Collection of Unconnected Matter

It's funny when you rethink all the situations and emotions one has experienced in a certain period of time. Yes, I know this sounds very vague, but looking back on these last couple months since my return from my trip, a rollercoaster of adventures and feelings and moments of 'stuckness', I wonder if I've learned anything at all. I wonder if, through each situation and thought process, I am learning and improving myself and improving the lives of others.

A cycle of convoluted thoughts pepper this blog, a 'collection of unconnected matter' and I oft wonder - where does that leave me? Where exactly am I going? Am I the person I would like myself to be? Are any of us? A friend recently told me that through a late night conversation he "saw a real sad side of me", a facet of me that I usually conceal not to frighten others, not to frighten myself. But I think we all have this sad side of ourselves, and choosing to expose it depends on us. It's funny, because that particularly night ended the 'sadness' I had been experiencing since I came down with glandular fever.

Glandular fever produces various side affects in people - exhaustion, restlessness, lack of concentration, aching muscles, sore glands, temperature, and depression.
What I thought was the annual April apathy and madness I sometimes descend into (and posted about previously) was (I think) encouraged/produced by my glandular fever. I lacked motivation, I lacked enthusiasm, I lacked the passion I so often seek and express. A cycle I worked hard on to break, to smash up all the negative thoughts and consequent anti-social actions - which, I might proudly add, I overcame with success. But that Friday night when my friend saw that 'sad side' of me was the slow ending of this melancholy. I had finally thought myself out of the bad, the sad, the madness that had enveloped me for a while. Too long a while. But starting afresh is always renewing. And I've come to realise that it's upon ourselves to make that change. Others can help us see the way, or make us feel even more bitter, but we have to work on the rotten from the inside out. Once the clutter is arranged in some order, some progress is made.

To really take control of your life, that's one of the hardest things to do. To be happy and satisfied with your every action, your destination, your journey to that destination - I think that's one my biggest wishes for my life. A big birthday wish. A lifetime wish, a lifetime workshop - for nobody really wants to achieve perfection, otherwise there's no room for improvement.

To disconnect from life - I think that's one of my biggest fears. I may live to be average, to finally grow up and not realise my 'potential', I may remain single for the rest of my life, but I don't feel as frightened from those 'fears'. To disconnect from life - to not care, to stop thinking, to feel like a transparent blob hovering through the everydayness of life - no thanks. Nisht for Sarah.

spilt milk

The sea was like milk foam. Spilt milk. The white creaminess of the salty foam looked delicious as it washed over the black rocks that jutted out forming mini Oreo-islands. It was breathtaking. I think the reason why I was so surprised at the beauty was because the milk foam belonged to the sea spray of Nobbies, Phillip Island. That's right, Nobbies' Nuts. When I used to think of Phillip Island, I remembered the Penguin Parade we witnessed during a class excursion in Grade Four. I thought of the ordinary name Cowes, and the lack of seals slapping themselves silly at the Nobbies rocks. I thought of a remote place that belonged to my childhood, and completely disregarded its potential for appreciation in my adulthood.

It's funny how things work like that.

Scribbles from Editing Class 101

I feel like a detective - learning the training to dive into complex sentence structures and identify the grammar construction of our language.
We piece the puzzle together with each new class - a new pearl to unravel the secrets embedded within communication.

I feel like a builder - learning the materials and tools for construction. Laying the foundation - solid, of course - and during class we build together the walls, windows, ceilings - the limitations, the exceptions - "you gotta know the rules to break 'em."
Layer upon layer, we work hard and we work long. Peeling the verbs, subjects, direct and indirect objects away from the core, we reveal some inner truths of our language.

Grammar girl is our goddess.

Frozen Music

Music allows us to pause the present for a moment and feel full with the memory bubble that's created upon listening to it.
It's so wonderful that there are songs out there that allow us commonfolk to express our 'feelings' - especially when words seem inadequate. Songs capture a glance, a shyness, a whoop of joy, a relief, a place of comfort - that sparks memories within us that we tend to put away for a while. Whether they are songs once shared by lovers, by friends, by heartache, by family, by grief - or songs that remind us of a time with which we are familiar. I think it's quite beautiful.

Current songs of currency:

"Dream about you: Mark Sholtez"
"So Happy Together: The Turtles"
"Apple Candy: Ben Lee"
"Book of Love: Peter Gabriel"
"Move On Up: Curtis Mayfield"
"Alright: John Legend"

These songs are important to me because they encapsulate a whole range of emotions, felt along wide spaces of time in various parts of the world. I wonder what YOUR current songs of currency are. Let me know. I enjoy allowing sunshine memories soak through me via the beauty of music. Perhaps it feels a little like love.

Rosamond Purcell - lovely photos for your enjoyment

An inspiration.

This is an excerpt from an address by Israel President Ezer Weizman to the Bundestag and Bundesrat of the Federal Republic of Germany on the 18th of January, 1996. It was written by Israeli novelist Meir Shalev. I came across this while exploring my new Haggadah, attached to the paragraph 'Bechol Dor VaDor - In every generation'. I wish everyone a pesach kasher ve sameach.


