Last but not least

This weekend has been a time of lasts. Last speaking time. Last wander around  my favouritism market.

Last naan at my favouritist restaurant. Oh last naan nearly turned into a disaster. The restaurant was very busy. But kind dada directed me to a table and brought a menu. I decided just to eat naan bread and a thumbs up.

After a while I could not remember if I had ordered a butter naan or plain naan. So as dada went past I said, "Butter naan dada?". From his reaction I realised he thought I was saying,"Where on earth is my butter naan."

He shook his head but reappeared shortly with a butter naan. It was a little bit cold which was unusual. Then as I ate it I  thought it was a little bit burnt. When I turned it over it definitely was burnt. Maybe it was a reject and he had given it to me to shut me up.

I could not allow my last naan to be a bad experience so when he went past again I said," Dada naan khub kharap." (Big brother this naan is very bad.)
"Kharap?" he replied.
I nodded.

Soon he came back with a naan was so hot I had to eat it with my knife and fork. It was up to the usual high standard of naan par excellence.


 

Please do not mind I had the air conditioning going in my room.

I was sitting in my room in the cool fridge like conditions feeling a little bit embarressed because I was using electicity to cool my room.
What would William Carey think?

The cool was certainly delicious. I went outside the room to the hallway  and it was like an oven.
I quickly came back in and turned the air conditioning off. After being out in the hall my room seemed very cool.

Later  I found a button on the remote control which read Room temp. When  I pushed it nothing happened until I turned the air con back on. There it was - the staggering truth. It was 30 flaming degrees.

I instantly stopped feeling bad about using the air con.

Again I checked the room temperature and it was 31 degrees.
It was bed time so I turned the air con back on. After an hour I was still awake so I looked to see what the room temperature was. It was 26 degrees. Crazy. The room temperature had only dropped five degrees in an hour.

At some point in the night it started to rain so I turned off the air con. In the morning when I opened my window there was a lovely breeze coming in.

As I breakfasted, showered and dressed I realised another advantage of using the air con. The marble floor was very cold.

Now it is nearly 4pm and it is 28 degrees in the room. I have had to close the windows because my blood sucking friends were coming in.

I can feel my face glowing with perspiration.

I wonder how my visitors would like a burst of cold air?

Thinketh maketh the woman

Hephzibah is the perfect place to take ones thoughts captive and make them obedient to Christ.

Why?

 

Because several million times a day in response to a look, a word, an action, a thought will enter the stage of one’s mind and stop midway. The thought usually of the lying variety, will take a deep breath and begin a soliloquy that could bring tears to the eyes of the most hard hearted person.

“Oh that is not fair,” it wails.

Within a very short time hearing the distress call another thought enters the stage and then there are two whinging and moaning and complaining.

Before one knows it there are hundreds of thoughts giving the performance of their lives all over the stage of my mind. They are such drama queens. Each trying to outdo the other. Naughty un Christlike thoughts vying for attention and approval.

And the clamour! One surely cannot hear oneself think for the cacophony.

The solution is found in being alert and diligent. The second the thought starts moving towards the stage lasso it and drag it away. In its place start sending thoughts that are true, noble, right, pure lovely admirable excellent and praiseworthy.

It is especially important to take thoughts captive because what we think affects the way we feel and the way we feel affects the way we speak and act. Nipping thoughts in the bud that are likely to make me feel  grumpy offended disappointed or resentful is very important. If I entertain them next minute I could easily say something or do something that I will have to ask forgiveness for.

I do not mind having to ask forgiveness but I would prefer it if I did not need to.

To Uber or not to Uber pt2

Government health warning: this post may have heaps of spelling mistakes cause i wrote it on my phone. Mistakes could interfer with your mentsl hesloth if you have obsessive compulsive correct spelling disorder.

Today's Uber journey also provided an unexpected surprise. I am on such an Uber learning curve at the moment.  I think it may be because I foolishly thought I had mastered the art of ubering. I know. I know. What was I thinking.
So... I had the address of where I wanted to go. I entered it in the correct place, selected the order button and confirmed. 

