind of goth with extra pink, and she had a fabulous leather apron full of make-up brushes.
Last time I owned make up brushes I was 18 (I know, I am not a proper woman). But I now have two for eyeshadow alone, on the strength of what she did to me with matt jet black and murky brown.
I'm going back next week to find out what to do with the rest of my face.
In other joella mela plans: Burns night, winter walk, curry spectacular, Sunday lunch, tea and cakes, whisky macs, open fires, duvet day. February can wait.
joella
Monday, January 22, 2007
All that glisters is not gold
I haven't started my plumbing sunlighting yet, so I have Mondays and Tuesdays to myself. People keep asking me what I am doing with all this extra time.
Trying hard not to spend any money, obviously, as annoyingly if you only work three days a week they only pay you for three days a week. I haven't been this skint for years. But, you know, potatoes don't cost much.
And I've been thinking a lot. Not getting up on Monday morning is *great*, you can listen to all of Start the Week without having to start the week. I could have done without Hanif Kureishi, obviously, a man's man if ever there was one, but it was interesting to hear Ed Zwick about talking about Blood Diamond.
A week or so ago we sat in a little shop in Mamallapuram while a young Kashmiri guy offered us rubies and sapphires. I rolled my eyes at M. 'One of the things I like best about you,' he said with the air of a man who has not always been so blessed, 'is that you don't want me to buy you expensive jewellery'.
It's true. I have a gold ring, which was made by melting down an identity bracelet; a gold bracelet, which used to be half my great-grandfather's watch chain; and a pair of diamond earrings, whose stones were originally set in an engagement ring (not mine). But not much else.
Partly, this is for all the right reasons. There's the issue of dirty gold and blood diamonds, but there's also just the miserable, miserable, miserable conditions that many mineworkers live and work in. I read some stuff about gold mining when I was in South Africa that will never leave me.
But you can get ethically sourced / environmentally friendly precious metals and gemstones if you really want to, like you can get Fairtrade cut flowers and organic tiger prawns. Thing is, I don't. Because my genuinely favourite ever piece of jewellery cost £45. It turns my neck green, but that just reminds me not to wear it every day. Essentially, I'm a cheap date. Everyone's a winner.
joella
Trying hard not to spend any money, obviously, as annoyingly if you only work three days a week they only pay you for three days a week. I haven't been this skint for years. But, you know, potatoes don't cost much.
And I've been thinking a lot. Not getting up on Monday morning is *great*, you can listen to all of Start the Week without having to start the week. I could have done without Hanif Kureishi, obviously, a man's man if ever there was one, but it was interesting to hear Ed Zwick about talking about Blood Diamond.
A week or so ago we sat in a little shop in Mamallapuram while a young Kashmiri guy offered us rubies and sapphires. I rolled my eyes at M. 'One of the things I like best about you,' he said with the air of a man who has not always been so blessed, 'is that you don't want me to buy you expensive jewellery'.
It's true. I have a gold ring, which was made by melting down an identity bracelet; a gold bracelet, which used to be half my great-grandfather's watch chain; and a pair of diamond earrings, whose stones were originally set in an engagement ring (not mine). But not much else.
Partly, this is for all the right reasons. There's the issue of dirty gold and blood diamonds, but there's also just the miserable, miserable, miserable conditions that many mineworkers live and work in. I read some stuff about gold mining when I was in South Africa that will never leave me.
But you can get ethically sourced / environmentally friendly precious metals and gemstones if you really want to, like you can get Fairtrade cut flowers and organic tiger prawns. Thing is, I don't. Because my genuinely favourite ever piece of jewellery cost £45. It turns my neck green, but that just reminds me not to wear it every day. Essentially, I'm a cheap date. Everyone's a winner.
joella
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Unisex Chipshop
All right, all right, I'm getting the point of YouTube. It means you don't even have to go to Glasto anymore...
joella
Friday, January 19, 2007
Must try harder
I didn't see a single British news story in the Indian newspapers the whole time we were there. The only international story that made any impact at all was the hanging of Saddam Hussein, which caused buses, ferries and rickshaws to go on strike in the city we were staying in, and various political factions to march through the streets shouting and burning effigies. We wandered through it all unsure if they were celebrating or protesting (the effigies didn't resemble anyone in particular), and waving at them when they shouted at us. We realised when we got back to our hotel and discovered that it had put up the riot shutters that this was possibly not the safest thing to do, but I'm guessing it must have been fairly clear that we were not warmongering Americans.