"It was fate that delivered me and my contemporaries into this great era, when the Jews returned to and re-established their homeland. I am no longer a wandering Jew who migrates from country to country, from exile to exile. But all Jews in every generation must regard themselves as if they had been there, in previous generations, places, and events. Therefore, I am still a wandering Jew, but not along the far-flung paths of the world. Now I migrate through the expanses of time, from generation to generation, down the paths of memory.

Memory shortens distances. Two hundred generations have passed since my people first came into being, and to me they seem like a few days. Only two hundred generations have passed since a man named Abraham rose up and left his country and birthplace for the country that is today mine. Only two hundred generations have elapsed from the day Abraham purchased the Cave of Makhpela in the city of Hebron to the murderous conflicts that have taken place there in my generation. Only one hundred fifty generations have passed from the Pillar of Fire of the Exodus from Egypt to the pillars of smoke from the Holocaust. And I, a descendant of Abraham, born in Abraham's country, have witnessed them all.

I was a slave in Egypt. I received the Torah at Mount Sinai. Together with Joshua and Elijah, I crossed the Jordan River. I entered Jerusalem with David, was exiled from it with Zedekiah, and did not forget it by the rivers of Babylon. When the Lord returned the captives of Zion, I dreamed among the builders of its ramparts. I fought the Romans and was banished from Spain. I was bound to the stake in Mainz. I studied Torah in Yemen and lost my family in Kishinev. I was incinerated in Treblinka, rebelled in Warsaw, and emigrated to the Land of Israel, the country whence I had been exiled and where I had been born, from which I come and to which I return.

I am a wandering Jew who follows in the footsteps of his forebears, and just as I escorted them there and then, so do my forebears accompany me and stand here with me today. The sharp-sighted among you may be able to discern them: a retinue of prophets and peasants, kings and rabbis, scientists and soldiers, craftsmen and children. Some died of advanced years in their beds. Others went up in flames. Still others fell by the sword.

Just as memory forces us to participate in each day and every event of our past, so does the virtue of hope force us to prepare for each day of our future. "

Deconstructing Sarah

1. The tonsilitis that I thought plagued me was diagnosed as glandular fever. Goody. I suppose that explains the serious melancholy of the last post - and since I have been in bed growing restless and crazy. It's amazing where the mind takes you when your company has been countless episodes of Law & Order and your nuclear family. I love them, but I need to go out, man!

2. It's quite pathetic when you watch Foxtel over and over and realise that you've already seen the episode of Law&Order/Crossing Jordan/ Law&Order:SVU etc etc. I watch way too much television. Which brings me to

3. I think I hate the way glandular fever affected me because it produced a concentration span of a goldfish - I became quickly bored with television/movies/conversations - to the point that I had no energy to read. I couldn't READ! What good use is an editor-in-training who can't read?!?! I felt helpless and quite miserable for a time there.

4. But now I'm over it. The misery. The self-sorrow. I'm slowly getting better and realise that getting better takes time. A lot of time. Which I've never quite disciplined myself to take. To the detriment of my health. And I chase my own tail and the never ending vicious cycle produces me with more ailments (which I am confident I can overcome) and well... I'm not making any sense anymore. I'm up past my bed time.

5. I like lists. To be specific - I like lists of words. Perhaps a forthcoming posts will be just that. But not numbered. I do not number my word lists.

6. Is vulnerability an art? Can it perceived/decontructed/theorised as art? The ability to expose oneself - one's fears, one's weaknesses, one's neurosis, one's strange habits - does that take courage? And to what degree do people show and conceal these vulnerabilities? Is one able to tone a certain weakness down, or keep it in check, consciously? What strength does that require?

7. Who reads this?

8. Do I care?

9. I think I do. And I had to answer that because nine is my favourite number in the 1-10 range, and so I must have nine points. None have to make any sense. But that's ok. This is my blog. And I'll write what I want to.

cripple

Beware, beware, the Ides of March - Beware!

The Ides of March have come and gone, but still the months of March/April hold their breath as the rest of the world gradually ebbs away, in pieces. Bit by bit, piece by piece, square by square, moment by moment, the waves come crashing down again as the sea welcomes the winter and I find myself lost. Again. What is it about March/April? The pre-Pesach jiitters? The heave of anticipation to clean out your system, flush the dangerous or the old or the unused or the resented out in order to breathe in a new warm day? Perhaps the realisation that it is already near April. The first quarter of the new year is already up. Time's up. Stop what you're doing, and reflect. What, reflect on this past since since the last Pesach? Since the beginning of the Jewish new year at Rosh HaShanah? Or what's been going on since the beginning of the secular year, the first of January. And now it's already near April.

They say time flies when you're having fun. Maybe that's why this week has crawled. Snail. Turtle. Old granpa behind the wheel on Carlisle Street. It's lurched forward, pushed by the various films I watch on my laptop in my bed as I disgust myself in the mess of my room, the stench of old clothes and India and unopened boxes. It's disgusting and I don't do a thing about it.

Maybe as soon as this tonsilitis is kicked, the autumn cool sunshine and bare trees will warm me again. Man, I'm praying that it will.

