I love life

When I grow up I want to be… The Facebook era made birthdays...

Sun, 03 Jun 2012 09:29:00 +0200

When I grow up I want to be…

The Facebook era made birthdays very special. When one used to get a few phone calls, text messages and one or two cards from one’s closest friends, Facebook users now receive dozens if not hundreds of messages, including from people they have forgotten existed. Providing you have enough friends on the network, you will feel much loved on your birthday. You could spend the evening at home, totally depressed behind your computer screen, wearing threadbare pyjamas and not getting a single phone call nor receiving a present but yet reading many lovely messages from your virtual friends. I have a mixed feeling about this and I hardly ever wish birthdays to my friends on their wall. However, when it gets closer to my birthday, the pressure slowly builds up. How many messages will I get this year? Who will think of me? What if nobody does?

This year my expectations were fulfilled and I felt quite touched by some of the messages, and surprised that some people I had not seen or heard from in years took the time to write a few lines. How could I show my appreciation? First I thought of doing it the traditional way and “liking” all the birthday wishes. But since there were more than a hundred, I soon realized that pressing the like button that many times would take about a quarter of an hour and I wondered: what could I do in 15 minutes? Relax in my favourite strawberry bubble bath ; bake a lemon and poppy seeds cake; meditate on impermanence of all things; read a chapter of “Eating animals”, my bedside book of the moment; take a nap or…write a post on my blog. Something about my birthday, some words that I could share with my friends. And at the same time, finally get on and revive “I love life”, my blog which has been dead since I came back from my trip.

The story begins last week when I was in London and I paid a visit to my life coach. The motive behind it was that I wanted to know, before turning 35, what the heck I should do with my life. So just like I decided I should get married before turning 25, refrain from eating all the chocolate tablet when I celebrated my 30^th birthday and quit smoking before reaching Christ’s age, I decided, Ladies and Gentlemen, that at 35 I should know who I am or at least who I want to be. Shouldn’t a grown up woman have a bit of an idea of what she wants in life, you may ask? Well let’s say that I am the kind of person who wakes up one morning and feel like she should join the KGB, then next morning dream of becoming a ballet dancer and the morning after is getting ready to fly to the Amazon to start a career as an ethnologist. And as it did not get any better with time, I decided to use my joker and phoned my coach for advice.

Freshly landed in London and dressed in my best purple leopard dress, I anxiously walked to the posh West End tea place where she had given me an appointment, ready to discover the truth I had been waiting to hear for so many years.

“So what is it you really, deeply want to do?” she asked.
Well hey honey, I am here today because I have no clue, what do you think I am paying you for? I thought.
“I don’t know” I said.
“Think harder. If all the possibilities were open, if there were no financial or material obstacles, who would you like to be?” she insisted.
I was stuck. I had no idea. I tried to relax. “I want to be famous” I finally mumbled, feeling totally stupid about the only answer I had found. But somehow, as I pronounced these words, I started feeling really good. F.A.M.O.U.S., yes Madam, this is what I want to be.
“That’s a good start, but you have to be more precise. What kind of famous person would you like to be?” she further enquired.
Ah. This I did not think about. I came here to get answers, not to reply to hundreds of tricky questions. “Errr…I want to be a writer. And to take pictures too. I want to explore the world, make a lot of new experiences, meet a lot of new people. Oui, oui, oui! Oh…But I also want to help people in need, I would like to be useful, to give some kind of sense to what I do” I replied, with the enthusiasm of a 5 years old in an ice cream parlour.
She smiled: “Well, here you are. This is what you should do then”.
“Yeah but many people have done it before, there is nothing left for me to do and write about“, I objected.
“Those people wrote with their own words about things they saw with their own eyes. You are different. Your vision of things is unique. Don’t try to find excuses. This is what you were made for. You just have to make the first step and everything will follow. Just keep in mind that you are doing it for others. This is the clue. You should make those who are stuck travel, inspire those who are lost, make laugh those who are crying, entertain those who are bored.”

That was it. I paid her and I left, pensive. Make a living with what I have always done naturally. Travelling, doing crazy stuff, meeting amazing people, thinking, writing, taking shoots. It all sounded too good to be true so I quickly decided to forget about it and not waste my time on illusory things. My bank account was now dozens pounds lighter but I still had no concrete clue of what to do with my life.