Unbeknown to me the Uber GPS decided it didn't know where my destination was znd decided i should go somewhere else. I did not think to check it could have changed my instructions.
Once again I ended up in the wrong place.  Today's driver understood English and so we added in a new destination but it wouldn't change for me. So he had several tries znd gknally we headed off in the tight direction.

I ended up just where I  should have been.

But this Ubering is not as idiot  proof as I  would hope. And to be fair some of that has to do with the GPS information the app uses.

To Uber or not to Uber

I confess to my deep shame that I am taking Uber taxis whenever I need to go out anywhere. What would William Carey think?

I'm not sure but I know what Sandy would have said in 1992, 1995, 1998, 2008 and 2015.When in Rome do as the Romans do. Catch buses, take the Metro, train, walk, rickshaw, auto  and tram. On special occasions take a taxi. By 2016 and 2018 she was starting to mellow markedly.

Well unfortunately it is not 1992 and I no longer am 30 years old. I am actually 56 and its a darn sight easier and less stressful in many ways to Uber. It is also cooler as Uber travel is a.c. (air conditioned). In 30 degree plus heat and humidity one cannot sneezle at a.c. travel. Population growth means public forms of transport are even more under pressure than 30 years ago.

Another reason to take an Uber now is because the old Ambassador car taxi drivers are feeling the pinch because they have competition from companies like Uber who are  taking their business. So they are even more unuser friendly than they were in the past. In the past they could be a little unco-operative and be reluctant to use the meter. Nowadays they can be plain difficult. They will refuse to take you if the distance is not long enough, they will refuse to use the meter and  will suggest a ridiculous price because you are a little unusual and have lots of money. So in some ways they are reaping what they have sown.

The downside of Uber is it is more expensive than the other forms of transport. Although it is probably cheaper than traditional taxi. It is also an elite form of travel. I think if I were here long term I would use less Uber but for now I can justify travelling in Uber style.

An Ambassador car which is slowly being superseded by a.c. Japanese imports taking over the taxi market.

To Uber one simply puts in ones starting point into an app on ones cell phone.  The app usually works that out for you and you type in your destination or choose the destination from the choices that pop up as you start adding letters. When you request a car the registration number of the driver assigned comes up on your phone and you can even see him approaching on the map provided.

Ubering is usually idiot proof but this morning my ubering experience nearly became a failed mission. Here is why. I put in where I wanted to go with the name of the church and the address which popped up: Lower Circular Baptist Church 43 AJC Bose Rd.

The address was correct according to the church website.  However, when we were about half way the driver stopped and told me we had arrived.

No way I said. Where is the church? No this is not the place Dada.
Oh yes it is he replied in Bangla and showed me his phone. Well I think that is what he said.
Sure enough his phone said we were at the right address.

I'm not getting out. This is not the right place I said. You have to go straight.
By my calculations there was still about  two kilometres to go.
He showed me his phone again.
He would not budge even though I told him my destination was further up the road. Thank God I knew where I was.
He wound down the window and turned off the car.
The temperature inside the car and me started to go up.

Thankfully I realised it was a problem with the GPS and not the driver. I did not know what to do but as I looked at my phone I  discovered I could add in a destination so I chose a place beyond where I wanted to go. Thank God I knew that also.

I sent the new instructions and he did not receive it.
I sent it I said.
I have not received it he said in Bangla.
I sent it three more times for good measure.
He still did not receive it.
At this point I decided to pay get out and order another Uber.
I started walking down the road wondering what to do. It was too far to walk.

Then I hear a toot toot as the Uber driver pulled up alongside me and wound down his window.
I received the change in destination he said in Bangla.
I climbed aboard and off we went merrily.

He was heading for the new destination but as we drew near to the church I told him to pull over.
This is the church I said. He knew we were headed for a church because it was part of the original destination instructions.

I gave him extra money for the additional distance and as I departed I said GPS kharap. The GPS is crap. He smiled.

When it was time to come home I ordered another Uber and noticed that number 41 AJC Bose Rd came up automatically instead of 43. Even so there is no way one number could make that much difference.
 

