May 9 -- 2:14pm
It’s hot and muggy and I’m in a pissy mood. I’m waiting at the dock for a boat that’s already here, but it won’t be leaving for another hour and 45 minutes.
The scuba resort owner told me there’s only one ferry that goes from the island of Havelock (where I am) to Port Blair (where I need to go). That ferry is the slow one, a 4 ½ hour ride (I was on the “fast” one on the way here. It still took 2 ½ hours and was unpleasantly uncomfortable). The owner gave me the ticket and said the boat leaves at 2pm.
With a few hours to kill before then, I wandered around taking pictures, went on a nice walk, then took a rickshaw to Number 7 Beach, which is I read somewhere is one of the most beautiful beaches in the world -- or at least in Asia. It’s a cool beach. I don’t know if it’s one of the best in the world (or in Asia), but whatever. I dig it.
I made sure to be back at Café Del Mar well before 1:30, the time the “shuttle” (another rickshaw) was scheduled to take me to catch the ferry. The rick showed up at 1:40, we reached the dock at 1:50. I tried to board the ferry, but the ferry guy said there’s no boarding until 15:30 (3:30pm). The boat wasn’t delayed, he said, it was always scheduled to leave at four. Dagnabbit. I could’ve had an extra two hours to do whatever, instead I get stuck here at the dock. I called Café Del Mar to say they got the times wrong. I wasn’t able to talk to the owner -- just Jez, the annoying British hippie scuba guy. He said it wasn’t really the owner’s fault since the ferry times change a lot. Whatever. The guy handed me a ticket and said it was for 2pm, it turned out to really be for 4pm. Sounds like his fault to me.
So now I sit outside the packed passenger waiting room, swatting the more-than-occasional fly, watching goats and dogs fight for the used coconuts that were tossed into piles after people drank the sweet milk inside. I’m sweaty and uncomfortable and irritable. And I still have another hour and a half until the boat even leaves. I just want to reach Port Blair. I want to get to the hotel and take a shower.
May 9 -- 3:34pm
I’m on the ferry. After waiting in another of those hellish Indian queues, I am on the ferry. This one is actually much better than the fast one on my way over. It’s bigger. There’s more leg room. The seats all face the same direction -- and they recline! Actually they seem to be stuck on permanent recline, but I can live with that. Plus I’m in the direct path of a large (oscillating) fan. Nice. Now I shall rest, perhaps snooze, drink the (cold!) water I’d just bought and read my book. Just five hours till I reach Port Blair. Woohoo!
The scuba resort manager actually came down to the dock to talk to me an hour ago. He didn’t have to do that (and I never asked him to) but I thought it was a classy move. He’d felt bad about the departure time mix-up, which I appreciated.
May 9 -- 6:48pm
It’s night time. The ferry has been moving for a while. I read a few chapters of my book (an anthology called “St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves.” I bought it a year ago after I heard the author on NPR. Book scholar that I am, I only just started reading it -- but it’s very good). I have grown used to the saran-wrap thing layer of sweat covering all my human and clothing surfaces. My lips taste salty. I decide to walk around and stretch my legs.
Many people sit in their seats. A few stand, sticking their heads out the portholes. On the dirty floor, some barefoot men play cards while an old woman sleeps under a blanket.
I walk up the steps and down a narrow passage I stumble into a food service area (is “galley” the proper word?). The menu taped to the wall lists times for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The dinner time was been crossed out by hand, changed to a time after which the ferry will have reached Port Blair. Was this done deliberately so passengers couldn’t have a solid meal? Hmmm... But no biggie. I’m happy buying chips. I eat them as I stand by an open rectangular window, watching the fuzzy reflection of the ferry lights in the undulating waves of the dark sea water. The wind feels good against my face -- not cold, or even cool -- but cooler.
I decide I need to pee. I can actually hold it a while, but looking for the bathroom gives me something to do. A goal to reach for while exploring the passageways of the boat. I end up outside on the back of the boat, then outside on the front. It’s very dark. I can only see the silhouettes of the other passengers, talking in a language (or languages) I do not understand. I see bright lights in the distance. Port Blair? I can’t imagine there’s much else out there, at least much else with such bright lights.
The bathroom I find is vile, as expected. But at least it smells okay. All the toilets are in their own little rooms. The first one I check has a small palette of wood covering the floor. It’s floating in some liquid (water, I hope). I decide to look for another toilet.
I find a less objectionable toilet but it’s still a little strange. It looks like a bathroom would look in the 12 Monkeys universe, presuming the 12 Monkeys universe had bathrooms. I stand on two small metal platforms, each shaped vaguely like a foot, and have to aim for a drain between them, far, far below. A challenge, yes (and I can only imagine the challenge if I had to do anything more). But then, I am always up for a challenge. And I succeed.
May 9 -- 8:30pm
Finally, after traversing the reams of hotel check-in paperwork, and climbing up and down (roughly) a bazillion stairs, I am in my hotel room. I’m at the Megapode Nest, apparently named after some species of bird. Some species named Megapode.
I’m excited that I’ll be taking a shower. I would love for it to have hot water (haven’t had that since leaving Bangalore), but at this point, even if the water was piped in directly from the arctic circle, I would still be very happy.
May 9 -- 8:47pm
The water was only hot for 30 seconds, but man, those 30 seconds were AMAZING. And they allowed me to overlook the lizard that greeted me upon entering the bathroom.
May 10 -- 7:17am
I wake up naturally at 6:30am. I have to meet the airport-bound shuttle at 6:45. I must’ve passed out before setting my alarms last night. And I have no recollection as to whether I received my wake up call or not.
I hurriedly get all my stuff together, of course it’s strewn everywhere. I run around jamming things into my bag. In my haste, I slip on the non-skid (!) bathroom rug. I manage to brace my crash landing with my hand, right on one of my many little cuts. Now my wrist hurts.
I do a super-quick paranoia check (making sure I’m leaving nothing behind), the speed of which makes it even more paranoid. I run up and down the (roughly) bazillion stairs. I make it to the shuttle just five minutes late. Oh yeah, I rock.
On the ride to the airport, I get a call from Indian Airlines. “Oh no,” I silently exclaim. Has my flight been cancelled? Nope, just delayed. There aren’t many flights that leave Port Blair, so I’m fine with just a delay. And it was nice of the airline to call me.
