We moseyed back through the narrow streets. Orange flowers strewn over the ground, sun beating down on our heads. The Lonely Planet Guidebook (affectionately known as the LP) had advised us to go to a few different eateries. The rooftop disaster from the night before had left us with a sour taste in our mouths. We wanted something different, so we climbed up the narrow staircase, passing some 'toilets', to a sheltered rooftop cafe. On one side we overlooked the hubbub and mayhem of the market:
and on the other side lay the peace and tranquillity of the lake of Pushkar.
We had a veritable feast of houmous and goats cheese and bread and nothing at all related to India. We asked for a banana lassi.
'A Marijuana Lassi' winked the owner.
I was convinced we must have misheard. We stuck with banana. On our way out, the owner showed us the Cannabis sachets that they use to make up the concoction.
A month later when I came back to London, I was chatting with a couple of guy friends. We were perhaps discussing my innocence. I said, the only thing I regret about my trip to India is not trying opium. They looked at me agog. Agog I tell you.
"Phil", said they, "you do know what opium is right?"
"uh yah", I retorted, "it's like what they used to have in dens in the olden days"
They looked at each other.
"It's heroin"
"Oh."
I'm not being funny or anything* but I disagree. Opium water is available in India as Orange Juice is available in all good supermarkets. You drink that, you don't inject it. They are being overdramatic. Charles Dickens was an opium addict. As was Florence Nightingale. And Marcus Aurelius. There you go - a nice bit of trivia for a Sunday night.
Anyway, the moral of the story is, that like any good girl from a good family with a good reputation, I drank banana lassis and that was that.
We went back to the hotel and were greeted by our ex-tour group. They were to have an orientation tour and Faye and I decided to lie by the pool.
The pool. An oasis in a barren desert. Clear blue glistening water. Chlorinated of course. Ecstasy.
No I lied.
The pool was an abyss of murky shit. There was a thin skin across the top of the water. What that skin was made from I have no idea. Pigeons pooed across the surface. They bathed in their own waste.
So did I. (Their waste. Not mine.)
I was hot. Hot as a bitch. The water (unchlorinated, possibly just rain water) was cold. I dipped a toe tentatively. Dirty but refreshing. I got in.
Then disaster struck.
Owen, a fellow tour member, galumphed into the water. He proceeded to hold me by the leg and flip me upside down. I was thirsty. I had not, however, intended to quench said thirst with the aforementioned crap water. I'd have sooner licked my own armpit. And given the heat, I doubt that would have been a pleasant experience.
Have I mentioned that I am not a water baby?
Can I swim? Yes.
Can I dive? Yes.
Can I float? Absolutely not.
I physically cannot do it. I have already said that my body defies gravity when I go down I slide. It wants me to stay hanging vertically mid-air. However, when it comes to water, gravity wants me to be sucked under. I used to have lessons with a man called Tony Williams.** He said I couldn't float because I am a runner and have a huge amount of stamina.
Balls.
I got out. By this point, fully clothed Faye had run away squealing and he had chased her. He came back Faye-less. I struggled and struggled and tried to make myself as difficult and heavy as possible, but to no avail.
The inevitable happened. I flew back in for a second gulp of pigeon water.
They all went off for a look around the town.
We sunbathed and read, all set to meet them for dinner. A vegetarian dinner obviously. No meat allowed.
We got to the lake for dinner and it was absolutely stunning. Faye and I posed for a photo. Standing fairly close, as you do for photos. A man looked crossly at us. I thought maybe we were breaking the 'affection' rule. It turned out we were merely wearing shoes too close to the water's edge. We watched the beautiful pink sky until the sun had set. It was an incredibly romantic place. Had I been there as part of a couple, I would have been mighty irritated with the 'affection' rule.
Oh. And we illegally drank rum and played a card game called Shithead. Dignified.
I shan't bore you with the details but just thought I'd tie in with title.
* Is this a Northernism? Because I always use this phrase and my uni flatmates (from Cambridge, Southampton and Wiltshire doncha know) thought it was hilarious.
They were always partial to my phrases. Like 'oh, she's got a bob on herself' (aka she thinks she's it) and 'well, that's not going to bath the twins' (that won't get things done) or 'well it's all part of life's rich tapestry' (self evident non?). Maybe they are Cottonisms.
My sister's boyfriend was slightly overwhelmed by our use of abbreviation. Here are a couple of examples:
Beg your puddin'
'Snips (This was originally 'I beg your pardon', which became 'Beg your parsnips', which further became 'parsnips' and then just 'snips'. Classic Mummy Cotton.)
