Sweet Jesus, could anything be more delicious than a persimmon lassi? Do persimmons even grow in India? Who knows? And who cares? All I know is that Dokebi Korean Restaurant in McLeod Ganj serves them fresh, in front of a roaring fire. Yum.
3. Kai's street photography
4. Indian Mithai: Kaju Burfi
To me, fresh homemade Indian sweets (mithai) are the most delicious sweets in the world. My colleague Shivani's mother-in-law, Prem-ji, taught me this recipe. It is a traditional mithai, often exchanged during Diwali, the Festival of Lights.
You can substitute pistachio or almond instead of cashew. Both require being soaked overnight and peeled the following morning, before beginning the process, and are equally as delicious. Burfi can also be enhanced with with subtle, aromatic masala, such as cardamom, saffron or a few drops of rosewater.
Ingredients 1 cup raw cashews 3/4 cup sugar, to taste 1/4 cup water
Finely grind the cashews to a powder, using a coffee grinder.
Mix the sugar and water in a wide saucepan.
Heat until small bubbles begin to appear on the surface.
Stir gently and let it come to a rolling boil.
Pour in the cashew powder and stir well to avoid lumps.
Keep stirring for a few minutes and you should notice the mixture getting a little thicker.
Put a little drop on a chilled plate and test to see if it hardens slightly. You should be able to roll it into a loose ball.
If it does, switch off the heat and move the pan away from the hot surface.
Let it cool slightly and transfer mixture to countertop.
Knead well with your hands to make it smooth and glossy.
Roll out with a rolling pin into 1/4 inch thick sheet and cut into diamond shaped pieces.
Gather all the end bits and knead again and repeat the process.
Let cool and pack between sheets of waxed paper.
Optional: Garnish with grated pistachio and a dash of saffron water.
5. Big sky, big mountains.
6. Because Diwali in Jaipur is like Chanukah in Jerusalem.
7. Shah Rukh Khan.
8. Curious children.
9. Spontaneous dancing. India: all music, all the time.
10. Riding in auto rickshaws: how else to navigate the streets of India?
There is something wonderful about being anonymous in a foreign city, passing endless signboards and adverts that promise endless things in an unknown language. I feel like a secret as I wonder what "Do kdaj zabrisanih prohodnosti?" could possibly mean. But then again, I don't really care. I walk along the canal on bank of the River Ljubljanice and smile to myself.
"Ljubljana," says my friend Jani, as we cross the triple bridge in Prešeren Square, "is a shy and quiet kind of city." A statue of Prešeren, the famous Slovene poet, dominates the square. Jani points out the bust of a woman between two windows on the adjoining street, in the direct gaze of the bronze Prešeren. Julia was the woman with whom he was hopelessly in love, and he has been immortalized as such. Somehow his wistful gaze summarizes the city for me.
Bordered on the north by Austria; in the east, Hungary, Croatia in the south; and Italy and the Adriatic Sea in the west, Slovenia is called the pocket country for its diminuitive size. It is filled with brilliant legends, heartbreaking music, and forests full of castles and witches who eat children. The dragon is the symbol of Ljubljana, and dragon lore colors the city's ancient past. After stealing the Golden Fleece from Colchis, Jason and his band of Argonauts sailed down the Danube searching for a route home. Diverted to the Ljubljanice, they pulled their boat ashore to carry the boat to the Adriatic and sail around the Balkans back to Greece. From the bowels of the river emerged a dragon, and Jason promptly chopped off his head. He then presumably continued dragging the boat ashore, unaware of the fate that bitch Medea had in store him.
Yesterday was a day of birth and death. Or, more specifically, four murders and a newborn calf.
When we awoke, the corpses of two grey geese and bobcat lay helplessly on the lawn below our terrace. We went down to inspect them, and Bhuti Aapa, already digging their graves, told us the story. In the middle of the night, he heard the geese calling and the dogs barking. He ran ouside and saw that a bobcat had gotten into the goose pen and mauled two geese, while the furious dogs had managed to chase him up a small banana tree. Bhuti Aapa knocked down the bobcat and let the dogs crush his skull, and went back to sleep.