Fruit and custard part 2

Government Health Warning - there is very little grammar used in todays blog because I can not be bothered putting it in.

Being an epistemologically minded young lady or just plain nosey, I thought I should do some research on the custard apple. This adventure into Google land was partially motivated by the fact I had just eaten three custard apples and swallowed a couple of pips by accident.

However, I should probably start at the beginning...

I went to the fruit market where a pleasant young man lay in wait for me behind a tall display of fruit. He asked me if I wanted apples.
No.
Mango?
No. Custard apples I said.
Oh please don't mind he said with a sly look on his face but they are 200 rupees a kilogram.
Dada I said that is too much. 130.
170 was his response.
He was carefully feeling the fruit and choosing which one to sell me. That was my first mistake. I should have made the selection. I usually do even though I really don't know what I am doing.

The minute he started bargaining I knew I was in big trouble. 130 was far too high for my opening bid. That was my second mistake. I knew I was going to come off second best in this encounter.
By this time the custard apples were in the bag and it was belong proffered to me.
135 I said.
150 he said.
OK I said wishing I could remember what I had paid last time.

I would also like some guava.
100 rupees a kilo he said.
No Dada I said. 40 rupees for half a kilo.
He agreed.
I also bought some sweet limes which are like lime flavoured oranges.

When I arrived home I inspected my custard apples. Three were very ripe, one ripe and one firm. They need to give way when squeezed if they are ready to eat and four were.
Oh I thought to myself I think I need to start eating these. So I did. Plus a few pips.

When I did some research I found out the ca are very good for you. Filled with antioxidants and minerals. The pips are not so good and are poisonous. I wondered how many are too many. To be fair I was not exactly sure how many I had ingested.

The pips are ground up and used to make a paste to kill head lice but some people experience a reaction to this medicine which is toxic because of the cyanide in the kernels. 

I was wondering how I would know if I had cyanide poisoning and then I found a site that told me the hard skins on the seeds mean you don't get poisoned if you swallow them whole.
Phew I thought...

Disaster averted...

Cancel the body bag.
 

Them bones arent dry bones

In a soggy corner of a little cemetery lies the remains of a man who was a history maker but little is known about him even in Christian circles - William Carey.

I visited his grave with my good friend Leo who lives in the town where Carey is buried.

I know a little about Carey so I will attempt to give a few details which will hopefully be accurate.

Carey trained as a cobbler in England but being an intelligent inquisitive sort of chap taught himself several languages including Hebrew and Latin. He was also very interested in natural science especially botany and because of his level of education which was mostly self-directed, was offered the job of a school teacher. He also became a Baptist pastor.

 He wrote a book in 1792 explaining why Christians should be involved in mission because apart from a few groups in Europe, the Protestant church was not that mission oriented. The work " An Enquiry into the Obligations of Christians to use means for the Conversion of the Heathen" was not well received. One poor chap is recorded as saying "When God pleases to convert the heathen he'll do it without consulting you or me."

Anyway Carey and his family left for India in 1793 and eventually after a stint of managing an indigo factory, ended up in the Danish colony of Serampore across the river from Kolkata. The Carey's joined  the Wards, Marshmanns and John Fountain who had also arrived from England.

Carey busied himself with many jobs including translating the Bible into 44 languages, lobbying for the abolition of sati which was the practise of burning widows on the funeral pyres of their husbands. Semaphore College was started to train clergy and provide arts and science education.

It was no Sunday School picnic in India in the early 1800s when Carey and his family arrived. Carey buried two wives, was outlived by the third and of his seven children three died. There was also opposition from both the local people and the English who were involved in trade. Then there were diseases like malaria that took their toll. Oh and man-eating tigers apparently lurked close by.

Carey's catch phrase  was "Expect great things from God, attempt great things for God." When one studies the numerous achievements of the man which I have barely touched on here, one can certainly see this theme running through his life.

Carey described himself as a "plodder". To be sure that plodder achieved far more in his life than most of us can dream of. His example also was the catalyst for the modern mission movement.

