JEW TOWN

Where to begin?

I left Candolim yesterday afternoon along with my French friend, Lina and my driver. They dropped me in Margao, about an hour and a half south, and continued on to Patnem.

I had forgotten how amazing Indian train stations are. First of all, I had begun to think that the wild dogs of Goa were a beach phenomenon. Clearly not. The station was full of them. There were a dozen bunched together, sleeping beneath the list of trains and others wandering all over, looking for scraps.

Since this was my first trip using my Indrail train pass, I wasn't sure exactly how it worked. I had my pass and I had a reservation, but I wasn't sure if I needed a ticket. I pushed my way to the front if the information kiosk, where four men were skillfully avoiding the queue of people looking for assistance. I got their attention and asked my question. One of them asked to see my pass, which they then passed around amongst the four of them, as if they had never seen one before. Eventually, the head clerk pulled out a sheaf of computer printouts and found my name listed along with my coach number and seat number. All was well.

I had loads of time, so I wandered around, had some chai, and just observed the masses of humanity arranged all across this huge station, waiting for trains. As usual, many people came to me to shake my hand and talk about my mustache.

Eventually, as the time came near for my train, I went across the old bridge to the correct platform, where I met a bunch of older men, who were railway dignitaries. They were talking in Hindi, and I could tell that they were talking about me and how I looked like Gandhi. I laughed, and since they were surprised that I understood them, they came over and spoke to me. The head dignitary did most of the talking. He told me about Gandhi and asked about me and my wife and children. (this is the usual line of questioning). When there was a pause in our conversation and he went back to chat with his colleagues, the Indian man sitting next to me asked if I knew who that was. He was very impressed. Then two wacky former hippies (a German and an Austrian) came by to ask me directions so we chatted in German for a while. It was quite a scene. There were little children squaring and pooping on the platform and trains waiting to move on, so jammed packed with people that they were spilling out the doors and windows.

Once on the train, it was much more boring. First class is comfortable (relatively) but much less interesting. There was a fat guy from Yorkshire in my compartment and three Indian men from Karnataka. The British guy kept running to the bathroom. Poor thing. Even in first class, train toilets in India are best avoided when possible.

I took a pill and slept with my bag under my knees, but the Karnataka men talked VERY LOUDLY well past midnight when their stop came. At 5am, people began coming through selling CHAI, CHAI, CHAI or COFFEE, COFFEE, COFFEE (which by the way, taste identical - very sweet and milky with some spice. The food was scary, but once the sun was up, the scenery was stunning.

Arriving in Eranakulum, I took a tuk tuk (auto ricksha) to the jetty for the ferry to Fort Cochi. This ride in the tuk tuk was like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, but way scarier. I was laughing the entire time and terrified.

Fort Cochi is really cool. I walked all over today. Went to the old synagogue and through the spice market. The food is nice and full of local spices here.

While I got used to dogs everywhere in Goa, I've hardly seen any here. Instead, there are goats everywhere. Every sidewalk had goats sleeping on them, every road has goat wandering. It is hilarious. I walked by a park today and there were goats playing. Weird. In the photo above, there were three goats on a sidewalk and suddenly this one jumped up on the pile of rocks and began chewing on the electrical wire supplying the house. 

I like that after giving the price for head loads, they define it. 

I dont why everyone stares at me, perhaps the flashing lights in my hat are too much.

नमस्ते

FAREWELL GOA

Yesterday morning, as I was running along the beach, the sun came up on my way out toward the Calangute steps (the ones with the sign, warning against staying away from your wife and family) I saw that the beach was full of Indians, mulling around. The previous day was Republic Day, so this is a long holiday weekend in the country, where many come down to Goa. As I turned around and began my run back toward Candolim, I passed a man in running clothes, bent over, breathing quite hard. Suddenly, he saw me and began running RIGHT next to me, literally with our shoulders touching. I thought this was a bit odd, but then, I think everything is a bit odd here.  He asked me how far I was going. I told him, and while he didn't seem to understand my answer, he seemed satisfied with my hand gestures. I wasn't running all that fast, but I assumed maybe he needed the motivation of running with someone. He was breathing very hard, though. I asked him if he was ok.

