'Nuff said.
Ok, I haven't updated lately, mostly due, I think, to not being able to talk about one of the more salient events of the last few days.
Obliquely, what happened was that the good Dr. Soonawalla recommended treatment for a minor problem. In the States (or similar), this would've meant popping a pill. Here, it means a treatment which seemed bizarre, and, upon googling, turns out to be a mainstay of third world countries. (And yes, it's non-alcoholic.)
I've been of two minds about writing about it -- on the one hand, it's been hilarious (the treatment is not designed for working women); on the other, it's a leetle more than I wanna reveal about myself in this forum.
Suffice it to say, it's been an interesting perspective. I mean, I'm certainly familiar with reading in Newsweek about some pennies-per-dose low-tech medical treatment developed for Africa that's an alternative to some conveniently high-tech pill for the rest of us, and absently thinking "oh, that's good." The shoe of condescension is certainly on the other foot of chagrined humility now.
The other thing I've been thinking, though, is that this treatment is effective. And I find it a bit strange that it isn't even offered in the U.S. I mean, chances are I'd opt for the single-dose pill. But I can certainly envision circumstances in which I might want the choice.
In entirely other news, K and I have been scrambling to try to find somewhere to go this three-day weekend. We generally wait until the last minute, and it's generally K's fault, but this one, I have to admit, is about equally mine. Also India's. In the past 24 hours, I think we've considered, and had to discard, just about every place within a 6-hour train radius of Mumbai for some combination of the following reasons:
1. It's too hot.
2. There's Muslim-Hindu violence going on there right now.
3. It's supposed to be much nicer in the monsoons.
4. The hotel is booked.
5. Pictures of the only hotel look really scary and/or do not give one sufficient hope that the toilets will be Western.
6. There's a strike on that railway line.
7. The Indian guidebooks describe it as "ecstasy by the Arabian Sea," but Lonely Planet dismisses it as "gray and uninviting" and/or Frommer's calls it "grotty."
8. Everyone warns against going there during peak season with the school holidays going on.
9. Our driver describes it as a place where Gujaratis go to stock up on cheap beer.
10. It turns out to not be the best season to catch a glimpse of the Giant Tree Squirrel.
At about 1 AM, way past when I should've been in bed, I was still churning through guidebooks and internet sites. (Internet is especially frustrating, because all Indian websites will take the same basic information, usually 30 years out of date, and disperse it while modifying it only slightly, like a game of telephone. Thus, to discover whether a given beach is clean enough for swimming, one has to poll a hundred sites and take the majority opinion. There is no definitive answer to anything. This does not appear to be a fault with the information; rather, it appears to be an accurate depiction of an amazingly non-definitive country.)
At that late hour, I was hot on the trail of Saputara, Gujarat's only hill station. It looked possible to get to. It looked -- perhaps -- not overrun with tourists. And, most intriguingly, it boasted "India's longest ropeway." Neither of us knew what a ropeway was, but we were desperate for a reason to choose one dubious-sounding and difficult-to-reach destination over another, and it sounded more reliable than trying to sight the Giant Tree Squirrel. Twenty minutes later, while trying to figure out why half the websites endorsed one railway to get there, and half insisted on another, I glimpsed a footnote somewhere that, after a ropeway accident in another town, "all ropeways in Gujarat are closed indefinitely." I read this out to K.
K, who is never cynical -- the yang to my yin on this trait -- blurted out, sarcastically:
"Really. You don't say."
We looked at each other for a long minute, exhausted and bleary-eyed, guidebooks and scribbled-on pieces of paper all around us. For a second, I thought he was going to cry. Then he started laughing uncontrollably, which got me going, too, until we were each doubled-over on the floor and in tears.
I think we'll probably just hop on a cheap flight to some beach shack in Goa.
Obliquely, what happened was that the good Dr. Soonawalla recommended treatment for a minor problem. In the States (or similar), this would've meant popping a pill. Here, it means a treatment which seemed bizarre, and, upon googling, turns out to be a mainstay of third world countries. (And yes, it's non-alcoholic.)
I've been of two minds about writing about it -- on the one hand, it's been hilarious (the treatment is not designed for working women); on the other, it's a leetle more than I wanna reveal about myself in this forum.