 

RFA?

Radio Freak America? Royal Fleet Auxiliary? Really Frightening Animal? No. No. No.
RFA? Ready for anything.

RFA is the best policy in Hephzibah and surrounding districts because plans frequently go awry. If you are in a state of RFA nothing phases you. Well that is the theory anyway.

For example you might be visiting people and someone unexpectedly says to you, "Now sister will bring us a word of encouragement." If sister is switched on to RFA mode she will have a word ready to go. On the contrary sister might have been asked to bring a word of encouragement and no-one asks for it. In this example sister has to be RFA so that if she is not asked she does not get huffy.

For example roast chicken. It will never be the same as where one comes from. If one is in RFA it will not matter. If one is not in RFA one could be very disappointed and sulk. One might also be very critical of the chef and indeed the whole nation because they do not know what roast chicken is supposed to be like.

For example the yoghurt to eat with the curry is frozen and the ice cream for pudding is runny.

The problem for most of us is that we have set ideas about what will happen. You know. Expectations. Having expectations in Hephzibah is not always wise because they set you up for a potential melt down. RFA means one has to be highly flexible and go with the flow.

One also has to be highly humble to operate in RFA. Pride is the enemy of RFA because pride would say "I  deserve this or I should get my own way or that's not fair or what about me." When one is operating in RFA one simply accepts things the way they are and gets on with it.

I guess it is a bit like dying to self.

 

Ferry cross the Mersey?

Today in a bold revolutionary counter cultural move, Leo and I took a shortcut. Well to be fair Leo has been taking me on shortcuts the past few days while I have been staying with her and Peter. We would be walking around the town where she lives and she would say, "We'll just take a shortcut through here." It is always hard to know whether the short  cut really is the quickest route when you are not familiar with the surroundings. However, todays shortcut was par excellence as it involved a river.

When we visited the same river yesterday I had wondered out loud  how long it would take me to swim it. It is probably about two kilometres wide. Leo commented the river looked deceptively calm and there was probably a strong current lurking beneath its millpond appearance. There was no doubt the vegetation that was floating by was going at a fast trot.

So we trained to the big railway station made famous by a film about a boy who gets separated from his family. Then instead of joining the seething masses looking for a taxi we bought a ticket for the ferry. The railway station is on one side of the river and the city where we were going is on the other side. There is a rather large  and spectacular suspension bridge that connects the two. Once one finds a taxi then one has to contend with honking hoards  of vehicles trying to cross the bridge. Today however, we bypassed the cacophony and enjoyed the river breeze and a leisurely cruise. The river shortcut was certainly a far easier quieter option if you are brave enough to climb on the ferry that looks like it could be well past its use by date.

While on the ferry I practised taking selfies and tried to include the river in the photo. I am not particularly good at taking selfies because I rarely pose for myself. Anyway I am sure my antics, as always, were a source of entertainment for my fellow passengers.  I was relieved to see there was an orange life saving device above my head but not sure how useful it would have been if the ferry had hit an ice berg. If I  look a little flushed in the photo it is because I had just lugged my back pack for about ten minutes and it was about 35 degrees.

 

Put Some Clothes On

Here I am wearing my favouritist outfit at the moment -my house coat or house dress. Or at least it is my second favouritist because the outfit I wear when having a bath is my most favouritist. Unfortunately or fortunately depending on your viewpoint I am not able to wear my bath outfit in public.

I bought the house coat as a kind of spur of the minute decision while shopping in my favouritist market of all time. However, unlike most of the other spur of the minute decisions I have made, I have not rued this one.

My house coat is really just a rectangular piece of cotton that is doubled over and sown almost to the top to create side seams and arm holes. There is a hole cut in the top where the edges of the material have been hemmed to make an opening for my head.

The house coat is loose fitting and very cool. One can choose to wear under garments underneath which for modesty's sake I choose to do, or not. One would be even cooler if one did not I expect.