Less than a month later, chav munter queen Jade Goody has singlehandedly changed all that. I didn't watch any of the footage in question, but I vicariously followed the 'is this racist bullying or just cat fighting' debate online, and couldn't manage not to tune in to Jade's silent eviction this evening, though I felt slightly ashamed of myself for doing so.
FWIW, yes, I think Shilpa was subjected to bullying behaviour, and that this had a racist element as well as a class and a beauty envy one. As Ani DiFranco once said, everyone harbours a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room, and it seems that if she's a different colour as well it's going to be worse for her. But I also think that if you'd stuck Keira Knightley in a house with a bunch of rough-as-knackers Indians, she'd have had a grim old time as well.
But that doesn't mean I think it's okay, and it's not enough to do it and then say, as she did, 'well yes, it looks awful doesn't it, I can't defend my behaviour and I apologise'.
When I worked for the little publishing company in the house on the hill I vividly remember being steamrollered in a meeting by the marketing director. Later, we passed in the corridor and she said 'sorry if I was a bit aggressive in there'. I said 'actually, you can't behave aggressively in public, where decisions are made, and then apologise later, when nobody's watching. It might make you feel better, but it doesn't make it all right'.
In fact, several people *were* watching, and they flattened themselves against the wall in anticipation of a row that didn't materialise, and I like to think that I gave her pause for thought. But I have been bullied since, and no amount of candid feedback worked there. Some people take responsibility for their character failings and consequent bad behaviour, and use what they learn from others to help them be generally less of a dickshit over their lifetime. I like to think I generally fall into this category, though I do have a tendency to hold a grudge for longer than is healthy, including (at times) against entire genders and nationalities.
But others have bad intentions and skins of leather, and if you're thick as a brick with it, as I fear Ms Goody must be, well it's going to be ugly.
Essentially, I'm, making like Chumbawamba and saying our apologies count for nothing. You need to own your own mouthful of shit and do something about it. At the end of the day, you can't help the hand you're dealt, but you can help how you play it. End of.
joella
Less than a month later, chav munter queen Jade Goody has singlehandedly changed all that. I didn't watch any of the footage in question, but I vicariously followed the 'is this racist bullying or just cat fighting' debate online, and couldn't manage not to tune in to Jade's silent eviction this evening, though I felt slightly ashamed of myself for doing so.
FWIW, yes, I think Shilpa was subjected to bullying behaviour, and that this had a racist element as well as a class and a beauty envy one. As Ani DiFranco once said, everyone harbours a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room, and it seems that if she's a different colour as well it's going to be worse for her. But I also think that if you'd stuck Keira Knightley in a house with a bunch of rough-as-knackers Indians, she'd have had a grim old time as well.
But that doesn't mean I think it's okay, and it's not enough to do it and then say, as she did, 'well yes, it looks awful doesn't it, I can't defend my behaviour and I apologise'.
When I worked for the little publishing company in the house on the hill I vividly remember being steamrollered in a meeting by the marketing director. Later, we passed in the corridor and she said 'sorry if I was a bit aggressive in there'. I said 'actually, you can't behave aggressively in public, where decisions are made, and then apologise later, when nobody's watching. It might make you feel better, but it doesn't make it all right'.
In fact, several people *were* watching, and they flattened themselves against the wall in anticipation of a row that didn't materialise, and I like to think that I gave her pause for thought. But I have been bullied since, and no amount of candid feedback worked there. Some people take responsibility for their character failings and consequent bad behaviour, and use what they learn from others to help them be generally less of a dickshit over their lifetime. I like to think I generally fall into this category, though I do have a tendency to hold a grudge for longer than is healthy, including (at times) against entire genders and nationalities.
But others have bad intentions and skins of leather, and if you're thick as a brick with it, as I fear Ms Goody must be, well it's going to be ugly.
Essentially, I'm, making like Chumbawamba and saying our apologies count for nothing. You need to own your own mouthful of shit and do something about it. At the end of the day, you can't help the hand you're dealt, but you can help how you play it. End of.
joella
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Rediscovering...
1. Cheese
2. Wine
3. Dylan
4. Radio 4
5. Ribena
6. Loo roll
7. Olive oil
8. Duvet
9. Shameless
10. Blundstones
Also discovered that we left the turntable going round for a month.
joella
2. Wine
3. Dylan
4. Radio 4
5. Ribena
6. Loo roll
7. Olive oil
8. Duvet
9. Shameless
10. Blundstones
Also discovered that we left the turntable going round for a month.
joella
Monday, January 15, 2007
Hello bathroom my old friend
Our journey home was as straightforward as any journey involving a long haul flight taking off at 0400 could be. We had checked in online the day before, sitting in a seaside internet cafe, choosing our plane seats and still not really believing this kind of thing really works. But it does.