At that moment I came down with some sort of magnificent allergic reaction to the laundry soap, of all things. My palms started itching like mad and I was swollen and covered in hives. I stripped and brought my freshly washed clothes into the bathroom, to hose them down with soap, and promptly squashed the little salamander that had inhabitated our loo for the past few days. The poor bastard. He was a little thing. Was. Until I stepped on him. That brought the death toll up to four that day, and it was only noon.
My allergic reaction quickly got worse, and bright red I washed down a few Benadryl and lay down as the drugs slowly numbed me. I was lying there in a semi-stupor for about an hour when Chumla burst in announcing the milk cow's labour-time had come. I had never seen a cow give birth, so I threw on a rain jacket and stumbled down to the cowshed.
I was quite unprepared for what I saw. The cow's tail was erect, and two little wiggling forehoofs and quite a lot of bodily fluid were oozing out of what an hour earlier I would have assumed was her butt. I now know that was not her butt, but her cow vagina. It was a sight to behold.
I stood there transfixed. Bhuti, Tashi and Bikas, three of Chumla's young helpers, were there to assist in the labour. The three other cows were bellowing loudly, but the pregnant mother seemed strangely placid. She would occassionally stop pushing, stand up, and munch a little grass.
As I watched her push, all of my own pelvic muscles contracted sympathetically. Steam came out of her nose, and her eyes rolled back slightly. She was having difficulty breaching the head. I watched in amazement as the snout and tongue of the calf became visible, poking through the ruptured amniotic sac. I wasn't sure if it was the tongue, to be honest, or some part of the cow's anatomy. I almost vomited.
I kept asking Bhuti if we shouldn't start pulling on the forehoofs, because of the perforated sac. I didn't want the calfling to suffocate. My colleague Germaine appeared suddenly, as the calf head was crowning. She began to record with her camera. The video cut out as the battery died, about 5 seconds before the head crowned and the calf came sliding out with astonishing speed.
Back in dreary Gangtok, I slide into my favorite thali dive. Adam and I found it two years ago, hidden in an alley off of MG Marg. This time around, my colleague Germaine and I sought it out once again: it was even more hidden than I remembered, and even more delicious.
It is a Bengali pure veg restaurant, as the sign reads - which means that not even eggs are served. It has a constant stream of people, mostly Bengalis on holiday and a few locals. I have yet to see another traveler in there, save for the few friends I have brought. One can imagine the silent commotion that ensues when a white girl wanders in smiling, speaking Sanskrit in lieu of Nepali or Hindi.
Thali is a magical dish, for several reasons: for its simplicity; its malleability; its substantiality; and, above all, its aesthetic. In Ganesh Pure Veg, there is no menu - only thali. The thali changes daily, so theoretically one might never grow tired of the same old thali. And theoretically, I ate dinner there last night, and will eat lunch and dinner there again tonight, licking my chops.
The baba in front is such a delightful person, and so genuinely perplexed every time I walk through the door that he throws his hands together and shouts Namaskaar Please Come In! Once you have seated yourself at a small plastic table, the dance begins, and the thali assembly commences in the backroom with a clattering of pots and aluminium. A pressed tin plate is placed in front of each diner, perfectly arranged as such: four small tin bowls line the rim in a semi-circle; followed by the three omnipresents - green or red deri piro achaar, a slice of lime and a slice of red onion. The contents of the four bowls changes, but the basic equation is the same - yellow lentil dal; some saucy vegetable like aloo gobi (potato cauliflower); a thick creamy stew with fenugreek that drives me wild; and the fourth - a wild card. Last week it was plain curd, but last night, a magnificent kir - hot cardamom rice pudding.
