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.