from Mozambique to the land of the coconuts

The South of India was totally different from the North but I never expected it would be so ‘un-Indian’. It reminded me of Africa rather than India and I knew I wasn’t the only one thinking that en route to Goa we must have been dropped off in Africa instead because both Mieke and my brother kept saying things like ‘this looks just like Mozambique’. Don’t misunderstand, we were not ungrateful for the experience and soaked up all that Goa and its beaches had to offer but we knew, in our hearts, that at the Southern tip of Africa (the place we get to call ‘home’) you’ll find beaches more beautiful than you can imagine. It’s just that we were expecting something else, something Indian and it was hard to see what all the Goa-fuss was about. To add to our disappointment, we discovered that most beaches were occupied by British or Russian tourists, with only a handful of locals (mostly taxi drivers and touts), so much for experiencing the local culture.

I knew exactly the kind of India my brother and Mieke were hoping to see and Goa, sadly, was not it. We also expected the rest of the way down South would be similar and thus a new plan was hatched. We gave ourselves another week in the South, then we would fly to Delhi, take an overnight train to Jodhpur and spend the last 5 days in Rajashtan (the ‘real’ India).

It took us the best part of a day but we finally had our plane and train tickets in hand and were ready to leave Goa the next day. By some twisted twist of fate, however, it started raining. And not just rain, tropical storm rain. That same day Mieke found an idyllic cabin-like beach cottage overlooking the Arabian Sea and dozens of palm trees and we were thrilled that we would be staying there for our last night in Goa. That night, we realized that the idyllic cabin was in fact a shabby little hut and we were forced to use my tent’s outer sheet inside the cabin to keep the rain out. It was leaking everywhere and everything was wet, even the bed. The next morning, after a bad night’s sleep I stepped outside and saw our neighbor looking just as miserable and sleep deprived. We were too far away to hear each other but she, very dramatically, mouthed ‘this is shit’ and I had to agree. Needless to say, we were very ready to leave Goa but we had another problem. All the trains down to Kochin (the capital of Kerela, the most Southern part of India and known as ‘God’s own country’) were full. That morning however, Mieke and I met a lovely lady who runs an Ayuverdic massage center close to our leaking little cabin who told us how to get on a train to Kochin that same day. It was risky but we were willing to try it, spending another day in Goa was not an option. The plan was to go to the train station, wait until an hour before departure, buy an ‘unreserved’ seating ticket and once we’re on board the train ask the conductor for an upgrade to a sleeper coach. The massage lady said it was easy and she does it all the time, we had nothing to worry about.

Just after midnight that same day, we got on the train to Kochin and were told, flatly, by the conductor that the train was full. No upgrade possible today. The reality of the situation hit us like a slap in the face and we sobered up to the fact that we had 14 hours on this packed train without a space to even sit (let alone sleep). We squeezed past hundreds of sleeping bodies, hoping to find a small open space, the situation getting more real with every step. Every available space was occupied (even the floors) but we eventually found a space, next to the urinals. We squeezed in and tried to get some rest looking at each other with a look that said ‘Ok, this sucks but let’s just get through it’ and I realized again that India is not for everyone. I could think of a few people who would simply have refused to get on this train. The 3 of us were made of tougher stuff and we would not be broken by another sleepless night next to a stinking, leaking toilet. In a few hours we would be hysterically laughing at this, right?

The next morning at dawn we were very rudely awakened by another conductor telling us that our ‘seating’ tickets didn’t allow us to be in this here ‘good’ coach and we had to switch to the correct one at the next station. I’d rather not say what waited for us in the next coach but thanks to Mieke’s friendly-but-firm way with people (a characteristic that I hugely admire) we found a spot, sat down and took turns sleeping until we finally reached Kochin, 7 hours later. We took a photograph which, I think, shows our mood perfectly, can you tell?.

Due to our new plans, to head up North, our time was limited and we certainly had none to waste. The minute we got to Kochin we enquired about taking a back-water trip on a house boat (again, a must-do according to the guide books) and rented 3 motorcycles (a long and frustrating process and after the day we had on the train, the last thing we needed). The next morning we left on our motorcycles for Kanikumari, the most Southern tip of India. This was something that I know Mieke, particularly, wanted to do. In that spot, 3 oceans meet and the plan was to ride down, along the coast, stopping in Kanikumari and swimming in 3 oceans simultaneously. The idea of this race down South appealed to me greatly and I was stoked that we would be going on a little mini bike trip after all. Further frustrating delays and more tropical rain stopped us from fulfilling that adventure though. A brief spark of intense FOMO (fear of missing out) took hold of us as we realized that we would have to get real and accept that we would not be able to do everything we wanted. India was simply too big and our time too short. We didn’t make it to Kanikumari but had to turn around and head back to Kochin without a swim at the Southern tip of India. Disappointment is a huge part of a true adventure, this much I know.