At the airport the very beautiful woman at the bag drop desk told us that the flight was overbooked and tried very hard, using all her beauty, to get us to bounce ourselves onto a later flight (via Delhi) in exchange for £250. Each. We looked at each other. My look said 'I haven't had a solid bowel movement for the last five days. This flight is already eleven hours long. It's already one in the morning. I have a special meal booked. I have an aisle seat near the toilet booked. Mad as it may sound, I do not want this £250 as much as I want my own bathroom'.
We smiled at the very beautiful woman and said no thanks. She smiled back and said 'well, as we are so full, I have moved you into the next cabin. Have a nice flight.'
I have never been upgraded on a flight in my life before! OK, it was only to World Traveller Plus, so it wasn't like getting a sleeper suit and smoked salmon on silver plates or anything, but we got big seats and preferential toilet access. I like to think this was my karmic reward for turning down the cash.
But the best reward of all was getting in the bath. India has much to love and much to miss, but a hot bath gets to the places that a jug and bucket just can't reach.
So now I just have to try and work out what time it is in my body, and get my head round how quiet it is in this country. I feel like I'm waiting for my brain to descramble and my ears to pop.
joella
At the airport the very beautiful woman at the bag drop desk told us that the flight was overbooked and tried very hard, using all her beauty, to get us to bounce ourselves onto a later flight (via Delhi) in exchange for £250. Each. We looked at each other. My look said 'I haven't had a solid bowel movement for the last five days. This flight is already eleven hours long. It's already one in the morning. I have a special meal booked. I have an aisle seat near the toilet booked. Mad as it may sound, I do not want this £250 as much as I want my own bathroom'.
We smiled at the very beautiful woman and said no thanks. She smiled back and said 'well, as we are so full, I have moved you into the next cabin. Have a nice flight.'
I have never been upgraded on a flight in my life before! OK, it was only to World Traveller Plus, so it wasn't like getting a sleeper suit and smoked salmon on silver plates or anything, but we got big seats and preferential toilet access. I like to think this was my karmic reward for turning down the cash.
But the best reward of all was getting in the bath. India has much to love and much to miss, but a hot bath gets to the places that a jug and bucket just can't reach.
So now I just have to try and work out what time it is in my body, and get my head round how quiet it is in this country. I feel like I'm waiting for my brain to descramble and my ears to pop.
joella
Saturday, January 13, 2007
India: never knowingly understaffed
I am a tiny bit ashamed to admit this, but we just hired a car and a driver for three days. He drove us from Madurai to Thanjavur on the first day (about six hours driving), on a couple of desultory trips round Thanjavur on the second, and to Mamallapuram on the third (about eight hours driving). Nights, I think he slept in the car. That's what drivers do here. That was one of the reasons I chose a big Ambassador rather than a little Maruti.
This entire exercise cost about the same as one standard class open return from Oxford to Preston. We did it a) because there were no direct trains between point A and point B, and no trains at all between point B and point C, so we'd have been on long distance buses with (ever increasing) luggage, which is an utterly miserable way to travel, and b) because we both had stomach upsets which made any form of transport over which we had no control a bit of a scary prospect. And we felt pretty knackered out generally. But mainly because it was so damn cheap.
It's so damn cheap because there are so many people here. In every hotel there is a staff of hundreds - the person who takes the laundry is not the person who cleans the room (or indeed the person who *does* the laundry), the room service boy will call someone else to call the lift for you, while a third boy will carry the bag you have given up any attempt to carry yourself. You pay the man on reception, and he hands your receipt to someone else to put into an envelope and hand to you. Restaurant service is similarly finely gradated. The lowliest person you see is the one who clears the crumbs off the table after the plates have been removed by someone else, but there are many more levels after hours, I'm sure.
And most of these people rely on tips to supplement a tiny wage, so driving is a relatively good job, I suspect, especially if everyone feels as guilty as we did and tips so well.
I wish his English had been better though. His manners were impeccable and his driving excellent, but he was otherwise totally inscrutable. We wanted to explain. He may of course not have given a toss. Oh, it's a complicated business.