But this is hardly the beginning. As soon as your plate hits the table, a man emerges with sabji - sauteed vegetables, okra yestrday. Next comes the man with fresh chapati - what would happen if pita and tortilla had a child - straight from the oven. As there is no cutlery used, the chapati is the main vehicle for delivering all this deliciousness into your mouth (save for the kir, which I would lick off the wall if that were the custom). The thali is topped off with a papad, an oversized chickpea crisp. Finally, all the elements in place, you can begin. All the servers watch in amazement as the honkies proceed to eat with their hands, Indian style.
You are only three mouthfuls in when the men reappear, hovering and waiting for you to take another bite so that they can refill your plate. The chapati start rolling out of the oven so fast that there are always half eaten stragglers buried under a bed of steaming fresh chapati. The sabji and aloo gobi and fenugreek stew and yellow dal start flowing like champagne at a wedding. Someone else appears with a pitcher of boiled water and pours it for you in a small aluminium cup, which will cool off by the end of the meal. But the end is not yet in sight, as the food keeps coming.
The brilliance of thali is the simultaneous stimulation of all of one's tastebuds: the saltiness of the dal and papad; the acidity of the lime; the bitterness of the okra; the spiciness of the achaar; the earthiness of the aloo and chapati; and the terrible sweetness of kir. An endless plate of thali, replete with impeccable service: 40 rupees.
We arrived in Todra Gorge via the goat market in Rissani, a shitty lunch in Erfoud, and an unfortunate overnight in Tinerihr. We set out the following day to have a walk through the gorge, perhaps to visit the little villages along the way on the road to Tamtatouchte. After walking four or five kilometers, we flagged down a lorry to catch a lift to the next village for some mint tea. Moroccans stop if they have room in the car. People with few means are often always friendly, and always generous.
So we climbed into the back of the lorry, which was filled with cinder blocks. We sat right behind the cab, perched on the concrete, and banged on the roof to signal that we were ready. We held onto a metal bar to secure ourselves, and the lorry sped off down the gorge and into the valley ahead. The landscape is absolutely spectacular, the middle Atlas mountains spread out alongside the river valley, treeless because it is so arid.
We reached Tamtatouchte after a short while, but we were enjoying ourselves so much up there that we asked to go wherever they were going. About 30km further, they replied, to drop off the cinder blocks. And then back to Tinerihr. So we barreled on further, and there is no better ride through such a beautiful place than perched high on a lorry with nothing but the sky overhead. We stopped in a small village to unload, Adam and I bought peanuts in a little store and some cookies for the ubiquitous children who milled about and held our hands and showed off doing bicycle tricks. No hands, look!
We asked if there was a place for tea, and a man on the street offered to take us to his house in as there was no restaurant. As we walked along the road to his house, our two friends in the lorry drove up behind us to fetch us on their way back to Tinerihr. We climbed back on the truck, but the leftover cinder blew in our faces so we climbed into the cab instead, me on Adam's lap. A lot of the road had been washed away as it ran along the river bed. When the river swells, as it does every few years, it takes part of the road with it, leaving huge holes of exposed reinforced concrete clinging to the gorge walls, forcing the lorries and 4x4s to drive through the river and back onto the broken road. Really only safe for lorries, though. Walking along the road we saw a Dutch caravan get stuck in the water, subsequently soaking its engine and probably rendering it useless. They had three small children with them, all little blonde ones under the age of eight. Later we saw them being towed away by more Dutchies in a caravan.
We had had such good luck hitching that day we decided to fetch our bags from Todra and hitch to Imilchil, halfway to the Cascade d'Ouzoud. We left the next morning later than planned, as usual; waited for an hour with no luck and then got two rides at once. Adam flagged down a 4x4 witha German couple and two Moroccans, and I flagged down a piece of shit minibus full of people bound for Imilchil. We debated for a few minutes, finally deciding to take the bus and meet with the Germans later for a ride to Marrakech.
