Happy late Thanksgiving! I hope you all had a great day and lots of good turkey. Brad and I spent the Thanksgiving weekend in New Delhi and Agra. The main purpose of the trip was to see the Taj Mahal, which was spectacular. And we have finally recovered from our horrible disease, whatever it was.
I am going to try to get pictures up soon, but it's going to be a busy week. I am going to Sri Lanka on Thursday with the soccer team, which could be fun, but there is only one place I want to be right now. Being sick made us really REALLY homesick and I can't wait to be back in Iowa.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
fever
I am writing this to you from the grips of a tortuous fever. It's been three days now, three days of aches, chills, sweats and splitting headaches. My whole body hurts, even the tops of my feet are sore. The worst part is that I made Brad sick too. I started to feel sick on Thursday morning, he went down about 12 hours later.
We make a pretty pathetic pair, you would cry if you saw us, curled up on the couch, huddled under two blankets a piece in 80 degree weather. The only thing that seems to bring any relief is a hot shower, but that requires standing, and that takes a lot of effort.
The other sad thing, and this might really make you cry, is that we had to miss the early Thanksgiving celebration, going on right now. There's a ham there, and I haven't had pork in months. Months! I was so looking forward to that ham.
Instead I'll have what I've been eating for the past 7 meals, water and toast. Maybe I'll find the strength to make a cup of tea...
We make a pretty pathetic pair, you would cry if you saw us, curled up on the couch, huddled under two blankets a piece in 80 degree weather. The only thing that seems to bring any relief is a hot shower, but that requires standing, and that takes a lot of effort.
The other sad thing, and this might really make you cry, is that we had to miss the early Thanksgiving celebration, going on right now. There's a ham there, and I haven't had pork in months. Months! I was so looking forward to that ham.
Instead I'll have what I've been eating for the past 7 meals, water and toast. Maybe I'll find the strength to make a cup of tea...
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Hash House Harriers
I have many ways of embarrassing myself. But I discovered last night that fainting and then puking in front of 50 strangers is the most assured way of reaching total embarrassment. Let's see, where do I begin this story.....
The Hash House Harriers call themselves a drinking club with a running problem and there are groups of them all over the world. They meet to do two things 1. run 2. drink beer. We'd heard about the Harriers before, but I always assumed it was just a running club, which of course, made me stay away. When I saw an ad in the ever-so-informative Chennai expat magazine that promoted "an hour of running/walking followed by infinite fun and beer" I decided it'd be worth a try.
Now, I've never been a runner. I'm actually really not good at it at all. But I did a lot of treadmill running to get in shape for the wedding and I've been beating the middle school girls in their soccer practice warmups, so I was feeling up to an hour run.
Brad didn't begin this new adventure enthusiastically, but as soon as we got going he was having the time of his life. Not so much because he's a naturally talented runner (and he is) but because there was a group of college girls who took a strong liking to him.
The idea of the Hash House Harriers is that two to four people, the hares, set a trail and the rest of us follow them. Last night the trail was supposed to be marked by chalk, but most of that was washed away by the monsoon, so I always just followed the biggest pack of people, which often took me off course. All in all we did about 8 kilometers through neighborhoods, fishing villages and along the beach. Along the way I encountered naked kids, who ran with us for a ways, drunk men who tried to fondle me and got shoved and kicked, a big-ass rat and lots of bewildered, but smiling faces of people who came out of their houses to smile and wave at us, bare-legged, naked-shouldered, pale people, running for no apparent reason.
After the run I felt great, and felt even better when someone handed me a bottle of beer. There was a little ceremony for "the virgins" where Brad and I sat on a big block of ice while people sang a song and we chugged yet another beer. Then dinner was served, and that's when I started to feel a little fuzzy. I turned to Brad and told him I thought we should go, but it was too late. The next thing I knew I was waking up from a nice long sleep with Brad's face just inches from mine shouting, "Sarah, look at me!"
Apparently, I'd fainted dead away, legs crumpled under me, eyes staring. Brad was terrified and did what the movies had taught him to do: grab my upper body up off the ground and shout, "Sarah, NOOOOOO!" I shouldn't tease, he really was scared, and told me that there is nothing funny about this what-so-ever, but it's the day after now, so I think we can all have a good chuckle.
Anway, it gets worse. Brad took me to a chair and everyone was trying not to stare, but couldn't help it, and that's when I started throwing up. And it was really, just mortifying.
Eventually, we made our way out to the car, but not before everyone stopped me with a piece of advice, drink water, carry candy with you, go see the doctor... but I'm pretty sure it was just a small case of dehydration. What I'm not sure about it whether or not I'll be able to go back and show my face again. Once you become a real Hasher they give you a name, White Wolf, Lord Krishna, something like that. And I just can't stop thinking about what they'll try to name me.