Now I sit at the gate in the small Port Blair airport (whose airport code is IXZ, for some strange reason). I’m near the TV, which is showing something in Hindi (I think it’s Hindi). At first I thought it was a shop-from-home show. Now it appears to be a read-your-astrological-forecast-from-home show. I guess. Unless maybe it’s a shopping show that sells tarot cards.
Since another flight was boarding as I first came in, I sat in an empty seat in a whole sea of empty seats. And of course two minutes later, some guy has to sit right next to me. Of course.
May 10 -- 10:44am
It’s wild. I’m flying on the plane and a handful of people (in different groups) are taking pictures of each other. I’ve never seen that before. It’s been going on for fifteen minutes now. Maybe these are their first flights or something. Weird.
(Pix from Number 7 beach and the dock at Havelock? Click the link at the bottom of the previous post. Because who doesn’t want to see dogs and goats eating coconuts?)
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
below the surface
May 5 -- 6:42pm
A storm rages outside. I stay dry in the covered multi-purpose space, watching instructional DVDs (one of which is delayed an hour after the power goes out halfway through) and taking little quizzes. Yep, flew across the Bay of Bengal to take little quizzes. Missy, the hippie chick, teaches an Austrian couple around my age and I the fine art of not dying while scuba diving. The main focus: preventing your lungs from exploding.
Local food options are limited (there’s only the outdoor restaurant at the “resort”), so after class I take a walk into town to buy necessities: bottled water and cookies. And some chocolate since they happen to sell it.
Then it’s back to my duplex hut. The hut itself is elevated. The bathroom is at the bottom of the outdoor steps, next to where six vagabond dogs have made their home. The shower has no hot water, but at least it’s a shower...in the loosest sense of the word. The drain is just a hole cut into the corner tile where the floor meets the walls. The floor slopes slightly so the water drains through the hole.
My hut upstairs has a couple fans, a couple lights and a bed. A door leads to a balcony, but even with the door closed, there’s still a two foot space between the top of the wall and the ceiling. Thus, many strange and unusual creatures make their way inside my hut. The bamboo-framed bed has mosquito netting atop the canopy. You have to pull it down and tuck the bottom edges underneath the mattress. I do this, but still find many a little critter chilling next to me in bed. And even with the bugs that the netting keeps out, it’s still rather unsettling to see half inch black beetles directly above your head, separated from you by only the thin mesh fabric they rest on.
May 6 -- 6:18pm
Today we dive. Missy, the Austrians (Mike and Sigy) and I take a 45 minute boat ride to the shallow practice site. The boat is called a dunghi. It’s nothing fancy -- a narrow wooden ride with peeling paint and a ripped tarp hanging over the center. The motor is loud and repetitive. Bat! Bat! Bat! Bat! Bat! But any unpleasantness is made up for by the pleasing stench of burning fuel wafting through the air. Ahhhhhh...
We arrive at small, mostly secluded, Elephant Beach. Some uprooted trees lay sideways in the water, ferns growing on top of their now sideways trunks. Apparently after the tsunami a few years ago, the whole island sloped to one side, causing the seawater to drift toward the trees. The saltwater poisoned the roots and the trees toppled over.
Wearing our wetsuits, flippers, BCDs (the scuba vest that has hoses and other stuff on it), masks and big canisters of air, we go shoulder deep in the water. As Missy explains the “skills” we have to practice so that we don’t die, it starts raining -- first light, then hard. We ignore the loud blasts of thunder and continue our lesson, though apparently if there was lightning, we’d have stopped.
We put the breathing devices in our mouths and go underwater, kneeling on the sandy floor a few feet below the surface. One of the very first skills we must do is clear water out of our masks while underwater. It’s very basic -- you tilt your head down, lift the bottom of the mask off your face, then blow out through your nose while tilting your head up. The Austrians have no problems with this but I just can’t get it. I struggle. I swallow water. I repeatedly panic and rise up to the surface. I didn’t expect this to be so hard.
Missy has to spend extra time helping me. I feel dumb, like the slow kid in class. I get frustrated. And nervous. If I can’t master this simple skill (without panicking), how could I possibly do a real dive? I’m totally not a quitter, but I think about quitting. It doesn’t sound so bad. I could just spend the next three days relaxing in this tropical island paradise, playing with stray dogs and dodging torrential downpours.
But I know I’ll forever regret it if I don’t keep trying. Finally I sort of get it, clearing at least some of the water from my mask. We move on to the other skills, which I’m decent at. Not as good as the Austrians, but at least acceptable.
We do skills for a while, then take a short break, then more skills -- this time a few meters below the surface. I’m feeling better now, a little more confident. I’m still the slow kid in class, but even slow kids pick things up eventually.
And then, we dive. For 25 minutes, we explore the warm water of the Andaman Sea, swimming by colorful fish, blue sea stars, a huge and oddly beautiful sea cucumber. It’s very cool, the feeling of floating underwater. I’m glad I didn’t quit.
We take the dunghi back to Café Del Mar and log our dive. 25 minutes, 11.6 meters deep (at our deepest point), who we dove with, what animal life we saw. And then the four of us talk for a few hours over tea and coffee and a couple baskets of French fries. I knew I’d have a lot of time to myself on this trip, so I enjoy this bit of group interaction.
After the sun goes down, I walk along the beach, leaving my footprints in the slightly moist white sand. On one side of me lies a forest of mangrove and palm trees. On the other side, tied off dunghis bob gently in the low tide water among poking sprags of coral. The faint sound of water rolling in, the smell of sea salt in the air. I’m glad I came to the Andaman Islands.
May 6 -- 7:28pm
The power just went out during the middle of my (cold) shower. In the dark, I let the water continue to stream out, washing the soap off my body. Reaching blindly, I managed to get outside and back up the stairs to my hut. I write this by the light of my flashlight. I’m glad I remembered to bring a flashlight.
May 7 -- 4:29pm
Two big dives today. We start the first one by sitting in our gear on the edge of the boat, backs to the water. Then with one hand on the mask and the other on the weight belt, we roll in backwards. I’m nervous as I watch the others do this, but I do it anyway. It’s not so bad.
The first dive is breathtaking. We go as deep as 18 meters and see many exotic fish, a freaky moray eel, many sea cucumbers and sea slugs, which are actually cool and brightly colored.