Some people think we are lazy. I think we are eccentric and inventive.
** Again, clearly a source of much hilarity in the famille Cotton, Toe Knee Willy Arms...
and on the other side lay the peace and tranquillity of the lake of Pushkar.
We had a veritable feast of houmous and goats cheese and bread and nothing at all related to India. We asked for a banana lassi.
'A Marijuana Lassi' winked the owner.
I was convinced we must have misheard. We stuck with banana. On our way out, the owner showed us the Cannabis sachets that they use to make up the concoction.
A month later when I came back to London, I was chatting with a couple of guy friends. We were perhaps discussing my innocence. I said, the only thing I regret about my trip to India is not trying opium. They looked at me agog. Agog I tell you.
"Phil", said they, "you do know what opium is right?"
"uh yah", I retorted, "it's like what they used to have in dens in the olden days"
They looked at each other.
"It's heroin"
"Oh."
I'm not being funny or anything* but I disagree. Opium water is available in India as Orange Juice is available in all good supermarkets. You drink that, you don't inject it. They are being overdramatic. Charles Dickens was an opium addict. As was Florence Nightingale. And Marcus Aurelius. There you go - a nice bit of trivia for a Sunday night.
Anyway, the moral of the story is, that like any good girl from a good family with a good reputation, I drank banana lassis and that was that.
We went back to the hotel and were greeted by our ex-tour group. They were to have an orientation tour and Faye and I decided to lie by the pool.
The pool. An oasis in a barren desert. Clear blue glistening water. Chlorinated of course. Ecstasy.
No I lied.
The pool was an abyss of murky shit. There was a thin skin across the top of the water. What that skin was made from I have no idea. Pigeons pooed across the surface. They bathed in their own waste.
So did I. (Their waste. Not mine.)
I was hot. Hot as a bitch. The water (unchlorinated, possibly just rain water) was cold. I dipped a toe tentatively. Dirty but refreshing. I got in.
Then disaster struck.
Owen, a fellow tour member, galumphed into the water. He proceeded to hold me by the leg and flip me upside down. I was thirsty. I had not, however, intended to quench said thirst with the aforementioned crap water. I'd have sooner licked my own armpit. And given the heat, I doubt that would have been a pleasant experience.
Have I mentioned that I am not a water baby?
Can I swim? Yes.
Can I dive? Yes.
Can I float? Absolutely not.
I physically cannot do it. I have already said that my body defies gravity when I go down I slide. It wants me to stay hanging vertically mid-air. However, when it comes to water, gravity wants me to be sucked under. I used to have lessons with a man called Tony Williams.** He said I couldn't float because I am a runner and have a huge amount of stamina.
Balls.
I got out. By this point, fully clothed Faye had run away squealing and he had chased her. He came back Faye-less. I struggled and struggled and tried to make myself as difficult and heavy as possible, but to no avail.
The inevitable happened. I flew back in for a second gulp of pigeon water.
They all went off for a look around the town.
We sunbathed and read, all set to meet them for dinner. A vegetarian dinner obviously. No meat allowed.
We got to the lake for dinner and it was absolutely stunning. Faye and I posed for a photo. Standing fairly close, as you do for photos. A man looked crossly at us. I thought maybe we were breaking the 'affection' rule. It turned out we were merely wearing shoes too close to the water's edge. We watched the beautiful pink sky until the sun had set. It was an incredibly romantic place. Had I been there as part of a couple, I would have been mighty irritated with the 'affection' rule.
Oh. And we illegally drank rum and played a card game called Shithead. Dignified.
I shan't bore you with the details but just thought I'd tie in with title.
* Is this a Northernism? Because I always use this phrase and my uni flatmates (from Cambridge, Southampton and Wiltshire doncha know) thought it was hilarious.
They were always partial to my phrases. Like 'oh, she's got a bob on herself' (aka she thinks she's it) and 'well, that's not going to bath the twins' (that won't get things done) or 'well it's all part of life's rich tapestry' (self evident non?). Maybe they are Cottonisms.
My sister's boyfriend was slightly overwhelmed by our use of abbreviation. Here are a couple of examples:
Beg your puddin'
'Snips (This was originally 'I beg your pardon', which became 'Beg your parsnips', which further became 'parsnips' and then just 'snips'. Classic Mummy Cotton.)
Some people think we are lazy. I think we are eccentric and inventive.
** Again, clearly a source of much hilarity in the famille Cotton, Toe Knee Willy Arms...
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