My outside the house outfits, salwar chemises, are cooler than jeans and a T-shirt but still are not as cool as my house coat. The first thing I do when returning to the house is struggle out of my clothes into my house coat. It is a struggle because in these 37 degree temperatures ones clothes tend to stick.

While you should not wear one's house coat out in public here, I think, you would get away with it in NZ. You would just look like a skinny version of the chick from the Mummas and Poppas.
 

Fruit and custard?

Please do not mind there is not a pine cone on the plate. It is a custard apple. Custard apples are extremely tasty fruit. I have eaten custard apples before in 1995 but do not remember them being so delicious. They are now on my most favourite fruit list. Guava, greengagers and strawberries top the list but custard apples are a close second.

A custard apple is a little bit custardy but not much. It has segments similar to an orange but if I remember correctly each one of the dimples on the outside have a seed and segment attached on the inside. It is several days since I have eaten one so my memory is a little sketchy.  The seeds are very hard and similar to a runner bean seed but flat. There is pulp around each seed which you suck off before  ladylikely and discretely removing the seed from your mouth onto a spoon. If you are not in the mood for ladylike you can spit it into your hand or onto the floor.

The flavour is hard to describe but the texture is a little bit grainy like a feijoa or guava. I suppose the flavour is subtle and fruity. Not too sweet. Unique in the same way a persimmon is. There is a thin layer of pulp which could vaguely be described as custard, I suppose, between the seed segments ad outer case. The outer case is relatively hard but put any pressure on it and it breaks at the place where the dimples join.

It seems to me the custard apple is so unusual, I did wonder to myself what on earth was God thinking when he came up with the idea. However, you could say the same about lots of fruit. Our God is very imaginative.

No not the train...

Ah yes. The train journey. Such fun. I made it to the train station in plenty of time. Well with an hour to spare. The train was for some reason running late. Bizaree really when that was the start of the journey. I do not know how that works.

About an hour after it was supposed to leave we were off. It was very pleasant in the carriage I was in. It was third class ac. I will hopefully never ride anything less than that class ever again.

I chained my pack to the top bunk where no-one was sitting and made myself comfortable in my window seat. I felt a little bit snackish so I ate two pieces of fruit cake kindly made for me by Mr Mullick.

Not long into the journey my bladder said it needed emptying. Ridiculous I said. I haven’t drunk anything for two hours and I’ve been sweating like a pig. Sometimes one has to be firm with bladders so I made it wait for another four hours. I was very nervous about the toilet. I did not need to be.

When the time finally came for me to go to the bathroom I waited until the train slowed down and scampered down the corridor after a man who was heading in the same direction. By this time the train was virtually stopped waiting for another train to go past.

Fortunately the man chose the western convenience which left me the hole in the floor one. Crazy as it may seem the hole in the ground is the more hygenic option as long as one can crouch and not lose ones balance. Thankfully  the train did not start up again until I was finished. If this is all too much information I apologise. Just trying to set the scene.

The chai wallah came by so I had a cup of tea and the last piece of cake. He soon came back to take lunch orders but I was too full to think about lunch.

The train clattered on getting further and further behind schedule.

At one point the masala muri man came by so I bought some of that. Everyone around me was on their bunks sleeping. I had the lower berth and fortunately the person who had the middle bunk above mine did not want to lie down. The back of the lower berth folds down to make the middle berth. If he had wanted to lie down I would have had to lie down too because there is no room to sit if the middle berth is down.

Two hours to go everyone woke up and sat up. I met a young lady who was going home to her husband. She had not seen him for three months as she had a job where the trasin started its journey. Every three months she came home for fifteen days or so.

Finally only about two hours late the train ambled in to my station. I hoisted my pack onto my back and waddled my way out of the train, onto the platform, up the stairs, down the stairs to  the exit where my ride was waiting for me.

Masala muri.

What happened?

Not sure how my blog entry ended up on the wrong site. Anyway there's more I can say. Yesterday on the way home from rail booking office I visited my fruit cake man. I said to the first person I met in the shop, "Are you my fruit cake man?" Understandably he was a little taken aback by such an impertinent question.