Am I going too fast?

I'm a Jain

Excuse me?

Jain. J-A-I-N

Yes, I know how to spell J...

We are all vegetarians.

Ah, alright.

Soon after, he pointed at some people standing on the beach, where the surf met the sand, and said, "That is my wife and son and daughter."

He waved.

They waved.

Then he said, "Wave to my wife."

I waved and then he said goodbye, and stopped running. The show was over. He just wanted his family to see him running with the funny looking foreigner with no shirt, nipple rings, and the Mangol Pandey mustaches.

Later, as I was fixing breakfast, with the ants crawling by in every direction, I thought, "At least there are no rats in the apartment." That would really not be nice, since one always goes barefoot indoors here. It's funny where we set our threshold for what's too gross and what's not. Yesterday evening, I was having dinner with my friend, Lina, and a rat the size of her grandson ran by. Speaking of thresholds, many people here have either a one-rat policy or a two-rat policy for restaurants. Some think that one could be a fluke, but two means it is really dirty. Personally I like to see how clean the rat is.

One of the nice things about starting my trip here in north Goa, has been reconnecting with some old acquaintances. Catherine and Lina are two French ladies I met here when I was last in Goa. They are friends of my other French friends. Catherine is a truly intrepid traveler, not afraid to fight over a taxi fare or the price of a room at the YMCA. She is off now on a trip across the country, by bus, to meet another French friend. She and I have talked ad maybe traveling together in two years. Her friend Lina, short for Evelina, is left behind, because Catherine now finds Lina too slow to keep up with her. Lina was here six years ago with her daughter and grandson, and she says her daughter still talks about me. Lina owns a farm in Alsace, where she raises ponies (or maybe bunnies... I don't always understand everything she says). She is really lovely. I'm taking her with me this evening, when I go off to the train station, and will send her south to Patnem with my heavy suitcase, where David can take care of both finding her a hut to stay in, and also take care of my suitcase.

Before I leave, I should say a word about begging. There is a lot of begging here. Perhaps a bit different than in other parts of India, as Goa is full of tourists. So here, much of the begging takes the form of trying to sell you something. When you're on the beach, hundreds of people try to sell you something all day long. Pretending to sleep is useless, as they will shake you awake. Whether it is sarongs or bags or mirrored bedspreads, or name bracelets, or coconuts, or head massage or just plain begging by cripples or mothers with babies or mother's with crippled babies. It all gets a bit overwhelming. The worst, of course, is when you're new and pale, because then they all swarm to you. I'm quite tan now, so they sometimes leave me alone. Since most of us spend the day at a "shack" the employees (more like indentured servants, as I'm quite sure they are not paid, but survive on tips) protect you a bit from the worst of these hawkers. Of course, the downside of this is that they expect you to buy from them. The woman worker at my shack, Gunga, is always trying to get me to take a massage from here. I made the mistake of agreeing on my first week. It was terrible and the cheap oil clogged my pores for a week. But every day since...

You take massage today?

No.

Yes. You take massage today.

No. I don't want a massage.

You no like my massage

No. I don't like your massage.

Ok, you take massage later. You promise.

I promise nothing.

One wants to be polite, but one quickly learns to be rude.

Gunga and her sister (who works the next shack) now gang up on me. They are always trying to sell me a lunghi just like the one I have.

Buy lunghi. Only 500 rupis.

I only paid 100 rupis for this in Mapusa.

How much you give me? 400?

Number one, why would I give you more than 100, and number two, I already have this lunghi, so why do I need another just like it?

The other day, as I was heading into the ocean for my morning swim, they called me over to where they were sitting on the sand.

You no buy lunghi from us, so now you have to listen.

Uh oh.

Sit down and listen.

I don't want to listen.

You no make business for us, so now you have to buy us a coca cola.