Suffice it to say, it's been an interesting perspective. I mean, I'm certainly familiar with reading in Newsweek about some pennies-per-dose low-tech medical treatment developed for Africa that's an alternative to some conveniently high-tech pill for the rest of us, and absently thinking "oh, that's good." The shoe of condescension is certainly on the other foot of chagrined humility now.
The other thing I've been thinking, though, is that this treatment is effective. And I find it a bit strange that it isn't even offered in the U.S. I mean, chances are I'd opt for the single-dose pill. But I can certainly envision circumstances in which I might want the choice.
In entirely other news, K and I have been scrambling to try to find somewhere to go this three-day weekend. We generally wait until the last minute, and it's generally K's fault, but this one, I have to admit, is about equally mine. Also India's. In the past 24 hours, I think we've considered, and had to discard, just about every place within a 6-hour train radius of Mumbai for some combination of the following reasons:
1. It's too hot.
2. There's Muslim-Hindu violence going on there right now.
3. It's supposed to be much nicer in the monsoons.
4. The hotel is booked.
5. Pictures of the only hotel look really scary and/or do not give one sufficient hope that the toilets will be Western.
6. There's a strike on that railway line.
7. The Indian guidebooks describe it as "ecstasy by the Arabian Sea," but Lonely Planet dismisses it as "gray and uninviting" and/or Frommer's calls it "grotty."
8. Everyone warns against going there during peak season with the school holidays going on.
9. Our driver describes it as a place where Gujaratis go to stock up on cheap beer.
10. It turns out to not be the best season to catch a glimpse of the Giant Tree Squirrel.
At about 1 AM, way past when I should've been in bed, I was still churning through guidebooks and internet sites. (Internet is especially frustrating, because all Indian websites will take the same basic information, usually 30 years out of date, and disperse it while modifying it only slightly, like a game of telephone. Thus, to discover whether a given beach is clean enough for swimming, one has to poll a hundred sites and take the majority opinion. There is no definitive answer to anything. This does not appear to be a fault with the information; rather, it appears to be an accurate depiction of an amazingly non-definitive country.)
At that late hour, I was hot on the trail of Saputara, Gujarat's only hill station. It looked possible to get to. It looked -- perhaps -- not overrun with tourists. And, most intriguingly, it boasted "India's longest ropeway." Neither of us knew what a ropeway was, but we were desperate for a reason to choose one dubious-sounding and difficult-to-reach destination over another, and it sounded more reliable than trying to sight the Giant Tree Squirrel. Twenty minutes later, while trying to figure out why half the websites endorsed one railway to get there, and half insisted on another, I glimpsed a footnote somewhere that, after a ropeway accident in another town, "all ropeways in Gujarat are closed indefinitely." I read this out to K.
K, who is never cynical -- the yang to my yin on this trait -- blurted out, sarcastically:
"Really. You don't say."
We looked at each other for a long minute, exhausted and bleary-eyed, guidebooks and scribbled-on pieces of paper all around us. For a second, I thought he was going to cry. Then he started laughing uncontrollably, which got me going, too, until we were each doubled-over on the floor and in tears.
I think we'll probably just hop on a cheap flight to some beach shack in Goa.
1 Comments:
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Anonymous said...
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- 8:21 AM
Post a CommentIf a ropeway is in fact the Indiana Jonesish-bridge that invariably snaps in any movie in which it is featured, I must admit that I'm wistfully imagining the delightful blog post that you'd write after surviving the invariably treacherous crossing. Depending on whether K survived, your post might equal the brilliance The Bridge of San Luis Rey or, alternatively, the bridge scene in Monty Python's Search for the Holy Grail.
Incidentally, you'll be having a better Memorial Day than I will: I'm going to a BBQ that's been arranged solely so I can be set up with a woman named Andrea (I'm supposed to believe that this is a BBQ without an agenda (as though such an animal exists), but it is my understanding that no BBQ will be held until she and I are available to attend.) The erstwhile Cupid reportedly believes I am foolishly seeking a professional woman, when in fact what I really need is a woman who will put me at the center of her universe, at least until the kids arrive.
Despite all of the ways this event could go horribly wrong, I will attend; not because I'm optimistic, but because things have been so dull lately that I feel less need to avoid social disasters.
Ryan
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