And then comes what I’ve really been dreading. We have to do another skill to earn the official PADI (Professional Association of Diving Instructors) open water scuba certification -- we have to swim 200 meters, then float for ten minutes. To do the 200 meters, we have to circle the boat ten times. Now I’m okay with swimming underwater. But on the surface, I totally suck. I can swim for a (very) short distance, but that’s about it. So after I swim around the boat once, I am completely spent. I do my remaining nine laps floating on my back, kicking. Sure it’s cheesy, but Missy says it still counts. I’m just happy to get it over with, even if it seems to take forever.
After our second dive, we take the dunghi back to Café Del Mar, eating our typical dive lunch along the way: a hard boiled egg and rice with a few veggies, wrapped in plastic wrapped in newspaper. We eat it all with our hands. We also drink hot tea, which normally I don’t care for. But coming out of the water, it rocks.
Back on dry land, we are wiped out. I nod off repeatedly as we watch the last section of the instructional DVD. We take a final exam and I pass. Hizzah! It’ll be cool to get the certification, I guess (and the card will make a nice souvenir), but I doubt I’ll be scuba-ing again anytime soon.
May 9 -- 2:09am
My knees are sunburned. From just above the kneecap to just below, they are bright red, the result of the sun shining for the first time in days. It was between dives, for maybe half an hour. I was still wearing my wetsuit (which, coincidentally enough, extends to just above the kneecap), at least on my waist. I had pulled out of the upper part to let my chest breathe a little bit, to ease the tight wetsuit-created restriction. We sat in the rare sunlight while waiting for our nitrogen levels to go down, which you must do when doing multiple dives in a single day. After 15 minutes, I pulled back into the shade, which was a good decision as I now look at my sunburned face, neck, arms and chest. But they’re not as bad as my knees, which still poked into the sunlight and got some extra baking.
The dives are awesome. For the first time, we have almost no skills to work on. Just a few minutes playing with oversized compasses strapped to our wrists. We do a couple more “fun dives.” As seems to be my M.O., I get a little nervous just before the first one. Not sure why, since I’d already done it a few times before. But after we’ve been underwater for a while and we have to swim back up to the surface, I don’t want to get out.
We swim to a depth of 18 meters, checking out the picturesque corals and sea anemones and such. I see a puffer fish (non-puffed up), a lobster, a lionfish -- even a big octopus hiding in a hole in the wall. Even if I didn’t see these creatures, it was still neat just seeing all the fish and floating around in their element. Though I wouldn’t have complained if I got to see a sea turtle either.
A few times it hits me – at that exact moment, my co-workers are staring at a computer screen, eyes glazing over. And here I am in the middle of the Andaman Sea, a school of yellow striped fusilier swimming through me. I like my situation better.
Sigy takes a few pictures (including a few of me) with a disposable underwater camera. I hope the pictures come out. It would be so awesome to see pictures of me underwater, though who knows how recognizable I’d be under my mask and all that gear. It’s great that Sigy has a camera, but it distracts me a bit from just enjoying the below-the-surface scenery, embracing the serenity. I’d occasionally find myself subtlely posing when she’d be snapping a pic in my general direction. Oh well. They’ll email me the pictures later, presuming they came out. [7/16/07: it’s two months later and I have not received any pictures…dagnabbit]
It’s pouring rain by the time we get back to “dry” land. Seems like it’s always raining here. It makes sense since the monsoon season is about to start (my group is Barefoot Scuba’s very last group of the season). As we fill out our dive logs (and Missy gives us PADI stamps for legitimacy and fish stickers for fun), the rain still hits me, despite being eight feet in from the edge of the roof in the open-air restaurant.
Nobody else seems to care, but I watch 15, then 20, then 30 mosquitoes congregate on our table. Balancing on the edges of our glasses, exchanging pleasantries with each other, climbing into the cup of ketchup. It’s really gross. Though thankfully I don’t eat ketchup.
I look forward to my next hotel not having mosquitoes everywhere. And my bed not having fleas. Let’s hope it is completely critter free. My legs are covered with bug bites and I have little cuts all over my hands and feet (I’m not sure if saltwater is good or bad for those). Not sure how I got them all, probably from climbing in and out of the dunghi. But I know I got the nasty little cut on my finger when my folding chair abruptly folded and it caught my skin.
Pretty much everywhere I walk at the “resort,” I do it barefoot. Seems appropriate since Barefoot is the name of the place. And I might as well be barefoot since all the walking paths are covered with thick mud. I don’t want to completely ruin my shoes. And I just like being barefoot anyway.
When the rain takes a break, I go for a nice aimless walk down the one lane street, passing little farms and palm trees on my right, the entrances to small, ramshackle huts-on-the-beach resorts on the left. I exchange hellos with a few locals as we cross paths. A little girl asks me to take her picture, which I do. She smiles when she sees it. It’s a nice walk. I just hope it doesn’t start raining again.
I have dinner back at the outdoor restaurant -- an omelet along with chicken and noodles – the walk made me hungry. I give small pieces of chicken to my tiny kitten friend, who is visiting me again. The tiny kitten must have been starving because she even eats a noodle that fell on the ground. So I give her a bunch more. I’ve never seen a cat eat noodles before.
I go back to Port Blair tomorrow (technically today), then Calcutta the next day and Kathmandu the day after that. I’m tired, I feel ready to go back home now. But I already planned and paid for this long vacation after nearly six months abroad. Guess now I should actually finish it.
pictures from Havelock: CLICK HERE
A storm rages outside. I stay dry in the covered multi-purpose space, watching instructional DVDs (one of which is delayed an hour after the power goes out halfway through) and taking little quizzes. Yep, flew across the Bay of Bengal to take little quizzes. Missy, the hippie chick, teaches an Austrian couple around my age and I the fine art of not dying while scuba diving. The main focus: preventing your lungs from exploding.
Local food options are limited (there’s only the outdoor restaurant at the “resort”), so after class I take a walk into town to buy necessities: bottled water and cookies. And some chocolate since they happen to sell it.
Then it’s back to my duplex hut. The hut itself is elevated. The bathroom is at the bottom of the outdoor steps, next to where six vagabond dogs have made their home. The shower has no hot water, but at least it’s a shower...in the loosest sense of the word. The drain is just a hole cut into the corner tile where the floor meets the walls. The floor slopes slightly so the water drains through the hole.