Anyway, home soon. One thing I won't miss is the Indian media. Today's Deccan Times headline was better constructed than most, but utterly depressing: TSUNAMI-HIT SELL KIDNEYS. Ack. Sleeping in the car has to be a better way to earn a living than that.
joella
This entire exercise cost about the same as one standard class open return from Oxford to Preston. We did it a) because there were no direct trains between point A and point B, and no trains at all between point B and point C, so we'd have been on long distance buses with (ever increasing) luggage, which is an utterly miserable way to travel, and b) because we both had stomach upsets which made any form of transport over which we had no control a bit of a scary prospect. And we felt pretty knackered out generally. But mainly because it was so damn cheap.
It's so damn cheap because there are so many people here. In every hotel there is a staff of hundreds - the person who takes the laundry is not the person who cleans the room (or indeed the person who *does* the laundry), the room service boy will call someone else to call the lift for you, while a third boy will carry the bag you have given up any attempt to carry yourself. You pay the man on reception, and he hands your receipt to someone else to put into an envelope and hand to you. Restaurant service is similarly finely gradated. The lowliest person you see is the one who clears the crumbs off the table after the plates have been removed by someone else, but there are many more levels after hours, I'm sure.
And most of these people rely on tips to supplement a tiny wage, so driving is a relatively good job, I suspect, especially if everyone feels as guilty as we did and tips so well.
I wish his English had been better though. His manners were impeccable and his driving excellent, but he was otherwise totally inscrutable. We wanted to explain. He may of course not have given a toss. Oh, it's a complicated business.
Anyway, home soon. One thing I won't miss is the Indian media. Today's Deccan Times headline was better constructed than most, but utterly depressing: TSUNAMI-HIT SELL KIDNEYS. Ack. Sleeping in the car has to be a better way to earn a living than that.
joella
Monday, January 08, 2007
Shower power
Yesterday was a long old day. We finally, and sadly, bade farewell to Haritha Farms (not to be missed, should you find yourself in Kerala), and set off in a taxi at 8 am for a day on the backwaters. We were navigated through narrow waterways by wizened men in orange lunghis with excellent punting skills. They pointed out the water snakes, the kingfishers and the wild pineapples as we went. It was like the River Cherwell on acid.
But it was also bakingly, steamingly, meltingly hot, and we were dropped with our bags at about 5pm at Ernakulam Junction wanting nothing more or less than a cold shower followed by a cold beer. There was no prospect whatever of the former, however, so we made the best of it by visiting one of South India's gloriously dingy air-con bars, full of men drinking vodka on ice and doing deals, and followed that with a fortifying masala dosa at one of the incomparable Indian Coffee Houses. Where else in the world would a worker's cooperative run a restaurant with turbanned waiters?
Then we settled on Platform 1 in the warm clammy night to read our books, slap mosquitoes and wait for the night train to Madurai.
Twelve hours later we emerged blinking onto another Platform 1, after a decent 8 hours sleep and several wake-up cups of Indian Railways' super-sweet coffee. Deflecting the most persistent auto-rickshaw drivers to date, we hoisted our ever-expanding rucksacks and walked to the Hotel Supreme, which I have been looking forward to visiting ever since I found its website about six months ago.
It hasn't disappointed yet. Our room has cool marble floors, the ceiling fan is whirring, I've scrubbed 30 hours of grime off me, and there's a thali out there somewhere with my name on it.
I love this place.
joella
But it was also bakingly, steamingly, meltingly hot, and we were dropped with our bags at about 5pm at Ernakulam Junction wanting nothing more or less than a cold shower followed by a cold beer. There was no prospect whatever of the former, however, so we made the best of it by visiting one of South India's gloriously dingy air-con bars, full of men drinking vodka on ice and doing deals, and followed that with a fortifying masala dosa at one of the incomparable Indian Coffee Houses. Where else in the world would a worker's cooperative run a restaurant with turbanned waiters?
Then we settled on Platform 1 in the warm clammy night to read our books, slap mosquitoes and wait for the night train to Madurai.
Twelve hours later we emerged blinking onto another Platform 1, after a decent 8 hours sleep and several wake-up cups of Indian Railways' super-sweet coffee. Deflecting the most persistent auto-rickshaw drivers to date, we hoisted our ever-expanding rucksacks and walked to the Hotel Supreme, which I have been looking forward to visiting ever since I found its website about six months ago.
It hasn't disappointed yet. Our room has cool marble floors, the ceiling fan is whirring, I've scrubbed 30 hours of grime off me, and there's a thali out there somewhere with my name on it.