This Single Life

I think my mother has finally understood.
I think I have now seen the light.
And even though I'm loving every minute of this single life - the acceptance of my mother that, yes, it IS quite hard meeting people, ahem, meeting JEWISH boys, who have balls and the courage to take an interest in Jewish girls - has had an interesting effect on me.

That was one very long sentence. Pardon me. It's as if now, everything will be alright. She understands. And, hopefully, my grandmother will eventually understand, and might even stop asking me, "Nu, Sarah, you've been home for over three months now, where's the boyfriend?" No, I don't have pressure within my family or friends, as much as I joke about, and I have been fortunate to have experienced a wonderful long term relationship, but now that I'm single, this "single life" is equally fascinating and confusing. The more I learn, and the more things I do to 'make myself known to the world', the more confused and frustrated I become. No, not frustrated, just disappointed. Yes, disappointment hurts more than frustration. Because any sliver of hope that one might have, is lost.

Another fleeting thought: while I may love being single and this single life (friends, flirting, parties, uni, concentrating on what i like to do and how fabulous living life is) I may get tired of it all. Not long how far away that might be. And by that stage, as they say, all the nice men are either married or gay. And in the Jewish world, it seems as if it gets harder the older you are. Men become MUCH more picky (as if they can afford to be!) and women, well, we just are sad and eat more and get fatter.
No, i'm lying, That was cruel. But sometimes true? I might be having too much fun at the moment and let life slip me by and before I know it, I'll be nearing thirty with no relationship since the one of my university years sitting in a bar in new york sipping cosmo cocktails with my girlfriends wondering where all the men have gone and realising this would be a FANTASTIC tv show.

But right now, I'm having too much fun. Is that a bad thing?

It's been a while. Yes, it has.

I've finally rediscovered my creative juices - now they're pumping through me like never before. And I'm so excited. My mind is racing a million miles a minute like I've just guzzled six cups of espresso and I can't sit still. I'm so excited.

I started school again on Monday - an event, or milestone (as my father would like to see it as) that I met with both anxiety and apathy. I suppose those too are mutually exclusive, but it was a strange feeling running through me when turning up to the first introduction lecture at nine thirty that Monday morning. Toured around the RMIT campus I felt that I was back at school again, class excursion to the library, to the cafe, to the bookstore, with an orientation guide that was too dificult to understand - for all reference points on our tour he just pointed us to the direction of "read the handout I gave you" and prayed that we did.

I made friends instead.
We were bored and all felt that we were back in primary school. Fun.

After the orientation and the mandatory (FREE) barbecue was over (the veggie burgers were very unappealing) I had three hours to spare before another class meeting - and it was hot. Very hot. And as much as I ADORE socialising/networking - not in the mood. It was Monday, and it was before 4 pm. You know what THAT means :D

Cheap flicks at the Nova cinema on Lygon Street. Yes! Airconditioned bliss.

Tuesday though made me happy. My first subject was Editing with a soft spoken woman who encapuslated warmth and I was a happy girl. Tough class though. We were given a grammar test and me, thinking hey this stuff should be easy, was stumped. Mmm, I have so much to learn. But I suppose I have time.

I could go on about my other class but I think I've lost the momentum. Alana is stressing out about what to wear to shule (synagogue) - it's gone from being a house of worship to a house of fashion - all about the shoes, darrrrrling.

Thank god I'm not into that anymore.

Thank god. Yes, I engaged in an argument with some Brit friends of mine about the fact I was atheist for about half an hour. Which, after ten minutes convincing myself and them that I no longer believed in any aspect of god I turned around and realised -

"I'm a liar. A complete liar."

What the hell was I thinking?

Anyway, back to why I'm just so excited and happy and grinning like a kid who just gobbled a massive choc fudge cafe - this morning made me glide down Swanston Street (actually, that's a lie too, I was strutting. Listening to Justin Timberlake I felt like sex on legs). I met this fabulous girl who finished her Bachelor of Creative Arts a couple years before me, back in the day when it used to be held at the Victorian College of the Arts (and no longer at Melbourne University) who was in the same year as Lally Katz and Claire Bowditch (infamous pearls of melbournians known for their theatre and music respectively) who, like myself, LOVED melbourne and loved telling the world all about it. She's also the co-editor of Is-Not magazine, a bunch of other publications and her boy is the art director of Monument magazine - how INCREDIBLE is that?

After reminiscing about Creative Arts and the new direction (or lack thereof) the course is taking, she asked if I wanted some work as an editor or editorial assisant or fiction writer or contributor to her fiefdom of melbourne magazines - to which, after confessing my lack of self-confidence, i readily agreed. (I know that that does NOT make any sense - but I'm completing wiritng this at 12.40 am after falling asleep on a friend's couch in the middle of a dinner party. I am the height of manners quite presently, and also half asleep)

So yes. Sarah's back. And she's loving it all.

is it so bad that i check my own post for updates?

thoughts on a love tape (pinker tones)

"I don't want nobody baby, but you! There's something about your body that got me thinking bout nobody but you!"