My hut upstairs has a couple fans, a couple lights and a bed. A door leads to a balcony, but even with the door closed, there’s still a two foot space between the top of the wall and the ceiling. Thus, many strange and unusual creatures make their way inside my hut. The bamboo-framed bed has mosquito netting atop the canopy. You have to pull it down and tuck the bottom edges underneath the mattress. I do this, but still find many a little critter chilling next to me in bed. And even with the bugs that the netting keeps out, it’s still rather unsettling to see half inch black beetles directly above your head, separated from you by only the thin mesh fabric they rest on.
May 6 -- 6:18pm
Today we dive. Missy, the Austrians (Mike and Sigy) and I take a 45 minute boat ride to the shallow practice site. The boat is called a dunghi. It’s nothing fancy -- a narrow wooden ride with peeling paint and a ripped tarp hanging over the center. The motor is loud and repetitive. Bat! Bat! Bat! Bat! Bat! But any unpleasantness is made up for by the pleasing stench of burning fuel wafting through the air. Ahhhhhh...
We arrive at small, mostly secluded, Elephant Beach. Some uprooted trees lay sideways in the water, ferns growing on top of their now sideways trunks. Apparently after the tsunami a few years ago, the whole island sloped to one side, causing the seawater to drift toward the trees. The saltwater poisoned the roots and the trees toppled over.
Wearing our wetsuits, flippers, BCDs (the scuba vest that has hoses and other stuff on it), masks and big canisters of air, we go shoulder deep in the water. As Missy explains the “skills” we have to practice so that we don’t die, it starts raining -- first light, then hard. We ignore the loud blasts of thunder and continue our lesson, though apparently if there was lightning, we’d have stopped.
We put the breathing devices in our mouths and go underwater, kneeling on the sandy floor a few feet below the surface. One of the very first skills we must do is clear water out of our masks while underwater. It’s very basic -- you tilt your head down, lift the bottom of the mask off your face, then blow out through your nose while tilting your head up. The Austrians have no problems with this but I just can’t get it. I struggle. I swallow water. I repeatedly panic and rise up to the surface. I didn’t expect this to be so hard.
Missy has to spend extra time helping me. I feel dumb, like the slow kid in class. I get frustrated. And nervous. If I can’t master this simple skill (without panicking), how could I possibly do a real dive? I’m totally not a quitter, but I think about quitting. It doesn’t sound so bad. I could just spend the next three days relaxing in this tropical island paradise, playing with stray dogs and dodging torrential downpours.
But I know I’ll forever regret it if I don’t keep trying. Finally I sort of get it, clearing at least some of the water from my mask. We move on to the other skills, which I’m decent at. Not as good as the Austrians, but at least acceptable.
We do skills for a while, then take a short break, then more skills -- this time a few meters below the surface. I’m feeling better now, a little more confident. I’m still the slow kid in class, but even slow kids pick things up eventually.
And then, we dive. For 25 minutes, we explore the warm water of the Andaman Sea, swimming by colorful fish, blue sea stars, a huge and oddly beautiful sea cucumber. It’s very cool, the feeling of floating underwater. I’m glad I didn’t quit.
We take the dunghi back to Café Del Mar and log our dive. 25 minutes, 11.6 meters deep (at our deepest point), who we dove with, what animal life we saw. And then the four of us talk for a few hours over tea and coffee and a couple baskets of French fries. I knew I’d have a lot of time to myself on this trip, so I enjoy this bit of group interaction.
After the sun goes down, I walk along the beach, leaving my footprints in the slightly moist white sand. On one side of me lies a forest of mangrove and palm trees. On the other side, tied off dunghis bob gently in the low tide water among poking sprags of coral. The faint sound of water rolling in, the smell of sea salt in the air. I’m glad I came to the Andaman Islands.
May 6 -- 7:28pm
The power just went out during the middle of my (cold) shower. In the dark, I let the water continue to stream out, washing the soap off my body. Reaching blindly, I managed to get outside and back up the stairs to my hut. I write this by the light of my flashlight. I’m glad I remembered to bring a flashlight.
May 7 -- 4:29pm
Two big dives today. We start the first one by sitting in our gear on the edge of the boat, backs to the water. Then with one hand on the mask and the other on the weight belt, we roll in backwards. I’m nervous as I watch the others do this, but I do it anyway. It’s not so bad.
The first dive is breathtaking. We go as deep as 18 meters and see many exotic fish, a freaky moray eel, many sea cucumbers and sea slugs, which are actually cool and brightly colored.
And then comes what I’ve really been dreading. We have to do another skill to earn the official PADI (Professional Association of Diving Instructors) open water scuba certification -- we have to swim 200 meters, then float for ten minutes. To do the 200 meters, we have to circle the boat ten times. Now I’m okay with swimming underwater. But on the surface, I totally suck. I can swim for a (very) short distance, but that’s about it. So after I swim around the boat once, I am completely spent. I do my remaining nine laps floating on my back, kicking. Sure it’s cheesy, but Missy says it still counts. I’m just happy to get it over with, even if it seems to take forever.
After our second dive, we take the dunghi back to Café Del Mar, eating our typical dive lunch along the way: a hard boiled egg and rice with a few veggies, wrapped in plastic wrapped in newspaper. We eat it all with our hands. We also drink hot tea, which normally I don’t care for. But coming out of the water, it rocks.
Back on dry land, we are wiped out. I nod off repeatedly as we watch the last section of the instructional DVD. We take a final exam and I pass. Hizzah! It’ll be cool to get the certification, I guess (and the card will make a nice souvenir), but I doubt I’ll be scuba-ing again anytime soon.
May 9 -- 2:09am
My knees are sunburned. From just above the kneecap to just below, they are bright red, the result of the sun shining for the first time in days. It was between dives, for maybe half an hour. I was still wearing my wetsuit (which, coincidentally enough, extends to just above the kneecap), at least on my waist. I had pulled out of the upper part to let my chest breathe a little bit, to ease the tight wetsuit-created restriction. We sat in the rare sunlight while waiting for our nitrogen levels to go down, which you must do when doing multiple dives in a single day. After 15 minutes, I pulled back into the shade, which was a good decision as I now look at my sunburned face, neck, arms and chest. But they’re not as bad as my knees, which still poked into the sunlight and got some extra baking.
The dives are awesome. For the first time, we have almost no skills to work on. Just a few minutes playing with oversized compasses strapped to our wrists. We do a couple more “fun dives.” As seems to be my M.O., I get a little nervous just before the first one. Not sure why, since I’d already done it a few times before. But after we’ve been underwater for a while and we have to swim back up to the surface, I don’t want to get out.