Then I turned 35, not having found an answer to my existential question. And against all expectations, I did not have an all night long Balkan party dressed as a pink rabbit, sipping mango caipiroska and singing karaoke – sounds good though, I will remember this for next year. No. I decided I would rather spend THE day with mum and dad. Hiking in the mountains, swimming in the lake and having a picnic with my brother on the very beach where we used to play as kids. Not a sip of alcohol, not a note of music. No fancy clothes – mind you, to my parents’ great despair, I decided it would be more fun to eat in my leopard dressing gown, wearing a large English hat with a huge black rose on it. Oh it was such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you. Oh such a perfect day…

I had not written a single word yet though. But as I came back home and read all the posts and messages that people sent me, I felt very moved and I realized how powerful words could be. And all in a sudden, I remembered my coach’s words, how I should take the first step and start writing for others. I have been 35 for 4 days and this is my first post as a grown up girl. Thanks to you guys, who took the time to send me a message or write a few words on my wall for my birthday. You inspired me. Happy birthday to you.

Flying high Mumbai airport - 02.30 am. Another 2 hours to kill...

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 00:13:32 +0100

Flying high

Mumbai airport - 02.30 am. Another 2 hours to kill until I can board my flight to freezing Frogland. I have 1850 Mb left on the 2GB internet package I was so excited about purchasing a month ago. I know. Things change uh. I was full of good intentions and stories to tell. But again, I followed the inspiration of the moment and decided once again to forget about the net and the rest of the world.

The last month have been so rich in teaching experiences and enlightening encounters that I only felt like being fully present in the moment. When I left Mumbai I put many books in my backpack yet I hardly read a page. I forgot to call my parents to tell them I was fine; to reply to text messages and emails. I had no idea which month or year we were. I spent entire days doing nothing. Man… NOTHING! It felt so good. Just being aware of what was happening in the world around me. For the first time I experienced the bliss of living in the moment and I realized it was all happening in front of me. Not on the computer. Not on the screen of my smartphone. In the book of life. Wow.

Well, to be correct, I have not been totally inactive. It actually started quite intensely. In Goa, I followed my dad’s footsteps 40 years after on what used to be a Goan deserted beach, his deserted beach, and turned out to be a transe party heaven, full of hippies who got pretty much stuck up there in all senses of the term. I also had the honor to spend a night in hospital on a drip, after emptying my body of all substances it contained for over 72 hours of total delirium. Nice. Stories boy!

Luckily I was saved by my gouroutte who took me straight to paradise aka the Clinic of Universal Love and Happy Basti. There I found peace. I walked miles on the deserted beach where only crabs and hawks would disturb my newfound peace - well, actually not only but this is another story :) - marveling at the sunset every single night. I had tears in my eyes lying down in the sand, listening to Cohen’s alleluia and watching the stars. And the endless conversations with my new mates… What a bunch of colorful characters. Beautiful people. Amazing teachers. Talking about life with the sound of Krishna’s flute in the background. There for a couple of weeks I was Radha and I learnt to give unconditional love, without expecting anything in return. Or so did I thought.

Until my inspiration took me to stunning Hampi. There I intended to cross the river with no expectations, yet I had so many. But I left with none. I learnt to let go. Beautiful Hampi, with its deserted temples, fluorescent green paddy field and thousand of lonely rocs was both terrible and magnificent. There the story of Krishna and Rhada which I have not told you yet ended brutally. And as I watched the last sunset from the top of the hill I finally accepted that all things are impermanent.

Back “home” in Mumbai I spent hours strolling along Marine Drive, looking at all the young couples timidly hugging and kissing on the quay. I had belphuri on Chowpaty beach, was invited to an opulent wedding, went to cooking and tea tasting workshops, attended hype cultural events, pretended I was a writer, watched cricket matches, laughed and cried at the movie theatre, marveled at the full moon on India Gate, wished I was a Bollywood star, hang out with the fishermen.

These many stories I will tell you sooner or later. It’s just a matter of figuring out how. I have a few ideas though. But for now I am going home for a holiday. Cause my plan is to be back here verrrrry soon. I have not had enough. It’s pretty addictive, traveling.

A bientôt les amis, à très bientôt…

Sometimes life is typical (Kathmandu, early october 2011) When...