Nothing like dance music on a grey muggy afternoon in Melbourne. Gets your otherwise lethargic juices finally pumping! Nothing like sitting at a computer trying not to dance to the dance music, while attempting to type with long nails (yes people, Sarah finally took the plunge!) - it just doesn't work as well.
Nothing like getting your ears pierced at the ripe age of twenty two. And a half. Nice mid-birthday present for myself.
Nothing like awkward situations which enourage instant intoxication. In back bars and across the globe. Why can't we all be friends?
Nothing like having a summer crew when all your regular friends have flown away overseas. I think these might become my regulars too. Nothing like a mashing of friends from all over the shop. Mmm.

"When the lights go down in your town. And the band begins to play. You can feel the energy coming. From the people lest they say...."

Nothing like laughing so hard about a situation that's actually not as funny as you thought.
Nothing like pining over misspent hours watching golf and singing about a corn dog and dipping my little toes into rockpools at dusk. Nothing like little toes. Do I have anything little?

Nothing like a crappy post like this one. Enjoy.

All I want for Christmas is a little bit of rain!

It's been a while. I've settled back into the mediocrity of Melbourne, and while I'm not here to complain about it (actually I've had a jolly good time) my heart still soars back to my days of adventure.

Oh, how sappy! Come on! I suppose I can keep blogging about life here in Melbourne, for the multitudes of foreigners that read this thing (the random americans/canadians/israelis - thanks for your support) and I do have a couple stories up my sleeve to entertain you. In a sec...

Culture Shock - they always warn you about it, they try and keep you safe from it, but it always seeps in through the everydayness of your home town and the familiarity of family and friends. What the hell is Culture Shock anyway?

Do I have it?

If I had it, am I over it?

Yet?

This time round, when coming back home to Melbourne, I prepared myself both emotionally and spiritually. Here I am, having one of the most exhilirating and adventurous years of my life all but over, a newfound awareness and confidence about me - having to hit the beige of familiarity and homeness, where nothing changes. Ever.

I felt like one of those Shnatties (Shnatti - an 18 yr old Australian Jew who spends a year in Israel with the Youth Movement of their choice after graduating from high school) - people asking me, "Is it hard to be back?" "Have you settled in yet?" "What was your favourite part?" (To which I have no answer, I loved every chapter of my year) - What do I say?
HECK YES! I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE FOR VERY MUCH LONGER!!!!

But then I truly sound like a spoiled and overindulged Jewish princess. And perhaps indeed I am, but one doesn't have to tell the world about it. Anyway, enough with this rubbish.

It's hard to get back into routine - to be honest, what I miss about travelling is meeting new people everyday. Tht's what kept me going on the days I felt blue. I met someone interesting who could take my mind off travelling alone, and things weren't so bad anymore. But in Melbourne, I'm noticing that while most things haven't changed, there is a heck of a lot that has. I've been meeting and going out with new people every week. So I suppose in essence I really haven't stopped travelling. Oh, and the fact that I'm home alone for a month to housesit doesn't hurt either.

Love this independence.

Ps - Droughts stink! Sarah and Global Warming bring you SUMMER

Long time, no write...

So now I'm back at home. It's been a while since I punched those keys in frustration venting about my loathing of these machines. But I'm back - to fill you in on those last few weeks, and some reflections of my time abroad - throughout the year.

United States, England, Greece, Israel, India.
Wow. What an adventure.

Where to start...

I'll backtrack a little, and catch everyone up on my magic last couple weeks in India.

The Magic of Hampi

My first afternoon on the "other side of the river" (as labelled on the menus, apparently its close to official) took me to visit a nearby lake. We had met a friend of Nechama's close friend in an internet cafe (My, it's such a small world out there) who invited us both to swim at sunset. Nechama wasn't feeling the greatest and had a snooze, but I felt like some exercise and walked the four kilometres through massive antiquated pillars and isolated villages and fields dotted with labourers and herds of sheep and cattle and stray dogs and girls with short haircuts wanting to slap me high fives with blue ribbons and school uniforms and there i was in my thongs and aladdin pants and john legend pumping on the ipod and a bottle of water for the cool.
This walk was one of the most picturesque and calming walks I've ever experienced. Everything was so beautiful in the late afternoon sun - all was golden. By the time I arrived at the boulders lining the lake, the local police were ushering the few Israelis lapping up the sun to leave, as once the sun sets the Indian men frolick at the lake and cause disturbances for other tourists. But Daniel (our new friend) and I took a short dip in the green water, enough to freeze our socks off and become scared of the potential crocodiles smacking their lips hungry for their next meal. (I recounted the crocs Nech and I saw in the lake at Ranakpur, Rajasthan, which made us both a little nervous). After drying off I was offered to ride on the back of one the group's bicycles - I refused, for having the back of a bike up my ass isn't on the list of things I'd love to experience - I also wanted to walk home in the pink dusk (my favourite time of day).
I was halfway home when I was offered a lift by a fellow Australian girl I had met the day before, and, since it was near dark, I hopped on the back of the scooter as it wheezed throughout the hills back to the guesthouse. But, alas, I have the greatest luck, and thinking that I had already done my exercise for the day, had no idea what lay ahead.

Her scooter broke down. And we had to push it up hills back to the shop. Fun.