All in all I liked Kerela and I was happy to discover that South Indian food does not only consist of Dosas (a large, flat, pancake filled with spiced potato and served with a vegetable soup and coconut sauce). We had some amazing, colourful curries and coconut is used in everything. It was inspiring, delicious and a nice change. Kerela, just so you know, means ‘coconut’ or ‘the land of the coconut’. We were excited to be leaving the land of the coconuts and trade it for the chaotic and noisy India, the India of our dreams. Next stop, Delhi.

the arrival

After spending 15 hours on a Bollywood movie set (which would amount to no more than 15 seconds of B-grade Bollywood fame, if that) I spent a few days recovering from a severe case of diarrhoea and eventually decided to crack open the antibiotics my mother had insisted I take with. I’ll admit I was disappointed that I had not made it out of India without taking a course of antibiotics, in my mind it would have amounted to the same as climbing Mount Everest without oxygen. All the same, I was grateful for the medication because I was, by now, very sick. Three days was all I gave myself to recover because in three days my brother and my friend Mieke would be joining me in Mumbai and it was a visit that I was anticipating with great excitement. There simply was no space for illness now. At times during this trip when I was severely lonely or the road became too long and I felt like giving up, their visit served as encouragement or an incentive of sorts and I couldn’t believe the time had finally come.

Then the day of their arrival came and I went to meet them at ‘the Gateway of India’ just a 5 minute walk from my hotel in Mumbai. I had a hard time getting my mind to calm down. There was so much I wanted to tell them and share and ask but as irony would have it l fell into a strange and uneasy silence shortly after we greeted each other and were walking back to the hotel. Later, sitting across a table from them at a restaurant, I realized that I’ve been away for almost half a year and haven’t had a real conversation with either of them for all that time. Distance causes distance (that much I knew). But I told myself not to freak out and calm right down. We weren’t on opposites sides of the world anymore, we were together and we had 3 weeks in this crazy country to explore and see and taste and feel things, together. It would take a little time to ease back into each other’s company. In the meantime we had a 3 week adventure down to the South of India to plan.

There was one other thing that needed my attention before the adventure down South could begin in full swing. I had to decide the Yamaha’s fate. My beloved companion had overnight become a burden. The plan to do part of the trip down South on motorbikes faded into nothingness and it hit me that my adventure with the Yamaha was over. To say that it was hard for me to accept would be an understatement. I felt devastated. It felt like I had to sell a friend or a family member. This deep and unexpected sadness made me even more silent and distant but I couldn’t shake it. That night I told Mieke about my heartache and she told me about their beloved family Kombi that their father had sold when they were younger and how sad and empty they all felt after the sale, almost like losing a member of the family. She understood and it felt good.

Our plan was to take the train down to Goa and then move down the West coast of India stopping wherever we wanted but we did not make it out of Mumbai without visiting a Bollywood movie set, again. This time we were not 30 extras. It was just me and Mieke (Mieke and I) that they needed. Poor Hennie was told that he was most welcome to tag along and experience the Bollywood experience but they wouldn’t need him for any of the scenes (as it happened, he did, almost accidently, end up being in one of the scenes). It was another long day and this time Destiny the bus didn’t come to fetch us. We had to take a taxi, a train and a rickshaw to get to the set (in the middle of nowhere) and it was 23h00 when we finally made it back to our hotel. Mieke and I were both beyond desperate to take a shower. We had huge fake tattoos on our arms (long story) that we had to scrub off and poor Mieke had huge amounts of hair gel and hairspray in her hair that would take a couple of washes to wash out. Lying in bed, exhausted, we laughed again at the bizarre day we had.