The Hash House Harriers call themselves a drinking club with a running problem and there are groups of them all over the world. They meet to do two things 1. run 2. drink beer. We'd heard about the Harriers before, but I always assumed it was just a running club, which of course, made me stay away. When I saw an ad in the ever-so-informative Chennai expat magazine that promoted "an hour of running/walking followed by infinite fun and beer" I decided it'd be worth a try.
Now, I've never been a runner. I'm actually really not good at it at all. But I did a lot of treadmill running to get in shape for the wedding and I've been beating the middle school girls in their soccer practice warmups, so I was feeling up to an hour run.
Brad didn't begin this new adventure enthusiastically, but as soon as we got going he was having the time of his life. Not so much because he's a naturally talented runner (and he is) but because there was a group of college girls who took a strong liking to him.
The idea of the Hash House Harriers is that two to four people, the hares, set a trail and the rest of us follow them. Last night the trail was supposed to be marked by chalk, but most of that was washed away by the monsoon, so I always just followed the biggest pack of people, which often took me off course. All in all we did about 8 kilometers through neighborhoods, fishing villages and along the beach. Along the way I encountered naked kids, who ran with us for a ways, drunk men who tried to fondle me and got shoved and kicked, a big-ass rat and lots of bewildered, but smiling faces of people who came out of their houses to smile and wave at us, bare-legged, naked-shouldered, pale people, running for no apparent reason.
After the run I felt great, and felt even better when someone handed me a bottle of beer. There was a little ceremony for "the virgins" where Brad and I sat on a big block of ice while people sang a song and we chugged yet another beer. Then dinner was served, and that's when I started to feel a little fuzzy. I turned to Brad and told him I thought we should go, but it was too late. The next thing I knew I was waking up from a nice long sleep with Brad's face just inches from mine shouting, "Sarah, look at me!"
Apparently, I'd fainted dead away, legs crumpled under me, eyes staring. Brad was terrified and did what the movies had taught him to do: grab my upper body up off the ground and shout, "Sarah, NOOOOOO!" I shouldn't tease, he really was scared, and told me that there is nothing funny about this what-so-ever, but it's the day after now, so I think we can all have a good chuckle.
Anway, it gets worse. Brad took me to a chair and everyone was trying not to stare, but couldn't help it, and that's when I started throwing up. And it was really, just mortifying.
Eventually, we made our way out to the car, but not before everyone stopped me with a piece of advice, drink water, carry candy with you, go see the doctor... but I'm pretty sure it was just a small case of dehydration. What I'm not sure about it whether or not I'll be able to go back and show my face again. Once you become a real Hasher they give you a name, White Wolf, Lord Krishna, something like that. And I just can't stop thinking about what they'll try to name me.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Chennai Chicken Center
Yesterday it was an almost cold 70 degrees and I was in the mood for white chicken chili. I've been able to find frozen, packaged chicken breasts a couple of times, but the grocery store by our house doesn't always have them in stock and yesterday they were out. Faced with a half hour car ride to the grocery store that always has chicken in stock I mustered my courage and headed down the street to a place that I'd only seen through a thick cloud of flies: the Chennai Chicken Center.
Even though the chicken center is just steps away from our house, I never knew what went on there. To really see this place you have to get right up in front of it. From there you can peer over the plywood barrier seperating the store from the street and see a man holding a rusty blade, a couple of buckets and ten or so chickens, clucking around in the back.
I would have turned around, made a bean chili instead, but our driver, determined to be helpful, was already placing an order. I told him I wanted white meat and he just gave me a quizzical look. "You have a knife?" he asked.
"Here?"
"At home."
I could only just reply with a little head bobble because my mind was racing, "A knife? What the hell?"
My worst fears were put to rest when the man behind the plywood pulled an already dead chicken from a big bucket on the floor.
Again the driver turned to me, "One kilo, 100 rupees. Ok?"
I wish I could say that I handled myself with complete composure, but really I just stood there, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, "Sure, yes. Ok."
A few strokes of the knife later I had my chicken, stuffed into a tiny plastic sack. I held it out in front of me a ways and took the ten or so steps back to the house. Once inside I checked the recipe, which called for 3 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cooked and cubed.
Hmmm, how about a chicken that's been pulled from a bucket and hacked to pieces with a rusty blade?
My rationale against all the illness and disease I was up against was threefold:
1. I can't imagine conditions are any better in the slaughterhouse where the frozen breasts come from
2. I've already come this far
and
3. I want chili
So in to the frying pan it went, but just to be safe, I cooked the shit out of that thing.
Even though the chicken center is just steps away from our house, I never knew what went on there. To really see this place you have to get right up in front of it. From there you can peer over the plywood barrier seperating the store from the street and see a man holding a rusty blade, a couple of buckets and ten or so chickens, clucking around in the back.
I would have turned around, made a bean chili instead, but our driver, determined to be helpful, was already placing an order. I told him I wanted white meat and he just gave me a quizzical look. "You have a knife?" he asked.
"Here?"
"At home."