I was so shocked that I agreed.

Talk about extortion.

I'm really glad I started my trip here, but I'm ready to move on to new adventures.

नमस्ते

COLORFUL

There are so many languages spoken here, it's confusing. In Goa, there are a lot of "foreign workers", i. e. workers from other parts of India, so when they hang out together, they speak their first language, whether it be Nepali, or Tamil, or what have you. The Goans speak Konkani. But for the most part, they all speak Hindi as a second language, which they had to learn in school. Then, they will also likely speak English or French or Russian as a third language.

So I figured I would learn a bit of Hindi to help me get by in case English is not readily available on my travels. I find that people appreciate when you make an effort to communicate with them, rather than always expecting them to communicate with you. It has already come in handy, as with my daily interactions with the bread wallah (no, Mike, he doesn't have donuts, he's not the donut wallah).

I had a series of thirty half hour Hindi lessons on tape which I listened to before leaving. I had planned on reviewing them a third or fourth time while here, but when I had to restore my phone to make it work here, I lost them. So I bought a book on Hindi, which has been good, since I have also wanted to refresh my mastery of devanagari (the script used for Hindi and Sanskrit) and the book has been good for that.

The book also offers some helpful phrases for the traveler, although I'm not sure exactly how helpful many of the phrases will be.

So far, I haven't found a use for:

"The value of the rice and wheat exported last week, amounted to half a million"

Or

"We beg to inform you that the cotton sales have been in progress for a week"

And I'm not sure what this means:

"Please to excuse my pronunication"

But the following group of phrases should come in handy on my travels:

"How much do you charge for a child?"

"I can get it cheaper at another shop."

"I do not like the color. Do you have a lighter shade?"

"Just a minute. He is putting his clothes on."

And finally,

"Whistling maid and crowing hen are neither fit for gods nor men."

नमस्ते

PUJA

My ears are still ringing. I did something very cool last night. After dinner on the beach (kingfish Provençal with sliced potatoes sautéd in butter and garlic, with three dogs sitting at my side staring at me the whole time) I went over to the Hindu temple at the end of my dirt road. Monday's are always quite raucous there. I could hear the noise from quite far away as I approached. Inside, there were a bunch of people sitting around on the floor making music.

It was a puja (pooja?), a Hindu worship service. I'm pretty sure this one was for Shiva. He's the big guy. Everyone may have a favorite god (around here Ganesha) is pretty popular (duh! How could you not love a god who's half chubby kid with an elephant head, who broke off one of his own tusks so that he could finish writing the Mahabaratha). But Monday's seem to be dedicated to Shiva (Ganesha's father, and also the one who lopped off his head and had to go out and look for the first creature he could find, to get a replacement head... Hence the elephant head).

So I slipped off my shoes and went inside the temple, intending to just stand by the far wall and watch. Nothing doing. They waved me over to come and sit with them, so I did. There was a main bunch of guys in the middle, playing instruments and chanting, and the rest gathered around them, many playing little hand bells (the kind you hit together like castanets). There were microphones and amplifying equipment so that it was all REALLY LOUD. Once I figured things out, I saw that there were three microphones for the chanters, with one main guy doing most of the chanting and a second guy taking over from time to time to give him a break. The third microphone was being passed around between two or three other guys, sort of guest chanters. These were bajans they were chanting, I believe. The main guy was so great, he chanted the bajan, but as he did so, he was making hand gestures at the harmonium player or the tabla player. So, here he was chanting words of adoration to Lord Shiva, but acting as though he was singing a love song to one of the other men. It was really funny.

What I loved about this was that it was a real community event, not just a bunch of old men worshipping in a dying faith. The chanters and the musicians were all young men, and there were young and old people there, women also, with children running in and out, cell phones were being used and texts were received and answers.