But like I said, I still had to sort the Yamaha out before I hopped on a train (I couldn’t just leave it in the street while I went South for 3 weeks). But selling a motorbike in India proved to be much more complicated than buying one and it frustrated me that everybody thought I was completely clueless and kept telling me the most ridiculous things. Eventually, after a couple of frustrating days, I gave up and left the Yamaha with a young Indian guy called Rikesh who promised to take good care of it while I was away and would, in the meantime, try to find a buyer. This was trust on a whole other level but I had no real choice. I handed over the keys to Rikesh and hopped on a train to Goa. The bike admin had kept me in Mumbai a day longer than I planned and my brother and Mieke were already In Goa waiting for me. This was the last stretch of my trip and it was with sadness but that ever-present sense of the unexpected that I got on the train to Goa.

The guide books have much to say about Goa. About the beaches, the food, the Portuguese influence but in particular about the infamous party scene. In the late sixties a group of true blooded hippies rocked up on a beach in Goa and indulged in sex, drugs and rock and roll. When there was a full moon they danced naked on the local beaches while Jimi Hendrix blasted loudly from a Volkswagen kombi somewhere. The locals were appalled but not too alarmed. However, the next season more and more hippies appeared and the beach parties became larger, louder and out of control. Soon everybody (hippie or not) in other parts of the world knew that if you’re looking for a good party, Goa was the place. Over the years the parties became even bigger and a little more organized and by the late nineties Rock and Roll gave way to Techno and soon the Goan beaches turned into huge trance party venues all year round. Needless to say, party drugs were everywhere and after a few drug related deaths at such parties the government stepped in and shut it down. I could imagine the locals (and even some of the hippies of old) cheering loudly in celebration of the end of the madness that lasted for several decades. Of course it still lives on (especially during the month of December) and several clubs have sprouted up to facilitate the masses in search of a wild party. The government knows all too well how lucrative the party/drug business is and the biggest party club in Goa is actually owned by the government.

The party scene didn’t appeal to us in the slightest but Goa, surely, had more to offer than just a party and we wanted to find out what it was.

camel safari

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=452717586817&saved#!/profile.php?id=612126817

Ferengi goes to Bollywood

What you are about to read is a true recollection of the events that took place on Monday 25 October 2010. However elaborate or ridiculous the facts may seem, I would like it recorded here that not even I can make this kind of stuff up.

There were about 30 of us. Foreigners (ferengis). Extras. We were all approached by slick Mr. Bollywood the day before and were now waiting to be collected from our hotel and taken to the movie set. It was 8am when around the corner suddenly appeared a bright yellow bus with blue letters on the side ‘DESTINY’. It was an auspicious start. The bus ride through the Mumbai streets was incredible and I definitely got to see parts of the city that I would not have seen otherwise. It looked like this was going to be an unforgettable day.

We arrived at the studio an hour later and were led to a large room where we were told to wait for further instructions. We were all a little nervous, not knowing what to expect and to break the ice, my new German friend, Benjamin (we met on the bus) made a joke and said that he thought this was a Bollywood scam and that we were going to be called in one by one, and then robbed and murdered. Everybody laughed. Everyone except the 3 Swedes (they looked even more nervous than before).

We did not get robbed or murdered. Worse, we got assessed: short/tall, fat/skinny, dark/light, pretty/ugly, male/female, dancer/non-dancer. After you are assessed you go to ‘hair and make-up’ and then ‘wardrobe’. I met Leda (from Argentina) while standing in the wardrobe line. We were both tall and dark (compared only to the Swedes, I thought) and were given our costumes together. The wardrobe lady took one look at me and yelled ‘dress! Yes! Yes!’ She was overjoyed that she would get to put one of us into a dress and to be honest, so was I. I’ve been riding a motorcycle for a long time and I’ve been fantasising about wearing a dress again (and take a bath with scented candles, buy flowers and other girly things). Yes, I was excited about wearing a dress, until I saw the dress I was supposed to wear. Leda and I both nearly had a heart attack followed by a laughing fit. It was a summer dress, yellow with a big brown corset closing around my bosom with, matching, yellow buttons. That in itself, was not so strange but didn’t quite ‘fit’ with the make-up I had been given. Thus, from the neck down I looked like a Bavarian dairy farmer and from the neck up, a prostitute. Ok, just work it girl, I told myself but Leda and I nearly rolled on the floor laughing. She also looked ridiculous but I took first prize.