We swim to a depth of 18 meters, checking out the picturesque corals and sea anemones and such. I see a puffer fish (non-puffed up), a lobster, a lionfish -- even a big octopus hiding in a hole in the wall. Even if I didn’t see these creatures, it was still neat just seeing all the fish and floating around in their element. Though I wouldn’t have complained if I got to see a sea turtle either.
A few times it hits me – at that exact moment, my co-workers are staring at a computer screen, eyes glazing over. And here I am in the middle of the Andaman Sea, a school of yellow striped fusilier swimming through me. I like my situation better.
Sigy takes a few pictures (including a few of me) with a disposable underwater camera. I hope the pictures come out. It would be so awesome to see pictures of me underwater, though who knows how recognizable I’d be under my mask and all that gear. It’s great that Sigy has a camera, but it distracts me a bit from just enjoying the below-the-surface scenery, embracing the serenity. I’d occasionally find myself subtlely posing when she’d be snapping a pic in my general direction. Oh well. They’ll email me the pictures later, presuming they came out. [7/16/07: it’s two months later and I have not received any pictures…dagnabbit]
It’s pouring rain by the time we get back to “dry” land. Seems like it’s always raining here. It makes sense since the monsoon season is about to start (my group is Barefoot Scuba’s very last group of the season). As we fill out our dive logs (and Missy gives us PADI stamps for legitimacy and fish stickers for fun), the rain still hits me, despite being eight feet in from the edge of the roof in the open-air restaurant.
Nobody else seems to care, but I watch 15, then 20, then 30 mosquitoes congregate on our table. Balancing on the edges of our glasses, exchanging pleasantries with each other, climbing into the cup of ketchup. It’s really gross. Though thankfully I don’t eat ketchup.
I look forward to my next hotel not having mosquitoes everywhere. And my bed not having fleas. Let’s hope it is completely critter free. My legs are covered with bug bites and I have little cuts all over my hands and feet (I’m not sure if saltwater is good or bad for those). Not sure how I got them all, probably from climbing in and out of the dunghi. But I know I got the nasty little cut on my finger when my folding chair abruptly folded and it caught my skin.
Pretty much everywhere I walk at the “resort,” I do it barefoot. Seems appropriate since Barefoot is the name of the place. And I might as well be barefoot since all the walking paths are covered with thick mud. I don’t want to completely ruin my shoes. And I just like being barefoot anyway.
When the rain takes a break, I go for a nice aimless walk down the one lane street, passing little farms and palm trees on my right, the entrances to small, ramshackle huts-on-the-beach resorts on the left. I exchange hellos with a few locals as we cross paths. A little girl asks me to take her picture, which I do. She smiles when she sees it. It’s a nice walk. I just hope it doesn’t start raining again.
I have dinner back at the outdoor restaurant -- an omelet along with chicken and noodles – the walk made me hungry. I give small pieces of chicken to my tiny kitten friend, who is visiting me again. The tiny kitten must have been starving because she even eats a noodle that fell on the ground. So I give her a bunch more. I’ve never seen a cat eat noodles before.
I go back to Port Blair tomorrow (technically today), then Calcutta the next day and Kathmandu the day after that. I’m tired, I feel ready to go back home now. But I already planned and paid for this long vacation after nearly six months abroad. Guess now I should actually finish it.
pictures from Havelock: CLICK HERE
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
getting drenched getting there
May 3 -- 7:20pm
After not getting much (any) sleep last night, I take a late morning flight to Chennai (formerly Madras), an hour away from Bangalore. I get off the plane. The sky is dark and dingy gray. I’d heard Chennai was smoggy, but this much? A moment later, I realize my mistake upon hearing a giant thunderclap. It starts pouring. Following the man from the prepaid taxi stand with a plastic bag on his head, I run through six inches of water to beat the crowd and catch my pre-paid taxi. Five minutes into my ride, it stops raining.
I crash at the obviously named Hotel Shelter for a few hours, then walk the neighborhood in my still-sloshy shoes. Not a bad city, at least the small sliver of it I explore. I see a couple temples and am mildly hounded by peddlers and beggars. Typical. I’ve grown used to these things by now. My ignoring and saying “no” skills are top notch.
Back at the hotel, I hang my shoes and socks under a light in the bathroom. I hope they dry out completely.
May 4 -- 8:44pm
I wake up god-awful early to catch the 5:45am flight to Port Blair, Andaman Islands, a couple hours east of the Indian mainland. While preparing to land at Port Blair, I am loving the scenery below -- lush green islands with very few buildings. Reminds me a bit of the aerial shots in Survivor, though without the zippy camera zooms.
My ferry to Havelock Island doesn’t leave for a few hours so I have some time to kill, which is fine because I want to explore Port Blair. Shouldn’t take much time. Even though it’s the largest city in the Andamans, it’s still rather small.
The city is noticeably peaceful and quiet, especially contrasted with the crowded busyness of Bangalore. I walk along a tiled path by the water, not seeing any humans for minutes at a time. Nice. In my entire time in Port Blair, only three rickshaw drivers ask if they can give me a ride. Very nice. And of course I don’t take a ride. My feet work fine.
After a little while and a lengthy walk, it starts to rain. Just a drizzle at first, then a downpour, then drizzle, then downpour again. I jump a small gate and stay dry under the sheet metal roof of an unopened outdoor restaurant. The raindrops make thousands of simultaneous metallic pings over my head. The rain holding back slightly, I dash to a nearby aquarium and explore that for a little while. Nothing much to see, but then, I wasn’t expecting much.
The sky clears and I make my way up the hill to the Cellular Jail. I knew nothing about this place beforehand but I find it to be fascinating. This is where the British government sent (and tortured) the Indian freedom fighters who dared to want control of their own country. Interesting story and cool buildings. The nooses and torture racks are neat too.
I’m in the third story balcony hall of a jail cell wing when it starts pouring again. Not in the mood to get re-drenched, I duck into an open jail cell. Might as well take some pictures. Not much else to do as I ride out the weather. I set the auto timer on my camera and get some interesting shots of myself in jail. Because I am just that vain.
Wandering downtown Port Blair in the rain, I get nice and soggy. I stop by a grubby little restaurant with no front wall. There is no menu. The waiter/owner just gives me a plate of rice, then comes by with veggies and chicken and other such tasty Indian staples. It’s very good.
