Pigeon Water, Shithead and Prohibited Rum 1/2

It was to be a day of disobedience.

We awoke. We left the hotel to go to the 'Turban Tying Competition' and the  'Moustache Growing Competition'. Exactly what it says on the tin. (except obviously you don't sit there watching people grow their moustaches as that would be extremely dull and you would probably end up with a very numb derriere and heatstroke).

Anyway back to the plot.

It was hot. Hot as a bitch. The sun was low in the sky. I, for one, felt a betty* coming on. The fact that Pushkar was a town of propriety and purity meant that one's shoulders and chest area were to be covered. I was therefore sporting a bizarre dress/ t-shirt conconction. I did not look good. We weaved our way down the dusty sun-beaten track to the town, staring straight ahead so as not to be led by temptation into one of the many jewellery shops that we were a constant source of delight and distraction.

We arrived in the arena. A veritable feast for the eyes. I posted some pictures in a previous post but here they are again.*

Event one - the turban tying competition. After swatting away a couple of Indian pesterers (the innocent question "Where you from?" and the response "Ah lovely jubbly, sound as a pound", which had once been endearing and the source amusement, had become a source of exceptional irritation), we waded through the sweat of bodies (deodorant obviously not in vogue in this arena) and plonked ourselves down on the floor.

In all honesty, I couldn't see a thing. I am short. People were standing up in front. Not a good view.

However, they had picked out some Western women to tie turbans on the heads on their loved ones. Here is a small example below. Although the event was haphazard to say the least, there was certainly a huge amount of enthusiasm from the crowd and so I was excited. Camels to the left of me, camels to the right and there we were, stuck in the middle of a sea of excited, angry (because of people standing in the way), smelly Indian men. The men in front were particularly uncompromising. They kept turning and glaring at us. Mainly because Faye's and my feet*** were pretty much up their bums. I gave them my best evil eye back. It is a good evil eye. Although some people have told me it looks more 'come hither' than evil. This is, I wager, not a good thing under the circumstances. I certainly did not want them to come hither, but rather go...er...thither...

Event 2 : Moustache growing.

Faye and I were hot. Hot as bitches (yes this is a common theme). And so we had moved from our sitting positions to stand at the back of the 'stage'. This was unwise for two reasons

1. we couldn't really see
and
2. we were once again bothered by whereyoufrom-ers.

I can't remember what the latter was trying to sell us but I think it was truly bizarre.

It is hard to tell from these photos, but you may all take my word for it. The moustaches were incredible. The men had them wrapped around their heads and proceeded to unwind them for the crowd. One man opened his arms to their full span to hold out his moustache. Whatever would possess you to allow such a creature onto your face is beyond me. I mean I'm all for a bit of designer stubble, but this was a yard of hair. Plait-able hair. Braidable hair. Longer than my long hair. And growing from a lip. It must have been really heavy and sweaty - I wondered it didn't make their heads lollop forward in an unseemly fashion.

And so we left, happy as Larry. We were to have lunch and then meet the group again as they joined us in Pushkar.

This post is quite long so I will save our lunch in a lovely rooftop restaurant (at which we did not accept drugs) and the pigeon water and the shithead and the breaking of the rules until next time. Which will be much sooner than the last time I said next time.




*If you don't know what this is then shame on you.
** NB my shoddy camera, which had by this stage of the journey acquired a black spot across the viewfinder, doesn't quite capture the wonderful colours. Think of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, add a splash of lung-constricting dust and dirt and you will have a clearer idea.
***This syntax perturbs me. My Grammar Nazi-ness has failed me momentarily. I have pharyngitis and a dodgy wisdom tooth and it is 23:22 so please correct me quietly and without disdain if this is wrong. Too in pain to check and this entire blog is a stream of consciousness. So no smart alec wisecracks please.

Words to Follow Pushkar in Pictures Albeit a While Too Late

Here are the words to follow the Pushkar in Pictures post.* They are indeed about a month late, but I like to keep everyone guessing. This now becomes a test of memory as it was now a good three months since I was in the land of spice and excitement.

Where was I? Faye and I were a bit smug because we had a bindi on our foreheads. It did look a bit odd on us. Also, I was unaware that they stuck rice to your head as part of the bindi. Although at the time, we felt very important and all spiritual, looking at the photos and what with the random rice grains, we probably just looked like we had a big old whitehead that needed squeezing.

We pootled along to the hub of the festival where there was just row upon row of horse and camel. The sun was setting and the whole sandy paradise was covered in a beautiful orange glow. So there we were, basking in an orange glow, surrounded by a caravan of camels**, dodging rogue bareback horse riders, sand swirling up around us. And what did we want? A cold beer.

Now I think this is all psychological because we knew it wasn't possible. There were three rules in this sacred town of Pushkar.