I suppose now that I remember my time in Hampi, I did quite a lot of exercise, it kept me quite fit. I like it. Walking to the lake, pushing scooters up hills, cycling through the hills on the other other side of the river (I'll get to that soon), walking up the million steps to the monkey temple... phew! The most exercise I had done the entire year!

That night out new Aussie friend of a friend Daniel invited us to a party he was hosting, and we met a new group of Israelis who became our pals for the rest of our stay in Hampi. Two of the group are Indian Israelis, two play guitar, and they all play Yaniv, a card game which is quite addictive. And one looked like a gay sailor during our shabbat meal (he was wearing a blue and white striped top and white pants. White pants people - in INDIA! How did they survive?) They were all so lovely. We ate Hummus and drank Turkish coffee with them and argued philosophy all through the night.

One day during our stay in Hampi Nechama and I rented bicycles to ride throughout the green hills and explore the 500 yr old ruins and temples along the way. Well, we didn't realise how much work it was going to be! This time we pushed our bikes up the hills (even the rickshaws had trouble with the steepness - it wasn't just our unfitness!) and took some breathers in the shade of the temples. They were incredible structures.

We had just gotten off the small boat from the main side of the river when we notived that it was just near sunset. We quickly scrambled to the Monkey temple to get prime veiwing and happened to meet the Israelis from the previous night. Together we schlepped up the millions steps to this supposed gorgeous vantage point. But not without some excitement. We were on our way to a monkey temple, for Christ's sake!

At the head of the contingent was a random Israeli hottie (whose name eludes me) who began to shriek. What the? A grown man shrieking at... a monkey. The monkey was sitting there having all the time in the world to nibble on his banana. Now, why on earth were we frightened of the monkeys? Rabies, of course. I had already been in one Indian hospitcal, and I had no intentions of returning to another one. The Israeli hottie ran down the stairs, past us girls and hid behind Nechama. Then Kobi, a typical arrogant and wonderful Israeli, grabbed a tree branch (complete with leaves and insignificant twig branches) and climbed up the stairs to confront this monkey who was in our way. Kobi hissed at the monkey, and the monkey looked at him for two seconds, dropped its banana, bared its fangs, opened its mouth wide and hissed back... ARGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

We ran for our lives.

What to do?! We wanted to go up to that temple, quick, before the sun set. The only two guys in our small group, Kobi and Nameless Hottie, stupidly thought that more bananas might appease this rabid monkey. DUH! I don't think so! But no, nobody would listen to two Australian girls... We don't know anything. After taking the plastic bag of bananas out of a backpack the feral monkey lunged for the bag and we all yelped and ran down some more steps. Let's just say we were scared shitless.

We were soon rescued by an Indian boy perched on a higher rock who shooed the gathering group of monkeys and allowed us to complete the exhausting climb up to the temple. Whoa.

So that was a little bit of Hampi, people. Hope you liked it. xxx (more's on the way...)

Mental note - Sarah is fabulous!

You see, I did write a post. A wonderful post. An update in a most atriculate manner detailing the magic of Hampi. Oh yeah. That was a couple days ago, before I lost all patience with computers here in India.

There I was, happily typing away, pounding so damn fast on those keys to the sounds of John Legend, remembering my times back in Hampi. On and on and on and on - wonderful post, if I may say so myself. But then again, they always say that about things that are 'lost'. And so, suddenly, the computer switched off. It just went brain dead. The power was still working - it was only my computer. Problem computer.

And I wanted to kill it.

All lost. Everything. I could try and write it out again, letting you know about the peachy pink sunsets we enjoyed perched atop a monkey temple, or relaxing with a guitar and card games with our Israeli friends, or hiring a bicycle and huffing and puffing about the temples strewn amongst the hills of Hampi. I could tell you now about the trance scene in Goa, the constant doof doof, aging hippies twisting out on drugs on the beach on lazy sunny afternoons, spending Shabbat meals with Chabad.

But I don't have much more tolerance for computer around here anymore. So i'll write a longer and more descriptive post later on. Peace.

Ani Lo Medaberet Ivrit - Maspik!

Achoti! Achoti!

Apparently I look like an Israeli.

Mah Nishma! Achoti! Sababa! Ma Inyanim!

That doesn't bother me so much.

Maybe because Both Nechama and I have crazy curly hair. Or that perhaps we look like dirty cheap Israelis with our flashy blue and pink shitcatchers (or aladdin pants, for the shopkeepers), our chirping anklets with bells on them, and we want things for cheap. Hum.

I have been eating Hummus every day though. For breakfast. Shame there's no herring and smoked salmon in India. Then I'll really feel overdone.

We're in a gorgeous village named Hampi, a town strewn amongst Hindi ruins that are over 500 years old. The first two days we spent on the Hampi Bazaar side of the river, in a crumbling guesthouse surrounded by Kashmiri shops selling the same wares. We were too exhausted from our travelling, so we've decided to get some rest before exploring the temples of Hampi by bicycle. Yes, that's right kids. Sarah is going to ride a bike again. What, first time in four years? Uh oh. I thought I had to leave my fitness behind when I finished trekking in the Himalayas. Now what's this about bike riding?!