We asked the bus driver if we could ride on the roof, which everyone does not only in Morocco but all across the developing world. He said yes long enough to fix our packs to the roof, and then promptly changed his mind. Furious, we climbed into the bus, seating twelve, with no empty seats and a few extra heads. Adam squeezed into a four seater, now six with him, and I stood leaning against him with his knee supporting the rest of me. It was hot outside, but in the bus all the windows were closed and the people not smelling so fine. There are moments in life when I don't smell so good either, so I don't mean to be judgmental - but this particular smell was really intolerable. We went about 5km like this before I lost my mind and Adam told the driver to either let us up on the roof or let us off the bus and lose our fare. He let us onto the roof.
The minibus was flat-roofed, with a sort of topless cage affixed on top where all of the luggage is stowed, all held down by a net made of rope which is drawn tightly front to back, side to side. To ride on top, you climb up the ladder and squeeze your tusik between two bags. Then you wrap your legs through the net rope and find something stable to hold on to with your hands. Through the little mountain roads, one never goes very fast, so it is not as easy as it sounds to fall off. All things considered, it really is quite safe, unless the bus goes off the cliff. We did almost get a low-hanging electric wire in the mouth passing through Tamtatouchte, but missed it just in time. So other than that, it is pretty safe on the roof.
For the first two hours, winding through places called Tamzijn and Agoudal, we had an extraordinary time. The bus drove slowly and we waved at all the children we passed. We passed villages made of red mud, forts, minarets, all made of red earth. I smiled at Adam and counted my blessings, thinking how few people in the world would come to Morocco with me and ride on top of buses. He is the best travel partner, and he is always helping me. Not that I need help. He said to me the other day that I am one of the most capable people he knows. But I get tired of being capable. It means one is always working something - bargaining, haggling for a room, a taxi ride, a discount, directions, bus times, train schedules. Always something. But Adam and I share everything, including responsibility for each other. It has evolved that way between us.
And I think that he is always concerned for me here, in a Muslim country, with my head uncovered. He secretly thinks that I am going to be abducted and sold into sex slavery in Abu Dhabi. He lost me in the souk in Rissani the other day when I wandered off to look at leather pencil cases while he was tasting dates. As I walked past the stalls, every merchant came out and said "You're husband is looking for you!". When I caught up with him he grabbed me and hugged me and asked me never to wander off again. But I'm always wandering off. I'm still used to following my own rules. And Adam knows I never do what anyone tells me to do anyway.
After two hours on the roof, I shouted down to a child on the road asking how much further to Imilchil. Cinquante kilometres! he replied. Only half-way! One does get a bit windburned on the roof, especially once you cross the Atlas and descend into the opposite valley, straight away, with the wind whipping in your face at 70kph. Cold, too, even when the sun is shining. And the bag under your back begins to feel painful. I became totally exhausted after only three hours, so I held on more tightly and put my head down and tried to rest.
After four hours we arrived in Imilchil, crawled into a cafe with our long curls standing on end ordering two coffees a piece and scrambled eggs, which they served in the frying pan and which we would have eaten as well had they not cleared the table. To make a very long story short, we underestimated the distance between Todra Gorge and the Cascade d'Ouzoud. By a hell of a lot. And we chose to do the bulk of it off-piste, over the Atlas Mountains. It took us two days of constant travel to get to Ouzoud - from Todra to Imilchil, onto Aghbalal, stopping at El Ksiba, Beni Mellal, Azilal and finally Ouzoud.
We found an isolated little guest house on the opposite side of the cascade, which entails climbing down the mountain with your pack, crossing the river by a little hand-pulled boat, and climbing partway up the other side to a clearing with a beautiful piece of land. The shower is very clean and has a lot of hot water, and there is a Western loo and a Turkish loo from which to choose. We are staying in a bamboo hut with no electricity to bother with, and monkeys dance on our roof at night. Adam is off hiking, and I have stayed behind at a little table with grapevines on a trellis overhead, the cascade in front of me. It is beautiful to hear the waterfall at night, under the light of the full moon.