However, he quickly recovered his equilibrium and fetched me a fruit cake. As he was about to wrap it up he changed his mind and chose another one. When I questioned him, he replied that  that this one was freshly baked. And it surely was. It smelt delicious and warm. Because I was his old customer Mr Mullick kindly knocked 10 rupees off the price. I will have a piece with my coffee this morning.It looks a little  brown  in the photo but that's just the light.

Be gentle

I have decided this month to meditate on gentleness. The other night when I was at the airport I saw something rising up in me that could only have been pride. It is very hard to be gentle when one is proud but if I am the Lord’s servant I am required to be gentle. Among the scriptures encouraging one to be gentle there is this crazy-sounding promise:

 

Timothy 2:24 (NKJV) And a servant of the Lord must not quarrel but be gentle to all, able to teach, patient, [25] in humility correcting those who are in opposition, if God perhaps will grant them repentance, so that they may know the truth...

 

Imagine that. If I am gentle and correct people humbly if they need it, then God may grant them repentance and they may know the truth. We all know the glorious freedom that comes from the truth. Well some of us do anyway.

 

When living in Hephzibah there are plenty of opportunities to be humble and gentle. I do recall though in the past it can take a fair degree of self-control to be like that. When you are out of your cultural comfort zone somehow the locals feel free to take the opportunity to tell you what to do. And while that can be very helpful if one does not know what to do it can also be extremely aggravating if one does know. Unless of course one stays gentle and humble which takes self-control. Self-control, humility and gentleness. Hmmmm.  

 

Also when one is out of one’s comfort zone, one might not be as tolerant as one would be at home. And what to do when someone tries to rip you off or refuses to take you in their taxi or won’t leave you alone when you are at the market.

 

I’ll give you gentle buddy.

 

Last month I mediated on as many scriptures as I could find about trusting God. That was bit of a disaster in one way because I had so many opportunities to trust God. It was like difficult and challenging circumstances were magnetised to me because of my study. Glory to God though we broke through to a new level of trust.

 

So I wonder how we will go responding gently and humbly to the challenges of living here for two weeks.

 Grace, grace, grace.

You Can't Sleep On It

 

This bed looks extremely comfortable does it not?

 I said to my back and my neck, “This is a very comfortable bed. You will rest well here.”

“ Humphh, “they replied.

Indeed.

If it was a bad attitude I could deal with it. If my thoughts were going haywire I could pull them into line. If I was dehydrated I could drink more water. But how do you fix a hard sleeping surface that gives you a nasty headache the next morning?

I am not sure what the mattresses here are made of. It does not feel like sponge rubber though. It could be coconut husks. That does not sound very comfortable but is probably softer than the tile floor!!  Maybe there is a thin layer of foam over coconut husks. At one of my destinations it felt like the bed was made of straight coconut husks.

Lying on pillows helps. A polar fleece blanket folded several times and placed strategically with pillows helps.

Arising at 5am helps. The longer you stay in bed the worse it gets.

I am thinking if I am going to sleep here again, I may need to have a contingency plan like an inflatable mattress.

 I know, I know.

 

Summer breeze

 

 

 

The ceiling fan- one of a girl's best friends in the never-ending war against mosquitoes.

In the early hours of this morning I discovered how to know if there are mosquitoes in your bedroom- turn the fan off. The fan keeps the air moving which keeps the mosquitoes moving which means they do not land and bite you.

Now to be fair there are not many mosquitoes about at this time of year. Mosquitoes breed best and are more numerous when there is water lying around. Like in the monsoon time  on until the water evaporates. However, they are still hungry little blighters. Don’t let anyone tell you by the way, that there is no such thing as a free lunch. Mosquitoes who help themselves to free blood supplies, are evidence there is.

 If you turn the fan off because it is noisy and a bit cold then all you need to do is wait. Going to sleep fills in the time nicely. You may not hear the mosquito, you may not feel it land or bite but after it has left snacking on you, you will wake up with a small burning itchy lump somewhere on your body.