This morning we moved over to the other side of the river to a more relaxed and friendlier cluster of guesthouses and restaurants showing nightly movies. Oh, and 85% Israeli. Hence the Achoti! Achoti!

I could get used to it.

On the way to Hampi

We made it! We have finally left the building! I am writing to you from Hampi, Karnataka (a state away from Kerala, for all youse following my travels carefully along the map) but boy, did it take forever to get here. As depicted in my previous post, we had trouble leaving Varkala. We just didn't. Spending $1.50 per night on lovely accomodation, we had some interesting encounters during our stay. The first, as also described in Nechama's blog (www.porgylovestruck.blogspot.com) was the Kerala Coffee House Boys. These suave but cute Keralan boys lived the life - working short hours waiting tables at the hangout 'Kerala Coffee House', drinking themselves silly in the late hours of the night, performing as the Cheeky Monkeys (acoustic versions of Hindi and old classic Rock songs), and, of course, gorging on innocent Western women during their spare time. And oh, the drama! Since we had been in Varkala for quite some time, we learnt the leanings of such boys, and warned a woman that lived in our guesthouse to be wary. That's all. What a ruckus did that cause! Nechama had both the drummer of the Cheeky Monkeys and the 'girlfriend' confront her about this alleged warning, and we recieved some dirty sneers from a group of French women, all who were involved with these womanisers. Not that we have a problem with the womanising - we just wanted to inform these ladies that they weren't the first (as the boys always promise) and nor will they be the last.

But let's just say that when we left Varkala, we left some unexpected broken hearts. Whether it was a Kashmiri salesman who simply sold Nechama a bracelet, or a Nepalese waiter in my favourite restaurant (this was all unknown to us until our final day - where secrets always unravel in despair)... And it was time to leave.

So we left! The breezy train ride from Varkala to the traffic hub of Cochin was an easy task, we were just warming up to a long and gruelling journey ahead.
a fifteen hour journey. on a bus. a local bus. crammed with sweaty, spitting Indian men. and we, two lovely white women travellers. fun. did i say, fifteen hours?

An overnight journey is always difficult. But this one I believe was one of the most challenging journeys I've ever experienced. Sitting on a hard bench, being squashed by the conducter as he collects the new passengers' fares, attempting any sleep, constantly stepped over by other passengers (usually Indian men wearing local garb, which is a towel wrapped around their legs... I'm sure very fashionable, but I didn't want to have a bar of it as they hopped over my legs), behind us was a man resembling Elephant Man, making putrid noises with his mouth which sounded awfully similar to vomiting, however there was no residue (only dry retching -we're in the clear!)... and all of this happened in the first hour! I don't have to elaborate on the next fourteen...

We arrived into Banglore (the capital of Karnataka) dishevelled and absolutely exhausted. I was miserable, overtired, and all I could think of was the first place to get a bed. Once we finally negotiated a reasonable price for half a day's rent, I went STRAIGHT to sleep. One thing everyone should know (if not, learn quickly) : nothing, NOTHING gets in the way of Sarah and a good sleep. Otherwise she turns into Fruma Sarah from Fiddler on the Roof, howling and screeching :D a role I know well.

That evening Nechama and I decided to go all out and splurge at a swank Chinese restaurant - entree, main and even dessert (yes! toffee apples reminiscent of Silky Apple days!) - at a round cost $12 (and yes, the service was wonderful). We were warming ourselves to another overnight journey, but this time it was in luxury - a 'deluxe' bus to Hampi.
*Deluxe - upholstered seats that push back to a semi'lying position. True style. I was in heaven.

So yes, now I am Hampi - another Holy city of India, not necessarily searching for any spirituality, just here to have a look around and have a good time. Coz that's what it's all about.

Totally addicted to... Varkala

I did promise pictures - but alas, not today.

Every day Nechama and I tell eachother we're leaving Varkala the following morning. It's time to go. Really, we should move on. We were supposed to leave this paradise on Sunday, onwards to Periyar (a wildlife sanctuary and surrounding tea/spice plantations) but our itinerary keeps changing with the weather. What keeps us here at Varkala? The weather has been pretty awful - heavy rains and grey clouds and milky seas and some more rain. The beach isn't as calm or as inviting as Goa - the waves crash above our heads and after five minutes I'm ready to get out and sunbake (in the few minutes of sun we have). The current is very strong and I feel that I have just completed a work out each time I attempt to swim. The shops that line the promenade (if you can call it that - perhaps a boardwalk made of rock that hugs the cliff face) are filled with the same junk as every other one we pass over. Colourful bags, sequined shoes, bedspreads, pashminas, trinkets galore - same stuff, different store. So why the hell are we here? Still? After more than a week?

It’s the people, man. And, as they say, it’s the people that make the place.

When we arrived to Varkala, the village on the cliff was quite empty. We recognized some of the regulars, some people I remembered from Cochin… We enjoyed the sunshine – although during the hottest times of the day, I would bury myself in the shady cool of internet cafes and cafes, striking up conversations with the random Indians that worked there. But now, after a week and a half, we seem like old timers, waving to shopkeepers and waiters and other tourists. Regulars. Ha.