I began to just sit back and let the music take over and I was in a bit of a trance. The volume had something to do with this, as you could feel the music in your bones, as well as hear it. It was so loud, that when one of the older kids set off a whole set of fireworks and firecrackers literally two feet from my ear (I was sitting by one of the open doorways) I barely noticed. It wasn't until I smelled the sulphur from the fireworks that I realize what it had been. No one else in the temple took much notice of this either.

It was really loud in there.

But it was a joyful noise.

Throughout this whole thing, people came in and out, did their little worship thing in the temple, lit incense and waved it around the altar, or left an offering for one of the gods or brought in a garland of marigolds and draped it somewhere inside the temple or rang one of the big bells hanging from the ceiling. Again, any one of these big bells clanging would have been heard for a mile, but with the bajans being chanted, you could barely hear them.

Now during the day, there are a bunch of taxi drivers hanging out in front of the temple (as there are everywhere here... In front of every hotel, on every corner, all waiting for a fare, but not trying that hard) and I talk to these guys every day. They were the first to call me Mangol Pandey on my very first day. Well, these guys all were part of this Hindu congregation, so they would all smile to see me there, wave to me and put their hands together to wish me namaste (that is a traditional Hindustani greeting, it means "reverence to you" and it's what I've written at the bottom of my emails). Some would even come over and shake my hand. It was very nice.

At one point, one guy came in, I think he may have been the priest, and lit some oil lamps and waved some incense, and rang some bells and a number of elaborate gestures with the help of his wife. It was hard to tell who was the priest, since they were all wearing jeans and button-down dress shirts. Come to think of it, I was the only one in the temple dressed like a Hindu priest.

After about two hours, the music wound down and they began packing up the instruments. I got up and began to leave, but the priest gestured for me to stay. His wife had brought food for everyone in a stainless steel pot. She had ready made little plates of sliced fruit and sweet porridge with fruit inside and cooked amaranth, I think. I ate it (with my right hand of course) and it was delicious. The priest brought me a cup of chai (sweet milky tea). It was quite an experience.

And as an added bonus I couldn't hear the dogs barking last night due to the ringing in my ears!!

नमस्ते

P. S. In case you have no idea what this sort of thing could possibly sound like, here is an example of a Shiva bajan being chanted, although this looks to be inside a community centre in Manchester, rather than on the dirty floor of a temple on a dirt lane in Goa.

HANUMAN

I went there again this morning by bus. I do love Mapusa. Again, like the busy road, I cannot seem to take a photo that does it justice. I guess I'll take this opportunity, while the neighbor is burning rubbish in front of my terrace, as the sun goes down and I wait for the bread wallah, to tell you about Mapusa.

Mapusa is the second largest "city" in Goa, after the capital, Panjim. Mapusa is where everyone in north Goa goes for car parts, scooter parts, cheap clothing, fabrics, terra cotta pots, buses to all over India, cell phones, prescription drugs, Ayurvedic remedies, bananas, buffalo curd, buffalo milk, garlands of fresh flowers for your home alter or for your temple or church, and pretty much anything else you can possibly think of. Much of it at wholesale prices.

On Fridays they hold a market in Mapusa, but really any day of the week is like market day there. In the market area of the city, near the dusty dirt field, crammed full with old buses, where the buses disgorge and then immediately fill up with passengers to and from all over, the narrow streets are literally jam packed with thousands of people. I would say shoulder to shoulder,  but that makes it sound too roomy. The shops are all numbered to make it easier to find what you're looking for (although the numbers don't all seem to be in order???) There seems to be some order to the chaos, where all the cloth shops are in one row and the shoe shops are in another, and the scooter part shops in yet another. It is a sprawling sort of place, going on and on. In the narrow streets out in front of the shops, people have spread blankets in the dirt and set up their own little shops on the ground, of course having no relation to what the shop behind is selling. These folks may be selling underwear or towels or Hindu religious sculptures or beads or jewelry or huge sacks of dried shrimp or piles of spices. Spices Are very popular.

Last week, I was looking at some necklaces made from these round brown seeds, and I looked behind me to see another merchant selling even more necklaces made from even larger seeds, so I went to try one on. It was only when I got close, that I realized these were piles of home made sausages laying on the ground. I chose not to try them on.