Burning itchy lumps are what happened to me this morning in the early hours.  I ignored the first one on my elbow but after the second one on my leg, I was wide enough awake to do something sensible. Turn the fan back on and spray some mosquito spray about.

After I did that there were no more new burning itchy lumps.

 Simple really.

You're still the same dododododo dododododo dododododo

I spent yesterday visiting my favourite haunts where no ghosts but memories lurk. I have about three days to cram as much visiting my favourite places into as I can before the real business of this trip begins. I dragged Loch with me, not exactly kicking and screaming, around a few shopping outlets. Shopping outlet is a word I use loosely to describe the places we went. One was an old market that has heaps of little shops set in a courtyard type of an arrangement. The two  were malls that will rival anything in New Zealand.

 The point is not to spend money. Wherever I go in this city each place has an ambience to experience whatever that means. It may just mean I like observing people as they do life in a culture very different but similar to my own. We travel by cycle rickshaw which in itself is entertaining. There is plenty to see on the way. Mothers sitting in groups on the footpath waiting for children to finish school. People buying. People selling. People negotiating traffic. It is a bit like watching a movie and being part of it at the same time.

In between the second and third mall, for something completely different, Loch took a team with her and visited her street people. I tagged along too. These are the people who live alongside the street and Loch has worked with for the past 20 years. I am fairly sure these are the same group of people I prayed for in 1995 and asked God to send someone who would tell them about Jesus.

The children now second generation of the ones Loch first started working with, come to a day centre she runs. Some of the girls she has taken into her home and some of the boys live in another house down the street. Many of them, although they do not exist in terms of officialdom, have been enrolled in school with the help of some fancy paperwork from a lawyer. If you do not officially exist because no-one registered your birth, you can not go to school or have a bank account.

I made myself scarce while this was going on in a café on the street. It is possible to drink coffee and pray for people ministering on the street you know. I did not stay in  the café long enough though so I too mooched around the footpath in what essentially is someone's living room. It always feels a little weird to be parked up talking to people, with their belongings not far away on the road side of the street. Meanwhile the people who have walled in houses walk through the narrow gap between there and the shops staring as they make their way home to comfort and safety.

There is something inextricably intoxicating about being on the street in Hephzibah. The huge variety of people, sights, sounds and smells makes a visual, dynamic entertainment feast. It is also quite exhausting as a cacophony of stimuli crash over you.

Several trams bumbled and clanged their way up the street as I waited. That will be tomorrows treat.

The way it is

 

I really may have to give up on cheap hotels in exotic Asian locations. I know I know. They always look so good on the website.

The one I am staying in overnight before I go to my friend's is comfortable enough. It has lovely free wiifi. It is clean. It will cost about $50 with breakfast. I can turn on an urn to heat the water for my shower. There is no top sheet for the bed and the duvet does not look that fresh but that is the only niggle I have. Oh and the dogs that bark, the sirens and  two explosions. Still once I put my ear plugs in I could not hear much.

It is more travelling to the cheap hotel that challenges my sense of safety and well-being. Especially when I have a cling on from the airport who wants me to tip him because he led me to a taxi. I insisted on carrying my bag which was not that heavy but he put it in the front seat. Then he sat beside it and I wondered if he would jump out of the taxi and steal it. Of course none of this is helped by the fact I have had no sleep for 24 hours and tend to be more neurotic than usual.

Nor is it helped by the fact we seemed to be driving through darkish streets and the way to the hotel was down a lane which we walked. The hotel manager wais pleasant enough but took my photo as I checked  in. That is for the Indian government in case I go missing.  Well that was his cheerful explanation. I hope he emailed the photo straight away to the Indian government because if I do go missing surely the photo could too? Best not go missing I guess.

Post note: I did not go missing but did need counselling after several people at the hotel needed or demanded tips. I did not have the right sized change so ended up giving more than I would have.  I felt a little mean but I carried my bag down from my room to the taxi out of the road to avoid paying more tips. I know. I know. It is that kind of frugal to the point of stupid logic that messed up my visa to India arriving in Wellington in plenty of time. What shall I do with myself??!!!