Each night we agonise over what we feel like eating for dinner - Thai? Italian? Keralan? One night we opted for a cooking class in the Kerelan style of Thali - and ate our products for dinner! Curried vegetables, Tuna Moli (a sweet vegetable gravy with fresh tuna), Coconut Cabbage and a fried vegetable which is only known as Lady/Witch Fingers? A little like zucchini. Mmmm. Man, that's all I ever do is write about the food. One restaurant makes incredible Thai food and Nechama and I keep going back for more - last night we were so ravenous at 9 30pm we raced to the cafe, didn't even bother sitting down or looking at the menu and ordered ourselves a great dinner. We've become a little too 'regular' in this place as well, making friends with the Nepalese Hebrew-speaking waiters - it's hard not to, since the village is so small.

Talk about routine. After dinner we meet up for drinks with a gorgeous British couple, an Assyrian Swede, an Irish couple, and a Kerelan journalist who now works in Dubai. It varies from night to night, but each day we keep telling each other that yes, tomorrow we'll leave, tonight's our last night - but we end up staying, can't be bothered packing up - lethargy at large.

I think we might leave tomorrow. Or the next day. Who knows.

Lazy Days

Ok Alana and Mum, here is another post for your veiwing pleasure... But I like the comment encouragement - keep it up! Well, to be honst, i can't really write much about where I am at the moment, for that is in Verkala, still in Kerala (the state), on a beach. Amen. The guesthouses and huts and restuarants are on a rocky cliff overlooking the sea, and the beach is a couple hundred steps below (only fifty, but when you walk up it after a long day in the sun with sandy wet feet squidging in thongs, it feels like forever). Life around here consists of lazy afternoons reading Douglas Adams, and deciding where to go for dinner. Thai or Italian? Indian or Chinese? Tough choices.

So let me get back to Cochin. Far more exciting. Cochin is a city/village that one can lose oneself in. And if it hadn't been for a time limit, well... my new address could have very well been Fort Cochi, Cochin, Kerala, India... at least for another couple weeks. The pace is slow and lazy, the sunny afternoons melt into pink dusks and the fish is just so tasty! Yes, that's right, I thought I was fished out in Greece, but no, Kerala has the best fish in all of India (which should be easy, as its one of the few states on the coast of the Arabian Sea). How did I spend my time in Cochin. Well, one day I organised myself on a day trip to the infamous Backwaters of Kerala. These are tiny canals and rivers that bend between villages and lush jungle - it was so peaceful and relaxing on the houseboat that I fell asleep! Since I missed out spending overnight on a houseboat with Nechama and the Brits we met in Goa, the daytrip was my special time. Pity though, that the rest of the group was made up of couples - and I was the only single traveller! Each couple would whisper between themselves, careful not to disturb the quiet. We ate lunch of banana leaves and drank the milk from coconuts freshly cut from the palms in front of us. It was a nice relaxing day.

The next day was too hot to walk around, so Nechama and I indulged ourselves and had tea at a gorgeous teahouse named Teapot. Now, this shop was so tastefully decorated, the layout and menu so nicely designed, that we felt that we were transported back to Melbourne, or Europe, or America. It was wonderful. When Nechama asked the owner if he had spent any time outside India, he said no, that he's never left Kerala. Well. We met somebody yesterday from Fort Cochi and when enquiring about Teapot, apparently the owner had spent quite few years abroad. You never can know what people are really like around here. Or anywhere, I suppose, but I feel that I'm not as lied to in other places as I can be here in India. Not that I mind. For I'm lucky I've been long enough here to catch them out. It's the package tourists that come from Britain for a two week splurge in India and then shipped back home that really get caught out. We met some Brits that were on their way to Thailand via India - they wrote Nechama an email saying that they found Thailand to be SO MUCH CHEAPER than India... What the?? Even Vietnam is cheaper than Thailand, and India's cheaper than that!

But I'm not here to talk about money. It's all in the attitude. As I will explain to you now.

I never really finished telling you about our wonderful travelling partner throughout Rajasthan. She was a Brit who constantly compared India to England. Yes, that's right. It's impossible to compare India to ANYTHING! Especially England. Worlds apart. Perhaps the only thing in common with the two countries is cricket. But I guess thats what most Commonwealth countries share. And i think i'm beginning to like the game. (Gasp!)

So our new friend was roadtripping around Rajasthan with us- but she didn't have the right attitude. That's all it is - what makes or breaks a trip. Apparently religion and religious symbols intimidate her (then what the hell is she doing in India?!?!!?!?!?) and she doesn't like to be pressured or have people invade personal space when touting... Erm... Welcome to South East Asia, baby. To cut a long story short - we ended up in a hospital in Udaipur, babysitting this clueless toddler. After eating all the same food, sharing the same snacks, we tried to rack our brains how she got sick and we didn't. Especially this young un here with the sensitive tummy.

And you know what? It's all about the attitude.

Oh, and luck.

Udaipur was beautiful though - the palaces, the markets, the hotels in the middle of the lakes... Labelled the most romantic city in Rajasthan, I wholeheartedly agree - it was absolutely beautiful.

Next time - I promise pictures.

Coochi Coochi Cochin

Why India indeed.