Next, shoes. Needless to say they had no shoes in my size. I wear a size 8 (7 on a good day) and had to force my poor feet into a size 6 silver sandal (again, ill-matched to the outfit, I think). The wardrobe lady told me not to worry (who’s worried?) I would not have to walk in this scene. This would prove to be incorrect as, in this particular scene, I not only had to walk but I also had to dance, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

All made up, Leda and I returned to where they had all the extras waiting and the moment I walked in, the room froze. Nobody knew what to say until an Australian guy at the back managed a ‘whoa, now THAT is an outfit’ and everybody (including me) broke down laughing. At that moment one of the assistant-directors came in and did a double take when he saw me. ‘What?!’ I felt like saying to him ‘it’s not like I did this to myself’. But everybody looked a little ridiculous and I assumed it was part of the plot. By now, I had overcome any shyness or reserve I might have felt earlier in the day. It was clear that I was still going to feel very foolish and I made peace with that. An hour later we were called onto the set.

The scene:

A bar (a Cuban bar).

In Scotland (?)

1991 (suddenly the wardrobe made a little more sense).

The extras had to occupy the bar, i.e. sit at the tables, stand at the bar, dance on the dance floor and so on. I was told to sit at a table with Benjamin and pretend to be in deep conversation. This, I have to add, is much harder than it sounds. Benjamin has a wicked sense of humour and kept saying things that made me burst out laughing when I was supposed to be ‘in deep conversation’. On the dance floor were the ‘stars’, a young Indian couple, wearing normal (not 80-ish) clothes and dancing very closely together. Another assistant director told us that there is a big difference between ‘actors’ and ‘stars’ and very rarely do you find both qualities in one person. These were stars. Vain to the core.

The Australian guy that told me I had quite an outfit had a big role. He was supposed to dance up to the female star, rub against her and pick a fight with the male star. He also had to pretend to be extremely drunk while doing so. The poor guy was a terrible actor and looked retarded rather than drunk but the director didn’t seem to notice (or mind). After what felt like 500 takes of the same scene an assistant director (there seemed to be at least 10 of them) told me to wait for the music to start, count to ten and then stand up and walk out of the bar. And so for the next hour, I counted to ten, stood up, walked across the dance floor (in my size 6 silver sandals) and out the door where I waited with the light and sound people until the director yelled ‘Cut! Back to positions!’

My feet were screaming by now and just then, another assistant director told me to rather sit down again, wait for the music, count to ten and then get up and walk over to a table he indicated and have a short (15 seconds) conversation with the guy sitting there and return to my table. I waited for the music, counted to ten and then got up and walked over to a table on the other side of the dance floor occupied by a young guy from Finland. ‘Hi’ I said when I reached his table ‘I’m supposed to come over here and have an imaginary conversation with you. What’s up?’ But he was too shocked to react. Nobody told him that I was supposed to do that and all of a sudden I heard the director scream ‘CUT!!’ ‘What are you doing?’ he asked me, bewildered. I blushed, instantly, and (stuttering) told him that the assistant director had told me to do this. Of course, at that moment, that particular assistant director was nowhere to be found and I was told to go back to my table and sit down. Thankfully, shortly after that embarrassing incident we ‘cut’ for lunch. During lunch we all had to wear massive pink bibs (to keep our costumes clean) and I remember thinking, in that moment, that I didn’t think it was possible for us to look more ridiculous than we did, but I was wrong.

After lunch we were shooting the fight scene, which sounds exciting but after 500 takes gets a little old. In this scene, I had to dance with the others on the dance floor until the fight was picked and then act really surprised. I went for this scene, whole-heartedly, dancing and overacting my little heart out. After all, this was the 80’s. This was Bollywood. Overacting was expected.

At 22h00 one of the extras, a charted accountant from London said that she wanted to leave. We were told in the morning that we would be finished by 21h00 and everyone was tired and wanted to go back to the hotel. I was also tired but I knew that we would never finish on time. By now, I knew India better than that. But before I knew it the lady from London had gotten all the extras to walk off the set and demand to be taken home. I didn’t want to feel left out so I went outside and stood at a distance while she argued with the assistant director. He begged us to stay for ten more minutes but our spokes woman was fierce and refused to budge. Boycott! Boycott! Moment later, Mr. Slick arrived on the scene and also begged us to stay (the real drama was taking place off the set) and offered to pay us each 300 rupees more if we stayed for ten more minutes and eventually we were convinced to go back to the set.

For the next ten minutes we were all gathered around the 2 guys fighting and had to act really shocked. Everyone was too tired to act anymore and we ended up just pulling strange faces until the director yelled ‘Cut’ and then we were on the bus, Destiny, on our way home. All in all (and all and all..) it was a great day and I even earned a full R 100. You gotta love India.