Expect the Unexpected
Trip Start
Sep 11, 2007
1
5
10
Trip End
Ongoing
Dharamsala, India
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
For some reason Indians just don't seem to have a handle on toast making. In one restaurant in Amritsar toast is described as 'roasted bread', and I think this is exactly what happens - the bread gets blasted in an oven for a minute or two. The end product is white (ie untoasted), dry and hard - like an anaemic ryvita that crumbles on contact. However, I persevere and uncover the occasional gems, in the most unusual of places - like the toast currently being served at Margao train station.
In addition to poor toasting skills, communication difficulties can also sabotage a breakfast - or just about anything else in India - although as I don't speak any Indian languages, I accept that most of the responsibility for this should undoubtedly be mine.
When I was in Ooty (seems so long ago), I ordered 'Toast Butter Jam' and the waiter asked me '.......or pineapple?'. Assuming he was referring to my jam preference I nodded and said pineapple was fine. Two minutes later a glass of pineapple juice arrived, followed by toast with a serving of tomato ketchup. [Luckily it wasn't in a sachet or I might have been tempted to short-fuse the restaurant]. The waiter seemed as puzzled by my ketchup rejection as I was by its arrival.
And this is one of the real wonder of India for, love it or hate it (and quite often it is the latter), India has a unique ability to subvert any preconceived expectations or assumptions the average Westerner may have....about anything. Attempting to understand India from a Western mindset is useless, and can lead to many frustrating encounters at post offices and train stations; with chai wallahs and taxi drivers. This is turn may leave you feeling that all sense of logic and reason has long since vanished, swept up in a Krishna puja on a heady cloud of incence.
I am now in Dharamsala/McLeod Ganj (Tibetan community) and it is a gastronomic relief and delight to leave the spice and pickle vortex of 'India proper' behind for a while. After spiritual enlightenment, café culture seems to be a major occupation in this little town, where you will find equal numbers of Western tourists and Tibetan monks sipping lattes, Tibetan butter tea and chais in mutual curiousity. Like all places of religious and spiritual significance, McLeod Ganj is a place where the weird and wonderful and beautiful people of the globe are drawn in their personal quest for nirvana. In this part of India however, it is not the Tibetans who are challenging my notions of reason and logic - but my fellow Westerners. Talk here of gurus, aura cleansing and transcendence of the astral plane are common place however I found one discussion of the 'difference between angels and aliens' , taking place in the 'Peace' cafe particularly enthralling. Apparently it's to do with how heavy they are. Equally enthralling for me was a young guy I saw with ratty hair, beard, hessian waistcoat and Huck Finn trousers switching barefoot down the path, like a Merry Prankster searching for Haight Ashbury and the Summer of Love. What I found acutely embarrassing about this was that in this act he had inadvertently affirmed and highlighted his status of economic power and privilege, rather than negate it which I assume was the intention. He has the luxury of role playing and flirting with the romantic image of the modern Troubadour, a free spirit treading barefoot along the nomadic path. The difference between him and too many people here is that when the rocky road becomes too much for him he can pull a pair of Tevas out of his bag.
I later had an interesting conversation with an Australian guy who has done quite a bit of meditation. He told me that his teacher has always stressed that the most important question we can ask ourselves is 'Who Am I?'. Although I am still trying to fully work this out - I know myself well enough to know that tonight I will be walking to the café with my sandals on.