At two o’clock I catch the ferry to Havelock. The seats are uncomfortable and they face each other. Why do they do that? Who really wants to stare at some stranger’s face for a 2 ½ hour sweltering boat ride? I suspect the ferry also has a special discount -- get half off your fare if you’re accompanied by a screaming child. I did not know this ahead of time or else I would have borrowed a screaming child in Port Blair and saved a few rupees.
I have a large bottle of water tied to my bag, which sits just in front of me. I bought the water, frozen, just prior to the boat ride. Since it’s now melting, it’s sweating on the outside of the bottle. The mischievous little girl sitting opposite me reaches out and touches it. She waits for my reaction. I’m fine with it so I give her a small smile. She then encourages her brother to touch it. They are quite amused at their little game. Their mother sees them “bothering me” and tells them to stop. Havelock Island. I reach Café Del Mar, Barefoot Scuba’s “resort.” I immediately go and lie down in my sea-facing duplex hut.
I go down to the scuba “office” and meet the male British hippie and the female American hippie on staff. I have paperwork to fill out -- emergency contact information, papers saying it isn’t the company’s fault if I die. I decline to fill out the email section for my emergency contact. If I am to be devoured by a school of barracuda, I’d prefer for my mother to not find out via email.
As I try on flippers, a beach dog walks in and pukes on the floor.
I eat dinner at the outdoor restaurant. The world’s smallest kitten jumps on my lap, spooking me. She eats her entire bodyweight in the pieces of cut-up shrimp I give her from my plate. I wasn't going to eat them anyway.
pictures from Chennai: CLICK HERE
pictures from Port Blair: CLICK HERE
After not getting much (any) sleep last night, I take a late morning flight to Chennai (formerly Madras), an hour away from Bangalore. I get off the plane. The sky is dark and dingy gray. I’d heard Chennai was smoggy, but this much? A moment later, I realize my mistake upon hearing a giant thunderclap. It starts pouring. Following the man from the prepaid taxi stand with a plastic bag on his head, I run through six inches of water to beat the crowd and catch my pre-paid taxi. Five minutes into my ride, it stops raining.
I crash at the obviously named Hotel Shelter for a few hours, then walk the neighborhood in my still-sloshy shoes. Not a bad city, at least the small sliver of it I explore. I see a couple temples and am mildly hounded by peddlers and beggars. Typical. I’ve grown used to these things by now. My ignoring and saying “no” skills are top notch.
Back at the hotel, I hang my shoes and socks under a light in the bathroom. I hope they dry out completely.
May 4 -- 8:44pm
I wake up god-awful early to catch the 5:45am flight to Port Blair, Andaman Islands, a couple hours east of the Indian mainland. While preparing to land at Port Blair, I am loving the scenery below -- lush green islands with very few buildings. Reminds me a bit of the aerial shots in Survivor, though without the zippy camera zooms.
My ferry to Havelock Island doesn’t leave for a few hours so I have some time to kill, which is fine because I want to explore Port Blair. Shouldn’t take much time. Even though it’s the largest city in the Andamans, it’s still rather small.
The city is noticeably peaceful and quiet, especially contrasted with the crowded busyness of Bangalore. I walk along a tiled path by the water, not seeing any humans for minutes at a time. Nice. In my entire time in Port Blair, only three rickshaw drivers ask if they can give me a ride. Very nice. And of course I don’t take a ride. My feet work fine.
After a little while and a lengthy walk, it starts to rain. Just a drizzle at first, then a downpour, then drizzle, then downpour again. I jump a small gate and stay dry under the sheet metal roof of an unopened outdoor restaurant. The raindrops make thousands of simultaneous metallic pings over my head. The rain holding back slightly, I dash to a nearby aquarium and explore that for a little while. Nothing much to see, but then, I wasn’t expecting much.
The sky clears and I make my way up the hill to the Cellular Jail. I knew nothing about this place beforehand but I find it to be fascinating. This is where the British government sent (and tortured) the Indian freedom fighters who dared to want control of their own country. Interesting story and cool buildings. The nooses and torture racks are neat too.
I’m in the third story balcony hall of a jail cell wing when it starts pouring again. Not in the mood to get re-drenched, I duck into an open jail cell. Might as well take some pictures. Not much else to do as I ride out the weather. I set the auto timer on my camera and get some interesting shots of myself in jail. Because I am just that vain.
Wandering downtown Port Blair in the rain, I get nice and soggy. I stop by a grubby little restaurant with no front wall. There is no menu. The waiter/owner just gives me a plate of rice, then comes by with veggies and chicken and other such tasty Indian staples. It’s very good.
At two o’clock I catch the ferry to Havelock. The seats are uncomfortable and they face each other. Why do they do that? Who really wants to stare at some stranger’s face for a 2 ½ hour sweltering boat ride? I suspect the ferry also has a special discount -- get half off your fare if you’re accompanied by a screaming child. I did not know this ahead of time or else I would have borrowed a screaming child in Port Blair and saved a few rupees.
I have a large bottle of water tied to my bag, which sits just in front of me. I bought the water, frozen, just prior to the boat ride. Since it’s now melting, it’s sweating on the outside of the bottle. The mischievous little girl sitting opposite me reaches out and touches it. She waits for my reaction. I’m fine with it so I give her a small smile. She then encourages her brother to touch it. They are quite amused at their little game. Their mother sees them “bothering me” and tells them to stop. Havelock Island. I reach Café Del Mar, Barefoot Scuba’s “resort.” I immediately go and lie down in my sea-facing duplex hut.
I go down to the scuba “office” and meet the male British hippie and the female American hippie on staff. I have paperwork to fill out -- emergency contact information, papers saying it isn’t the company’s fault if I die. I decline to fill out the email section for my emergency contact. If I am to be devoured by a school of barracuda, I’d prefer for my mother to not find out via email.
As I try on flippers, a beach dog walks in and pukes on the floor.
I eat dinner at the outdoor restaurant. The world’s smallest kitten jumps on my lap, spooking me. She eats her entire bodyweight in the pieces of cut-up shrimp I give her from my plate. I wasn't going to eat them anyway.
pictures from Chennai: CLICK HERE
pictures from Port Blair: CLICK HERE
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Let me eat cake
Cake, you surround me. Black forest, pineapple gateaux, chocolate bomb. You come in so many colors and shapes and sizes, each of you more delectable than the one just before.