I've since returned the the "Country that God Gave" (according to the many slogans wallpapered on the walls of churches and schools around here), far away from home.

Far away from the surreal surroundings of my time in Melbourne.

Our family's strong closeness defined my life. Friday night dinners will never ever be the same. But nothing will ever be the same. Not for me, not for my mother, not for my aunty, not for my cousins, not for my Zaida. He was everyone's uncle, everyone's friend. He had a special name for me - Denise (Da Niece) Kim Sarah Hannah - and the day I was born he stopped horse riding. (Aparently. Ruth told me they went riding on their honeymoon. And i danced at their wedding. Hrm.) He filled me in on the ins and outs of the Hecht family when my mother just couldn't remember. He invited me into office to share lunch when we bumped into eachother at Beth Weizmann. He was always there to help us and support everyone in the family. He was David. My Uncle David.

I also want to thank all of you who helped our family throughout this tragedy. Thank god I have never been in this situation before, and it was so incredible to see and experience the magic of our friends and community during this time. I don't think I will ever forget your support.

But now I'm back in India, in Cochin to be exact, and it still feels surreal. I know that it shouldn't and that man, I couldn't wait to return, but now that I'm back - every emotion I suppressed has found a little hole in my skin from which to pour out. Or seep. It depends on the time of day. It's also difficult to return to a place that it challenging to travel in, after becoming comfortable with the everydayness and ease of Melbourne life. In Melbourne i never have to worry about the water I use for my toothbrush, nor of squat tiolets, or bug infested beds (well, that depends on how often I clean my room!), or people that want to cheat you. Life's easy, and that's the way we like it.

But life here in Cochin in easy as well. I have now met up with Nechama and it's wonderful to be on the road again. Cochin is a city in the south of India, in a state named Kerala (famous for the Keralan backwaters - little canals through lush jungles). It is quiet, quaint, and very beautiful. The houses are painted in fabulous yellows, greens and pinks - some are over 200 yrs old, built from the portugese era. Bouganvillea billow from the high walls and the cracked paint while school kids in blue uniforms play cricket in the parade grounds outside my first hotel. Life is slow here in Cochin. I like it.

On Friday I went out and about in the area - my suave rickshaw driver Sabu took me to the laundry where men and women wash the clothes of nice hotels. Rows and rows of white linen bustled in the wind, while men slapped teeshirts on the ground to get all the dirt out. I also visited a ginger factory, where the produce is exported all over India, and even to Japan. It smelt amazing.

But my most memorable moment of Friday was Friday night - Shabbat. God had a good idea when he created Shabbat. I think it's a most perfect method to measure the weeks - and also, its a very special time for family - whether it be one's own, or the Jewish family. The reason I am in Cochin is because of its Jewish history. Once upon a time, thousands of Jews lived in this area - it's disputed whether they arrived during King Solomon's time, or after the destruction of the Second Temple, or if they are part of the ten tribes that King Nebuchadnezzer transported when carving up the kingdom after the destruction of the First Temple. Or they arrived with the merchant trading in India. One thing that we can all agree on is that there is a strong Jewish heritage in Cochin - and I am infatuated. This is what led me to the oldest synagogue in the Commonwealth - it's over 500 years old. (It sure beats Ballarat!) One must take their shoes off before entering, not beause of any holiness etc, but because the floor is made up of hundreds of Chinese porcelain painted tiles - and no two tiles are the same. The oil chandeliers are from Europe - and I was very much reminded of the shules in Tzfat, Israel.

So where shall I begin...
It was bucketing down - a very fast and fat rain, the most annoying - and my rickshaw driver dropped me at the beginning of the street that leads to the shule. After arriving absolutely soaked, I was told that there weren't enough men for a minyan. The leader of the tiny community opened the Aron Kodesh for all of us to see, and then hurried to close it. He was hungry, and there was no time to waste if there wasn't any prayers. Someone poured some wine into plastic cups, and an Israeli said Kiddush on the Bimah. The wine was awfully sweet and somewhat fizzy (?) and most people left soon after that. I was soon talking to an Israeli/Indian girl who invited me and another British couple to her and her husband's home for Shabbat dinner. Boy, what a night.

The husband was born in India, his mother is a Pardesi, a White Indian Jew (apparently there's three different types, a little like Ashkenazi and Sephardi) and he made aliyah to Israel more than twenty years ago. He returned to India seven years ago because his mother was very old and getting quite sick. His wife was born in Israel, but to Indian parents - and they both speak Hebrew, fluent English, Hindi, and some other Indian dialects that have eluded me right now. Their home is decked out in 'Jewish' attire - lots of Hamsas, prayer posters, Breslev 'Nachman' slogan stickers, pictures of Moshe and Rav Kook. He slaughters his own chickens for he doesn't trust the mashgiach of the current Shechter, he makes all his own liquers and spirits (and proceeded to make me get drunk even before we started the meal. "Here Sarah, you must have more of the Irish cream I made. I made it - everything in this house is 100% kosher, and you must drink - its Shabbat!") and he is a very devout man. It's incredible. So far removed from the POlish shetle life I am used to hearing about.

Ok, I must run. Will elaborate later. God bless. xxx