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 09:21:28 +0100

Sometimes life is typical
(Kathmandu, early october 2011)

When I started traveling, I decided I would be lacto-vegetarian and abstain from drinking alcohol. And I had been doing pretty well, until Raju invited me to have lunch at his. Raju is a great guy. A friend of a friend, who immediately treated me as if we had known each others for years. After an hour walk to the far North of the city to meet him and another hour spent on the phone, trying to figure out where the meeting place was - Raju speaks a mix of French and English, with a strong Nepalese accent - I finally get greated with a loud namaste and a big hug. It’s not noon yet but he is already quite tipsy, as he has been celebrating Dashain - the biggest festival in Nepal - since early in the morning. Then follows a long walk through narrow streets in suburban Kathmandu, crossing bridges and walking along fluorescent green paddy fields. Raju is proudly walking in front of me and waving at neighbours and acquaintances as they greet us along the way. Hardly any tourist would venture in this area and the presence of a white creatures creates an aura of prestige around my host.

“My maison” he finally says with a smile. A two-storied washed out pink building. Not bad, I think. But as we walk up the stairs I realize that all they have is one room to live in, as they are renting out the others to pay back their mortgage. A bed, a sofa, a coffee table and a shelve, that’s it. “My wife go get the manger. Elle cooks at the magasin, pas de kitchen.”
Of course they have already eaten and I have the honor to be scrutinized throughout the whole meal by the family and a few neighbours who have just joined to enjoy the sight of a Westerner eating curried buffalo and dhal bhat. I do not want to offend my hosts and slowly start eating, remembering the carcasses laying all day long in the open air, covered with flies, and dreading I am going to get sick

“Want to try special drink from my village? Très bon!”. Before I have time to say no he pours a huge amount in my glass. “Santé” he says with a joyful smile. Too late… We cheer and I start sipping my drink, remembering what they say about never drinking home-made brewed alcohol as it is often mixed with water. If I survive this, I will certainly be immune to all diseases during the rest of my trip.

Then Raju shows me some pictures… His treks, his foreign friends, his village, his parents. I am started to get a bit bored when comes one of a young child with a cheeky smile, running after a ball. “My second kid. He died. Dashain festival in my village. He ran on the road. Big bus came. He did not see. 5 years ago. He would be 13 now.” I feel a lump in my throat. “Sometimes life is typical. Sometimes we don’t choose. Sometimes I am very sad. Triste. But I am okay. I put photos of him in the house to remember. After with my wife we decided to have another child, otherwise it’s too sad. Otherwise we can’t live.” The atmosphere is heavy with emotion and I feel tears coming to my eyes. True. Sometimes we don’t choose. Sometimes life holds dreadful surprises for us. I cannot imagine how painful it must be to loose a child, to see it crushed by a bus right in front of your eyes. And how hard it must be to keep on living and raising your other child. How lonely Raju’s family must feel every year when the whole country celebrates Dashain, a festival that only reminds them of their child and brother’s death. But one has no choice, no matter how acute the pain is, life has to go on. “Happy Dashain. It’s festival time. We must celebrate.”

Later as I am walking back to my guesthouse, something comes back to my mind. What did he mean by “typical”? I have heard Raju saying this word several times over the last few days and never really understood what he meant. And all in a sudden it all made sense. “Difficult” is what he meant. Yes dear Raju, sometimes life is difficult…What a soft way to put things and what a lesson of courage you have just taught me.

The Kanyakumari Express Chai! Coffee! Garam masala doodh! The...

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 20:30:35 +0100

The Kanyakumari Express

Chai! Coffee! Garam masala doodh!
The Kanyakumari Express has just left Mumbai CST and I am heading South, in need for sea…and sun!

It took many smiles, a lot of patience and perseverance, the usual sense of humour and a few roupies but I can finally relax, lying down on my RESERVED berth. I frantically press the Tumblr icon. I have just purchased a 2GB one-month internet access package for my faithful companion. A familiar feeling arises. I have missed it.

“Two months ago” says the caption under my last post, the only one in three and a half months in Nepal. It has been a life-changing experience yet I have shared so little. I have failed in providing my friends and beloved ones with the weekly tales of my adventures. And I have not been any better at replying to personal messages either. Silence radio messieurs.

It may sounds paradoxical but the main reason - apart from the laziness that contaminates anyone after a few months traveling and the pathologic perfectionist which prevents me from posting something I have not read and modified at least three hundred times - is that there was too much going on. Both in my mind and in the world around me. There was not a single day when I did not want to write about something that happened. I took hundred of pictures and wrote dozens of notes and draft. I have countless blog entries waiting to be posted. But there are no trains in Nepal. No timeout. No endless journeys with time to kill. No time to share.

Now I am back in mother India and I can feel the urge to blog again. It’s time to share, my lovely friend. Now I am going to tell you about my Nepalese story. Bistari bistari. Slowly slowly.