So, if you can imagine a narrow dirt road between each row of shops, with blankets on the ground, on both sides of the road, taking up most of the road, and then all these people pushing their way through to find what they've come for... It is absolutely mad.

The smells are amazing. All those spices and the sausages and the dried fish and of course the ever-present diesel fumes, and the bananas. It really is a fabulous place.

People are quite friendly there, too. Today, I wanted to buy a spool of red thread to take back for rakhis (the red bracelets that Hindus tie on each other's wrists). Well, I asked at the cloth merchant, who directed me to the other end of the market, where someone told me to go beneath the big tree. I found the thread merchant, but he only had polyester thread, which didn't seem quite pucca to me. So I continued searching until I found another thread merchant. Also only polyester. He insisted that this was all I would find in Mapusa. I wasn't sure. So after a bit more looking, I saw a tiny stall with sundry items like hair bobby pins, plastic combs, sponges, and the like. I had a feeling. So I asked if he had red cotton thread. He pulled out a bunch of thick red twine, for tying a trunk shut. I asked if he had something thinner. He pulled out a spool of thinner red twine for tying a box closed before mailing it. Finally, he came out with a ball of red cotton thread, perfect for my needs. I think it is so funny how the smallest possible place here will have the largest selection you can possibly imagine.

Since its Monday, the Hindu temple near me has been playing really loud music all day. Monday evenings the place is always packed, so I'm going to head over now and take part in the festivities. 


नमस्ते

FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS

Once again, how to explain this place... My house is set back a bit from the beach, with a small patch line of jungle separating the house from the beach. There is a thin path through the jungle behind the house to get to the beach. (Watch out for snakes). In the other direction, toward the main road (five minute walk) is more jungle, but also more houses. The paths here (and the few roads) are dirt, and create clouds of dust whenever someone passes. There are piles of rubbish on the sides of the paths, both on the beach side and the other side, where people dump their trash and then often burn it. So every day, there are pigs rooting through the piles of rubbish and chickens looking for bits of grain in the rubbish. 

There is always a great deal of activity here. From my terrace, where I've been writing, there is a patch of jungle in front of me. In the afternoon there are always rows of ladies  collecting water from my next-door-neighbor's tap and carrying it through the jungle to their homes. They usually carry a ten liter jug in each and and a huge clay pot full of water on their heads. Amazing. Lately, I've noticed the ladies, including my next-door-neighbor, scavenging in the dirt for something, which I now understand is a small fruit that falls off the trees there. Very high in vitamin C, I'm told. 

There are numerous enterprising young (and not-so-young) men here who go around on bicycles, selling various things. Bread, fish, samosas, rags, pots and pans, etc. Each one has a unique noise he makes to let the neighborhood know he is coming. A loud horn, a big bell, a cymbal, a louder horn, a bigger bell, a horn and a bell. Every evening I buy two little wheat rolls (called 'boy' in Hindi) from the bread walla. Our entire transaction takes place in Hindi, which amuses the bread walla. 

This morning, the poor fish walla's horn was broken, so he pulled up in front of my next-door-neighbor's house and was forced to yell, "Honk. Honk." It was very funny.

Maybe you had to be there. 

I was walking behind this guy this morning, and he wouldn't let me pass!!

The road looks empty in this pic despite the crazy traffic 

Had a lovely outing yesterday with my amies nouvelle, the energetic Francoise and her stylish friend, Anne-Marie, and their neighbor, Marinelle. (sp?) Francoise has a Jeep, so I proposed an outing, saying that I she drove, I would buy lunch. We went to Ashwem, just north of Morjim, and spent the day at a beach shack, called "La Plage", French for the beach, NOT the plague, as some have suggested. La Plage is a wonderful French cafe right on the beach. We drove off in the morning in Francoise's Jeep (more of a tiny pick-up truck with two small benches in the bed of the truck, where Marinelle and I sat. I held on for dear life, as the ride was quite bumpy, to say the least. It was really great to be riding out in the open, though, because the scenery was amazing, so the photo ops were numerous. It must have been a jour ferrier, a saint's day or something, because there was seemingly more activity on the road than usual. We passed a huge church, with a Mass going on, with hundreds of people in their best clothes spilling out into the street and two priests giving communion outside, because the inside of the church was so full. 