Tempting, moist, delicious sweet cake – you are everywhere. You’re on every coffee shop counter and movie theatre snack bar. Chocolate mousse, chocolate fantasy, chocolate doughnut – you’re not technically cake but you’re eaten with a spoon.
Meals are healthy. But cake, you balance it out. Thick and heavy, weighed down with icing. How do so many stay so thin when you show your sweet self?
Falooda, jalebi, gulab jamun – they’re all very tasty. But cake, you have the numbers. Cake, you have the reach. Cake, you dominate. And you taste good.
Tempting, moist, delicious sweet cake – you are everywhere. You’re on every coffee shop counter and movie theatre snack bar. Chocolate mousse, chocolate fantasy, chocolate doughnut – you’re not technically cake but you’re eaten with a spoon.
Meals are healthy. But cake, you balance it out. Thick and heavy, weighed down with icing. How do so many stay so thin when you show your sweet self?
Falooda, jalebi, gulab jamun – they’re all very tasty. But cake, you have the numbers. Cake, you have the reach. Cake, you dominate. And you taste good.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
and now, the scramble
I’ve reached the counting down point, but I have many different dates to count down to. I roughly have:
2 weeks left working in Bangalore
4 weeks left in India
5 weeks till I’m back in balmy L.A.
And of course, because I always put too much pressure on myself to be productive with my time, I have a lot of stuff to do. And only two weeks to do it. Namely, I have to edit my final India short film (I’ll also be doing something with all the urban monkey footage I’ve shot, but that will come post-balmy L.A. return). And I want it to be totally finished and online before I leave Bangalore. Self-imposed deadline. And I also have some writing I need to finish.
I spent all weekend shooting b-roll of interesting Bangalore stuff, including my interactions with it (like talking with cows). And I still have to shoot some indoor bits as well. And cut it all together. This will likely be the longest and most complex of my adequately named “Bangaloring” series. So of course I cannot spend my last few weeks relaxing. I’ve got work to do. Blechh.
I always guilt myself into being productive when all I really want to do is relax and watch TV and eat ice cream. Stupid self-guilt.
2 weeks left working in Bangalore
4 weeks left in India
5 weeks till I’m back in balmy L.A.
And of course, because I always put too much pressure on myself to be productive with my time, I have a lot of stuff to do. And only two weeks to do it. Namely, I have to edit my final India short film (I’ll also be doing something with all the urban monkey footage I’ve shot, but that will come post-balmy L.A. return). And I want it to be totally finished and online before I leave Bangalore. Self-imposed deadline. And I also have some writing I need to finish.
I spent all weekend shooting b-roll of interesting Bangalore stuff, including my interactions with it (like talking with cows). And I still have to shoot some indoor bits as well. And cut it all together. This will likely be the longest and most complex of my adequately named “Bangaloring” series. So of course I cannot spend my last few weeks relaxing. I’ve got work to do. Blechh.
I always guilt myself into being productive when all I really want to do is relax and watch TV and eat ice cream. Stupid self-guilt.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Sweatin' Mumbai
Last week was Good Friday, a holiday on the Indian calendar. Rather than wile away my day off on the streets of Bangalore, playing with wild dogs and dodging gaping holes in the sidewalk, I decided to fly to Mumbai. Bollywood.
Formerly known as Bombay (a way cooler name), Mumbai is home to the biggest film industry in the world, bigger even than Hollywood. Even after the city’s name change, the Bollywood nickname stuck. “Mullywood” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
It would be awesome to see filmmaking from the Indian perspective. I’d imagine it would be much like American filmmaking, but with a lot more Indian people. And big, over-the-top song and dance numbers – many taking place on hillsides and adjacent to water – where rhythm and movements symbolize a couple’s passion in a morally acceptable way.
Sadly, you can’t visit the Bollywood studios – they’re closed to the public. So I couldn’t witness firsthand a director telling his lead actress that her performance is “too realistic.” That she needs to heighten every expression, every gesture. To make it bigger, less subtle, more artificial. To make it more Bollywood.
I’d heard that occasionally a Bollywood production will pluck random tourists to be extras in a film. I’d be down with that. It would be neat to compare the experience with that glamorous period of my life when I worked as an extra, making background crosses like no other.
But that didn’t happen. I was never discovered by Central Casting: Mumbai.
When you want to drink a beer in India, chances are that it’s a Kingfisher beer. And when you want to fly on a really nice plane in India, you fly Kingfisher Airlines, which is what I did. For an hour and a half flight, I get a nice meal with dessert, a personal video screen on the seat in front of me (of course nothing good is on save for a claymation penguin show called Pingu), a little goody bag – even this weird spicy buttermilk drink in a juice box. It’s actually pretty nasty, but at least it’s free.
I arrive in Mumbai and step outside. It’s mid-afternoon and it’s hot. Very hot. Too-close-to-the-sun hot. I can’t find a “cool cab” (cab with air conditioning) so I take a regular one for the long ride to my hotel in the Fort district. The open cab windows create wind on my face as sweat dampens the back of my shirt.
The ride takes a while as we pass through neighborhood after neighborhood of slums. Homes made out of random pieces of wood and sheet metal and old plastic tarps. Ladders leading up to second story hovels. Children playing, some of them naked, some of them bored. Adults chatting or sleeping on the ground, on cots, on boxes, whatever. With the stifling heat, a nap is not such a bad idea.
I get to my hotel, The Residency, My room is small but it has an air conditioner. So I crank it up and sit motionless in front of it for a while. It’s lovely.
Finally I roust myself from my icy bliss. I should go outside and do something – but what? I need an objective. Looking through my assorted guides and maps, I see a movie theatre is nearby. Yes, I’ll see a Hindi movie. A Bollywood movie in Bollywood. I am pleased with myself for this brilliant plan.
The movie doesn’t start for a few hours so I go outside and wander aimlessly. I like to do that in strange cities. Pick up the atmosphere, the vibe. And Mumbai has a great vibe, a robust energy you can really feel.