From Kathmandu’s social scene to Kopan Monastery...

Thu, 10 Nov 2011 10:35:59 +0100

From Kathmandu’s social scene to Kopan Monastery asceticism

Well here I am, kneeling and waxing Kopan monastery Gompa’s floor, doing my daily karma yoga and feeling like the new Elizabeth Gilbert. I have a different pace though, as I already left my husband quite some time ago and lived the dolce vita in Rome for 4 years rather than 4 months. It took me some time to get to the spiritual part of the journey though. But I eventually got there. Not in an ashram in India though, but in a Tibetan Buddhist monastery in Nepal.

But before I could really dive into a month and a half of meditation practice, I had to spend some days enjoying the guilty pleasures of life. So after a long trek in the beautiful Himalayas - amazing experience which I will share at a later stage - came the social storm, together with the pressing need to make up for the 18 days of cold loneliness and isolation. The vegetarian-lassi-drinking Johanna traded her Indian clothes for a zebra jacket, baggy pants and a pair of apple green adidas and took the road to the best bars and restaurants of the Asian capital of international food, enjoying the best Kathmandu has to offer. Like a drunk butterfly I spent the last two weeks flying from a restaurant to another, from one party to the next, enjoying every single opportunity one can find here. And I loved it. I actually felt home.

Then when I got sick of it - or say, when my face started to be covered with pimples and my eyes lined with dark circles, I climbed the hill above Bodnath and reached the beautiful Kopan Monastery. The place where I am going to live roughly until Christmas, cut off from the rest of the world, meditating and learning about Tibetan Buddhism.

So forgive me for keeping the Nepalese experience kind of secret so far, I love sharing but the past month passed in a blink of an eye. And since I will have to keep my mouth shut for the coming month as well and will have to handover my beloved IPhone in less than an hour, you will not hear much more from me. Silence. This will probably be very interesting. As much as sleeping on a hard mattress on the floor in a dorm with 27 other females, sharing a - cold - shower with 35 of them, queuing for strictly vegetarian food with 278 individuals in search for happiness, waking up at 4.30 am every morning and playing with the lovely spiders which populate the monastery as I have vowed not to kill. One of the eight Mahayana precepts I will have to take daily: refrain from killing, lying, stealing, sexual activity, taking intoxicants, sitting on high beds with pride, wearing jewelry and perfume, taking more than one meal a day, singing, dancing and playing music. This is going to be my life. I am both scared and excited. A new experience. One more. In my quest for love and happiness I am venturing on the Buddhist path. For a season or for a life, who knows. But right now I am lying down on the grass, looking at the 1000 buddhas golden stupa, listening to the months chanting and it feels great. The sky is bright blue and the sun is warming up my body. It’s my last moment of contact with the outside world and I feel wonderful. May your day be fulfilled with happiness and joy.

Encounter with the third gender I am sitting in the train and a...

Sun, 02 Oct 2011 19:21:20 +0200

Encounter with the third gender

I am sitting in the train and a lady comes and sits right next to me. Well, a human being in a sari with a freshly shaved beard and hairy hands. Ah. Bonjour…”Larki” he/she says pointing towards her chest. I’m a girl. But I get mixed up and think she means she is a boy, and to show my understanding and my great Hindi skills I point towards myself and say “larka”. She laughs, and explains to me that we both are “larki”, grabbing her boobs with her hairy hand. She then pulls out eye shadow and a bright red lipstick and start touching up her make up, putting her lips voluptuously.

I am getting a bit confused, if not worried. She is sitting on my train berth, her hairy leg almost touching mine and she is staring at me with her large dark eyes. She says something else, playing with her tongue but I do not get it. She starts laughing, a strange high-pitch female tone with male echoes. Why me, why always me?! Other passengers - all males - are standing up and looking at her. She gets up and walk to the next compartment and start some kind of dancing while loudly clapping in her hands. She tries to grab a man’s hands, offering her “services”. A fight breaks out. Then some more dancing and clapping again. Everyone is standing in the hallway, watching. I am fascinated by the situation, yet uncomfortable.

They call them Hijras (the impotent ones). Some have been taken away from their families and castrated, some were born hermaphrodite, some are just transgender, but they all belong to the same cast and are struggling to be accepted as a third gender. Some manage to survive prostituting themselves, other entertaining people at weddings but all suffer from discrimination.

As she gets out of the train, I look through the window bars. She is still clapping her hands and dancing, now entertaining passengers on the platform. The fear and discomfort I had have disappeared and all I feel now is deep compassion. “Good luck Hijras, I whisper, may you entertain many…”

To be or not to be a tourist? The Taj Mahal, “a tear drop...