The ride took about an hour and a half through some beautiful scenery, heading north. Ashwem is on a pretty cove, right near where a river empties out into the sea and where tortoises nest. It was a much quieter beach than here in Candolim, with no jetskis or motor boats to contend with. I had a couple of great swims there. It is a much more shallow cove, so I had to swim further out, but without the threat of motor boats, this was fine. Lunch was delicious and the beach was beautiful. There were even homosexuals there, which I have not seen here in Candolim. Even some younger than sixty-five!  I took some great photos on the way back. The countryside there was amazing and there were loads of Hindu temples at every turn. I love the colors here. We saw so many beautiful, old Goan houses... Some falling down from neglect, but some well-tended and painted in colorful hues, such as pink or orange or bright yellow. 

Mass

The view as I walk home from the plage.

PUNJABI DHABBA

Yep, it's true. I couldn't stay away. This is the famous Punjabi Dhabba. As you can see from the parking area, it's very popular. I know what you're thinking... But trust me, it's not nearly as fancy inside. 

I took the long walk into Calangute this evening at sunset. Absolutely beautiful. The waves were wild tonight, so it made for a fun walk. In fact the waves were wild all day. This was the first day I was unable to do a serious swim. I tried twice, but the waves kept thrashing me, so it was just impossible. Even quite far out it was very rough. 

You may be pleased to know that I now have a blog. I don't know what that is, but I have one. I'm a simple man (just like the Mahatma). I don't even have electricity every day, but I have a blog. Apparently, my dear friend Roger has posted my emails on line. The address is http://gandhigary.blogspot.com/

That address sounds much more official than my physical address, which is white house on left, Goa, India. 

I guess GandhiGary had a better ring to it than MangolPandeyGary. 

Speaking of not having electricity...

I hear people say quite often here "Well, my place is very basic." I think what they mean is that "by Western standards" their accommodations are not what they are used to. So many of the apartments or houses here are so cool, and with a bit of fluff (a few rupis worth of white gauze flowing from the windows and some Indian print throws here and there) they can be quite glamorous. Sure, they may not have running water inside or electricity even. But most likely there will be an outdoor shower and maybe a sink, and probably a gas stove for cooking. I think that by saying their place is basic is sort of a badge of courage here. 

But... (ok, I'm getting to the point) These places are not basic. A stone's throw from me is a little shanty area where a number of the seasonal workers live with their families. These are tiny little rooms built out of bamboo poles and cardboard walls and maybe a blue plastic tarp roof and dirt floor, where a family of four may live in the area the size of my bathroom. And there are maybe twenty dwellings like this squeezed into an area the size of my front yard in Provincetown. These places are either taken down or blown down each summer during the monsoon. Pretty basic. And, compared to some of the dwellings I saw in the slums of Mumbai, these are pretty nice. 

My point is that one gets another perspective traveling to a place where not everyone is rich. And one thing I feel about India is that there is an unadulterated sincerity here. One has a sense that this is the real world and that what we experience in the West, where people like me live in a big house all by myself (sorry Spot... You live there too) is what is weird. 

Ok, I'm climbing down from my soapbox now, which is not as easy as it sounds, wearing this tight sarong...

And this is my perspective ....

नमस्ते

MANGOL PANDEY

Everywhere you go in India, there is incredible beauty living side by side with incredible ugliness. I snapped this shot from the window of the bus to Mapusa (I actually got a seat). It is a very colorful Hindu shrine right in the middle of a filthy car park.