I could only just reply with a little head bobble because my mind was racing, "A knife? What the hell?"
My worst fears were put to rest when the man behind the plywood pulled an already dead chicken from a big bucket on the floor.
Again the driver turned to me, "One kilo, 100 rupees. Ok?"
I wish I could say that I handled myself with complete composure, but really I just stood there, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, "Sure, yes. Ok."
A few strokes of the knife later I had my chicken, stuffed into a tiny plastic sack. I held it out in front of me a ways and took the ten or so steps back to the house. Once inside I checked the recipe, which called for 3 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cooked and cubed.
Hmmm, how about a chicken that's been pulled from a bucket and hacked to pieces with a rusty blade?
My rationale against all the illness and disease I was up against was threefold:
1. I can't imagine conditions are any better in the slaughterhouse where the frozen breasts come from
2. I've already come this far
and
3. I want chili
So in to the frying pan it went, but just to be safe, I cooked the shit out of that thing.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Goa
Our first year teaching abroad we got some good advice from an unlikely source. Our principal, whom I affectionately call PP Fartos, told us that the best way to save money is to travel in-country the first year and then branch out after that. We followed his advice in Colombia, which not only saved us a little money, but also helped us learn a lot about our host country. When we found out we were to have a week off in October it wasn't hard to decide on an Indian destination, Goa's beaches were first on our list.
For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to stay in Baga beach in north Goa, but almost as soon as we got there I realized just how not good of an idea it was. Baga beach is gross. It's packed with people and is so loud. Brad and I tried to make the most of it, but my bathing suit was the cause of a lot of unwanted attention and swimming in the ocean meant cramming in between two flags that marked the designated swimming area with hundreds of Indian tourists. After one day in Baga beach I told Brad that the place got its name because it makes you pull your hair and yell, "Bah! Gah! Get me out of here!" like some Indian Ebeneezer Scrooge. I was depressed, thinking we'd have to spend a whole week there, but we soon discovered that the Goa of our imagination: quiet beaches, cold beers, and other bikini-clad sunbathers, existed just a few minutes north in Anjuna.
We made two great discoveries in Anjuna, the hotel Laguna Anjuna and the place where we spent most of the rest of our vacation, the Shore Bar. Spending almost an entire week in a bar might sound to you like a problem, not a vacation, but it was more than a bar, really. It was an open air hangout/restaurant with steps going straight down to the beach. They had great food, the best I've had in India, good music and a huge wine list. Needless to say, once we found the place and knowing the alternative, we thought it best to just stay put.
We strayed from the beach a few times to take scooter rides around the countryside and go shopping in the famous Wednesday market. And one time we went to Curly's, a little ways up the beach from the Shore Bar, but that place was a little too seedy for our taste.
I think that we may not be able to follow PP's advice for a whole year. Traveling in India can be kind of a headache. But even with the rough start, it was an altogether excellent vacation.
Shore Bar
Scootering
Shopping
For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to stay in Baga beach in north Goa, but almost as soon as we got there I realized just how not good of an idea it was. Baga beach is gross. It's packed with people and is so loud. Brad and I tried to make the most of it, but my bathing suit was the cause of a lot of unwanted attention and swimming in the ocean meant cramming in between two flags that marked the designated swimming area with hundreds of Indian tourists. After one day in Baga beach I told Brad that the place got its name because it makes you pull your hair and yell, "Bah! Gah! Get me out of here!" like some Indian Ebeneezer Scrooge. I was depressed, thinking we'd have to spend a whole week there, but we soon discovered that the Goa of our imagination: quiet beaches, cold beers, and other bikini-clad sunbathers, existed just a few minutes north in Anjuna.
We made two great discoveries in Anjuna, the hotel Laguna Anjuna and the place where we spent most of the rest of our vacation, the Shore Bar. Spending almost an entire week in a bar might sound to you like a problem, not a vacation, but it was more than a bar, really. It was an open air hangout/restaurant with steps going straight down to the beach. They had great food, the best I've had in India, good music and a huge wine list. Needless to say, once we found the place and knowing the alternative, we thought it best to just stay put.
We strayed from the beach a few times to take scooter rides around the countryside and go shopping in the famous Wednesday market. And one time we went to Curly's, a little ways up the beach from the Shore Bar, but that place was a little too seedy for our taste.
I think that we may not be able to follow PP's advice for a whole year. Traveling in India can be kind of a headache. But even with the rough start, it was an altogether excellent vacation.
Shore Bar
Scootering
Shopping
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
grrrr
I know I've been a bad blogger, but it really can't be helped. We haven't had internet at home since we got back from Goa. Brad and I have both been sending emails to the apartments manager asking him to help us fix the problem, but yesterday he wrote me an email saying that when he checked on Friday the internet was "working perfect". So he must think that writing emails about a fake internet problem is just my idea of a hilarious game.
Anyway, we hope it will be fixed soon.
Anyway, we hope it will be fixed soon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