I walk on the sidewalk, alternately ignoring and rejecting the countless vendors hawking bootleg DVDs, underwear, and what appear to be vibrators (seriously, a bunch of vendors are selling them and they don’t look like anything else). It seems every vendor makes an extra effort to grab my attention. They must know I’m from out of town – but how? Is it because I’m one of the few people wearing sunglasses? My nice sneakers? Or perhaps my blonde hair and milky white skin gives me away. Hmmm…
I have a nice dinner at a veg restaurant called Samrat. The soup and main course are fine, but the starter (appetizer) is the bomb. Twelve baby corns, deep fried. Mmmmm…deep fried baby corns…
Done with my herbavorian feast, I mosey over to the Eros Cinema with my ticket for the just-opened, destined-to-be-a-classic Shaka Laka Boom Boom. Some flick about the cutthroat music industry. I sit up in the balcony, the movie starts and twenty minutes later I fall asleep. This is not uncommon for me. In the states, I would often have a few dozing moments before snapping back awake for the rest of the flick. But today I sleep for most of the first half, right up until intermission. Which is fine. I manage to stay awake for the second half and wish I were still sleeping. Major overacting (which is obvious despite it not being in English), way overdramatic music – even the dancing is lame. A poor cinematic experience. Perhaps my expectations were too high for a film called Shaka Laka Boom Boom.
Saturday, I go to the Gateway of India. It’s pretty much as I expected – a large gray structure that doesn’t do anything and you can’t go inside, like the Arc de Triumphe in Paris or that big arch in Washington Square Park in NY. You see it, say “wow, that’s big,” you take a few pictures. And five minutes later, you’re done. At least from here, I can take a boat ride. Which is good, because the boats go to Elephanta Island, which is where I want to go.
The boat ride is hot. Thank goodness for the partial canopy or I’d completely wilt. After an hour, my fellow tourists and I arrive at the end of a long dock leading to Elephanta Island. I walk alongside a toy train that transports the kids and the lazy. My pace is only slightly slower than that of the train. I grab a bottle of water and snack on homemade nut brittle and some slices of mystery fruit (at first I think it’s an apple, turns out not to be) I bought from one of the many peddlers sitting on the ground.
Traditional women pose with objects on their heads, imploring you to take a picture (and give them money). I take a shot of the first one I pass as she mugs from the camera. I give her ten rupees and she says “twenty.” I continue walking. (Later I delete the picture. It feels too artificial, too inorganic)
I reach the base of a lengthy stone incline, a gauntlet of peddlers on both sides as far up as I can see. But at least these folk sell interesting souvenirs – carvings and bells and Ganesha figurines. And not a single vibrator. I pace myself as I climb the many steps, not wanting a repeat of my last sweltering staircase shlep, when I puked from walking too fast.
Reaching the top of the steps, I am sweating profusely. I taste it as it trickles into my mouth. It tastes like sweat.
I explore the wide open caves, or at least the one that’s open to visitors. Thousand year old columns and sculptures of Hindu gods. Same gods I’ve seen at many temples, but this time it’s in a cave. Which makes it cooler. Figuratively and literally. Gotta love caves.
I return to the mainland and look for snake charmers around the Gateway of India, for I’d heard they sometimes gather there. Unfortunately, I find none. Though I do see some teenagers diving boldly into the water and I grab some nice action shots.
My sweat almost makes me miss my dinner reservation. I knew it had seriously dampened my watchband, but I didn’t realize it had diffused into the timepiece itself, causing it to slow down time. So when I think it’s five o’clock, it turns out to really be six. Lousy sweaty watch.
I have an excellent dinner at the super fancy schmancy Taj Mahal Hotel. The restaurant is Wasabi, created by Masaharu Morimoto, one of the Iron Chefs. I hadn’t had real sushi since coming to India and this makes up for it. It’s ever so tasty and the presentation is superb. And it doesn’t hurt that the waiter keeps bringing me free sake.
On the hot walk back to the hotel, my shirt returns to its nearly liquid state. All I want to do is take a shower. But of course the hotel bathroom doesn’t have a traditional (Western) shower, it only has a curtain to divide the room and a random shower head sticking out of the wall. It also has, like most Indian bathrooms, a bucket and a cup with which you can pour water on yourself to “bathe.” I opt try my luck with the random shower head.
The water isn’t even lukewarm but it feels great. So nice for the liquid covering my body to be water instead of sweat. The water ends up leaking out of the bathroom and into the main room so I spend the next ten minutes sopping it up with a towel. I know I could just ask some hotel guy to do it, but I’m tired and don’t want any people coming in for floor mopping duty. I just want to relax.
On Sunday, my final day in town, I hit some art galleries and museums. There are some nice works of art. And air conditioning. Did I mention I like air conditioning?
With my return flight time fast approaching, I walk south toward the water, to Colaba Market. It’s a bustling marketplace with vendors selling fruit, veggies and the like. As I walk deeper into the market, the path becomes narrower. There are more people going about their daily routine, not just exchanging goods. Goats wander freely. Children play. And then it dawns on me that I’m right in the middle of a slum.
I continue walking, hoping the maze-like path will eventually lead out of the endless sea of shanties. But it doesn’t. I end up on a beach covered with more garbage than sand, a wall of shacks on one side, Back Bay on the other. The place is teeming with life. A man washes a cow in the water while children happily dive from the top of well-worn fishing boats. An oddly beautiful scene, in its own sad, colorful way.
I take some (what I hope to be) surreptitious pictures and continue my exploration, still looking for the way out. I never feel unsafe, but I am clearly an outsider here, despite the friendly waves of the toddlers who say hello to me as I pass.
Hitting a dead end, I turn around and go back the way I came, stumbling upon another out-of-place white guy. He looks more lost than me. He says he’s from Denmark, in month nine of a ten month trip around the world. Now he’s trying to reach the Gateway of India. We retrace my original steps, back out of the slum, through the market and back to middle class Mumbai. We go our separate ways, he to the stationary landmark, me back to the hotel to pick up my bag.
Before my cab ride back to the airport, all I want is a cold drink. Unfortunately it’s Easter, so almost nothing is open, at least among the small shops and fruit stands by The Residency. Just when I’m about to give up, I find an open juice stand and order a glass of pineapple juice for ten rupees. The juiceman takes a few pieces of pineapple, slices the ends off with a knife and puts them in a blender. He blends for a long time, long enough for me to repeatedly wave off the troop of mosquitoes flying about. Finally he pours my glass. It’s not cold, but it’s tall and frothy, more foam than juice. Kinda like an Orange Julius, only completely natural. And man, is it good.
And with that, I finish my glass. And my weekend in Mumbai.
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