Now, anyone who has been to India will tell you that the experience can be overwhelming. Often what they refer to are the abject poverty and the begging and the lepers and polio victims. Last time I was here, I was seriously overwhelmed by the people's response to my mustache. They love mustaches. Everyone has his own interpretation of what I looked like. Punjabi gangster seemed to be a favorite.

So in preparation for this trip, I grew my mustache longer and began training it into a handlebar configuration. The effort has paid off. I am a big hit. Now, as anyone who has seen me going to the Breakwater in Provincetown's West End will know, I enjoy wearing Indian garments. My favorite is the dhoti (ten meters of homespun white cotton, wrapped in a complicated manner around the waist and legs. Now while I may look odd dressed this way on Cape Cod, apparently I look even odder dressed this way here. Everyone comments. Now when they see me coming from a distance with the white dhoti and my little round gold-framed glasses, they automatically yell out "Gandhi!" or "Gandhiji!!"

But once they see my mustache, there is only one response I hear: Mangol Pandey.

Mangol Pandey was an Indian freedom fighter, reportedly responsible for initiating the uprising of 1857. Mangol Pandey was a soldier in the All Indian Brigade, until he got fed up with the way he and the others were being treated by the British officers. He woke up one morning and decided he would shoot the first British officer he saw.

More importantly, Mangol Pandey had a handlebar mustache. In the 1970s or 1980s, there was a Bollywood film made, celebrating the exploits of Mangol Pandey and his famous mustache. So now, every time I step out, I hear the taxi drivers and the fruit sellers and the trinket hawkers yelling, "Mangol Pandey!! Mangol Pandey!!" When I walk along the main road, I hear the motorbike riders and bus passengers and bicycle riders yelling, "Mangol Pandey!! Mangol Pandey!!" Often, people will rush up to me to shake my hand. "Mangol Pandey!! Mangol Pandey!!" I always raise my hands and put them together, saying "namaste", which they seem to love. Trust me, it's never boring.

So yesterday was my tenth day here and I was trying to muster up the courage to ask my landlord for a fresh sheet and pillowcase for my bed. (yes, they do have a fitted sheet to fit the yoga-mat-like-mattress). I don't want to be demanding. After all, I have already insisted that he fix the kitchen sink and the electric ceiling fan outside on my veranda (of course it only works when there is electricity, about half the time lately). But yesterday, when my cleaning girl was finished, I noticed that she had provided me with a fresh sheet and pillowcase without my having asked. What a blessing! And, as if my luck was not already a wonder, I saw that she had also left a top sheet. Can you imagine? A top sheet. I nearly had to sit down, so overwhelmed with joy was I.

I was little prepared however, last night, when I climbed into bed, to discover that this was no ordinary sheet, but actually a duvet cover (two sheets stitched together). So I turned on the ceiling fans and climbed under my luxurious top sheet(s). After some deliberation, I chose to put the opening in the two sheets at my feet.

I then woke in the middle of the night to the sting of something biting me between two of my toes. I had three immediate thoughts:

1- I rued the day that I put the opening at my vulnerable feet, since who knew how many more venomous spiders were living inside this evil duvet cover

2- On second thought, imagine if the opening were up near my handsome Mangol Pandey face

3- No wonder they gave me this duvet cover!!! They didn't want the spider-infested thing in their house.

Anyhow, I went back to sleep. Such are the adventures of living in the jungle.

It really is the jungle here. Very lush but also very beautiful and a bit dangerous. The roads and pathways are all dirt, sort of a red clay-type dirt, which floats into the air and into your lungs at every opportunity. One must carry a torch at night to make certain that one's path is clear of snakes.

It is both very primitive here and grossly over developed. The jungle surrounding my house is quite untouched and full of pythons and cobras and other cute critters, yet also at the edge of the jungle, on the path through it, from my house to the beach, are piles of rubbish, where it is dumped and often set aflame, since there is no rubbish collection here. Also, on the beach, there are now way too many shacks, preparing food and selling beer and snacks to tourists using their sun beds. Seemingly twice as many shacks as there were six years ago when I was here.

नमस्ते