1. No eating meat
2. No showing affection in public (apparently a newly-wed couple were arrested for kissing)
3. No alcohol

As Faye is a veggie and I was being a veggie for the duration, that didn't really matter. Obviously number 2 was of no relevance or consequence but rule 3 was quite frankly, a bit crap.

Furthermore, after trying to watch the cow stripping event (in which no cows were actually stripped, whatever that even meant), we went to get something to eat (casually stopping off to buy some moonstone earrings and rings).

The food was the worst food ever. It was non-food. Our oh-so-sought-after peshwari naan (actually hard to find in India) was just plain naan, our navratan korma was lukewarm and we had to sit on a dirty mattress on the floor to eat it.

I realise I have now put Pushkar into a bad light. It was honestly one of my fave places in the trip. When anything went a bit pear-shaped on the trip, Faye and I generally ended up laughing. As my wise mother always says, 'It's all part of life's rich tapestry'. I think my section of life's rich tapestry is quite extensive.

Day one of Pushkar had come to an end. And it was good.



*Note unsubtle alliteration.
** I prefer this term to herd. It is the collective noun for a group of camels by the way, for all of you sitting there wondering if there were also caravans in the desert. You can apparently also refer to them as a flock of camels, but I feel this has connotations of wings.

Camels are huge.
I can safely say they do not fly.
They lollop.

Four and twenty sparrows baked in a baba ganoush.

I haven't written anything for a while and for this I am truly sorry. January ran away with me. Many an interesting thing happened in January, including me reaching the ripe old age of four and twenty.

This blog is not India related. I will be sure to write another India post this evening as I am at home. Probably along with the long awaited downstairs loo blog.

It is February and it is snowing. It is a good thing it is snowing because I only have heels or snow boots available. To say I look a tad bizarre would be an understatement. My snow boots are really fat and red and it looks like my sparrow legs are going to snap off at any minute. It also doesn't help my look that I have tin foil in my hair and a black see through lacey top on. Some people think having legs like mine is a blessing. But then they don't have the rigmarole of boot shopping and realising that every boot looks like a welly. And I thus look like I am about to go horse riding. Which doesn't help this whole false perception of me as a horse rider. Which I am not. And quite frankly, never will be.

It was my birthday on Friday and thirty five of us went to check out the restaurant underneath my flat. As there were so many of us, we ate a Levantine feast of humous, baba ganoush*, pitta, kebabs, falafels, cheese things, lamb things and baklava. I can now add baklava to the list of foods I could really do without. Somebody told me the other day that I was a fussy eater. I'm not. The thing is that I would just rather not bother with things that I don't love. I don't see the point - it is a waste of my time, my jaw muscles' time and there are others who could enjoy it more than me if I left it for them. It is also a waste of time for the farmers and manufacturers who have made said foods. In this case, the baklava farmers...

 In conclusion, there are still only 3 things I can't eat and they still remain butter, beetroot and veal's head.

Once upon a time, my American friend Jessie cooked us a thanksgiving dinner. It was incredible. I was a thanksgiving virgin. To accompany the turkey, was a mushroom gravy. I am not a mushroom fan generally. I will take or leave. But as a gracious guest, I took. And I ate. And Jessie waited until I had eaten. And then she said, 'phil, they weren't mushrooms, they were giblets.' I can't describe the revulsion I felt. It rose like a wave and stuck in my throat. It stayed there for hours afterwards. I still haven't forgiven her. This has a point. I am just not sure what it is. I think this is just proof to all those doubters out there that I eat stuff I don't like.

 Anyway, the birthday dinner was a triumph. Up to the point where they brought in a belly dancer. And they dragged me up to dance. Don't get me wrong, I like to be the centre of attention. But let us hark back to the post I wrote about dancing. And how I can't.

Three things were not in my favour

1. I don't possess a belly
2. Or sufficient bosom
3. Or the ability to dance

Furthermore I had been so busy trying to make sure everybody was happy, I hadn't really had a drink. One word sums up the entire event: mortifying.

34 pairs of eyes on me.

Friends from home - fine. They know I often make a fool of myself.

Friends from uni - alright. Although I hadn't seen them for a year.

Friends' partners and friends of friends - no doubt sitting there wondering why people associated with this loon.

Friends from work - dear lord, what would they say on Monday? At least I could blame the Christmas party on excessive alcohol consumption.

The next table of 15 who I didn't know from Adam but who I was paraded in front of. Well... by that point I had embraced the mortification and I was in my element. Shimmying like nobody has ever shimmied before. Granted, there wasn't much to work with on the jiggling front but I tried my best and got some laughs.

 At me. Not with me.



 *Oh. And I still don't know what baba ganoush is.