I love this place.
joella
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Slickedy doo dah
Ayurvedic massage tables look a bit like wooden pool tables, I have discovered. They are rock hard, dead flat, and have holes at the corners. These are for drainage purposes.
You clamber aboard in a paper loin cloth (basically a bit of string and a length of loo roll) which has no discernible function and last about three seconds, lie on your back quivering slightly, and then two nice ladies (or gents, if you are of the gent persuasion) pour a gallon of toffee-smelling oil over you and make vigorous synchronised circular and up-and-down movements designed, I believe, to loosen deep seated toxins.
They certainly loosen something. Your job is to slither around bashing into the edges and trying not to think about what this must look like. Your last shred of dignity departs when they've finished your front and want you to turn over. There is no purchase to be had anywhere, so you flail helplessly while farty oil sounds emanate from the small of your back.
When they're done with you (and not all of it is vigorous pumelling, some is delicate circumnavigation of the navel which is strange but very pleasant, like being tickled with many small rubbery funnels) they help you up and then leave you with a bucket of hot water, some twigs ("scrubbing!"), a bag of brown powder ("also scrubbing!"), a tiny pot of brown goo ("hair!), a mini bar of soap and a large-ish tea towel. You therefore come out of the bathroom covered in nearly as much oil as when you went in.
Never again, you think, and then two days later you have another one.
joella
You clamber aboard in a paper loin cloth (basically a bit of string and a length of loo roll) which has no discernible function and last about three seconds, lie on your back quivering slightly, and then two nice ladies (or gents, if you are of the gent persuasion) pour a gallon of toffee-smelling oil over you and make vigorous synchronised circular and up-and-down movements designed, I believe, to loosen deep seated toxins.
They certainly loosen something. Your job is to slither around bashing into the edges and trying not to think about what this must look like. Your last shred of dignity departs when they've finished your front and want you to turn over. There is no purchase to be had anywhere, so you flail helplessly while farty oil sounds emanate from the small of your back.
When they're done with you (and not all of it is vigorous pumelling, some is delicate circumnavigation of the navel which is strange but very pleasant, like being tickled with many small rubbery funnels) they help you up and then leave you with a bucket of hot water, some twigs ("scrubbing!"), a bag of brown powder ("also scrubbing!"), a tiny pot of brown goo ("hair!), a mini bar of soap and a large-ish tea towel. You therefore come out of the bathroom covered in nearly as much oil as when you went in.
Never again, you think, and then two days later you have another one.
joella
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Coconut oil and ayurveda to the rescue
Happy New Year! We managed to stay up until all of 10.30 on New Year's Eve, and that was only thanks to a bottle of Indian Cava and a lively game of Corx with our fellow guests. When daylight fades on Haritha Farms, you tend to fade with it.
I did, however, wake up the next day feeling decidedly peaky in the ear, nose and throat department, something which had been brewing for the previous couple of days and which has annoyingly kept me from the first two cooking sessions on our seven day course. M has had to do double shifts at Coconut Central. The food's helped though. Pepper and ginger can cut through most things, in my experience.
I also had to miss my first Ayurvedic massage, due yesterday at the Dhanwanthari Vaidyasala, which M said made him feel like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed at both ends. Instead I sat with a nice lady doctor who prescribed me some Anjal, something unpronounceable and some Septilin. The first two are tablets and therefore easy enough to deal with, the last is a black viscous liquid which tastes pretty alarming.
I don't half feel better, mind. So much better, in fact, that I got up at 6.30 this morning and rode on an elephant before breakfast. And tonight I get my apron on and get to work on those coconuts.
joella
I did, however, wake up the next day feeling decidedly peaky in the ear, nose and throat department, something which had been brewing for the previous couple of days and which has annoyingly kept me from the first two cooking sessions on our seven day course. M has had to do double shifts at Coconut Central. The food's helped though. Pepper and ginger can cut through most things, in my experience.
I also had to miss my first Ayurvedic massage, due yesterday at the Dhanwanthari Vaidyasala, which M said made him feel like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed at both ends. Instead I sat with a nice lady doctor who prescribed me some Anjal, something unpronounceable and some Septilin. The first two are tablets and therefore easy enough to deal with, the last is a black viscous liquid which tastes pretty alarming.
I don't half feel better, mind. So much better, in fact, that I got up at 6.30 this morning and rode on an elephant before breakfast. And tonight I get my apron on and get to work on those coconuts.
joella
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