Fri, 30 Sep 2011 20:44:49 +0200

To be or not to be a tourist?

The Taj Mahal, “a tear drop on the face of humanity” as Tagore, Indian’s Nobel laureate poet, beautifully described it, is definitely the most romantic building I have ever seen. The fact that it was built by a grief-stricken emperor to show the world how much he and his late wife loved each other certainly adds to the fascination. I bet every woman who sees it secretly wishes a man could love her that much one day…

The only downside to it is that the closer you get to the Taj, the harder the reminder that you are a tourist, a walking dollar, one amongst many many others.

With an entrance fee almost 40 times higher for non-Indian compared to Indian tourist, the rules are clearly set, which unfortunately twists the relations with the locals: how can you possibly explain the rickshaw driver for example that you should pay “the Indian price” when he replies that if you can pay 750 roupies for the entrance fee to the Taj Mahal then 20 roupies should not make a difference to you…

Once you walk through the beautiful gate, begins the show: a ballet of tourists of all forms, ages and colours, that lasts from down to dusk. Like penguins, most of them have an eye glued to their camera, and follow the same route. They are all stopping at the exact same spots, taking the very same pictures. Actually there are two or three variations to this: you can do the traditional jump in front of the Taj Mahal ( like the jump on The Beach in Ko Phi Phi, the jump in Angkor Vat etc. - I have unfortunately seen them all). The other option is of course to pretend that you are holding the Taj from the top with one of your hand, making sure you make a beatific smile or if you are really chic and wearing colonial-inspired clothes, then you can also queue and pose on the same bench where princess Diana graciously sat and had her picture taken with the Taj in the background.

Challenging all the basic rules of respect for Indian culture, some girls are wearing mini shorts while others have opted for transparent sleeveless tops. Some look like they could go straight to Shoreditch and party while others have most probably never stepped out from their air-conditioned hotel and car. About 90% of them are wearing ridiculous shoes protection rather than walking barefoot, totally missing out on the sensual pleasure of feeling the marble under their feet. My favorite are the bright orange ones - I can’t help wondering, do they glow in the dark? Do some of them ever forget to remove the protections and walk all the way back to their hotel with these huge condoms on their feet? Do these people ever go down in the street and mix with the locals? Have their lips ever touched a burning chai cup and their taste buds been tackled by some serious green chili?

I do not have the answer but what I know for sure is that sometimes I hate being a tourist. I really do. Because to the Indian man who is struggling to make a living, we all look alike. And I have no choice but accept this because I AM a tourist, and I do indeed earn 40 times what they do. But despite all of this, the magic of the Taj Mahal has operated again and as I am looking at its facade turning from pale cream color to dazzling white, for a second I forget about everything and I can feel unconditional love floating in the air.

Artificial paradise Yesterday, for once, I felt like having a...

Mon, 26 Sep 2011 20:57:02 +0200

Artificial paradise

Yesterday, for once, I felt like having a rest from the backpaker’s life. And from the (sometimes) harsh Indian reality too. Because it can get exhausting after a while. Okay, I chose to be here and I am glad I did but telling your name, nationality and marital status 400 times a day, sending a sea of touts to hell with a smile, refusing wedding proposals from charming Indian boys supposedly from Bordeaux or Montpellier without laughing, calmly explaining the thousand shop owners that you do not need their clothes-books-bags-bangles-camel safari - internet- cooking lessons, praying that the rickshaw driver would actually take you where you want, without killing any cow on the way, telling hordes of kids that it is not physically possible to carry 3 tones of school pen in a woman’s handbag, traveling endless journeys in crowded trains and buses with screaming kids, cockroaches and mice: it can all get pretty tiring.

So I declared that yesterday was the “I don’t wanna eat chapati and I don’t care about the beautiful temple in the guidebook” national day. After a gorgeous proper tourist breakfast on a rooftop terrace overlooking Udaipur lake and its palaces, I went to the swimming pool in one of the most expensive hotels in town, the Niwas Palace. And believe it or not, I had the whole beautiful marble pool to myself. Yes, I was absolutely alone. No noise, no touts, no smells, no rickshaw. Just me and the palace. Sipping an exquisite spicy strawberry mocktail, I was lying down on a luxurious deckchair, looking at the dream-like hotel, with discrete waiters in traditional costumes who were making sure all my needs were fulfilled. I could not believe where I was. At some point I had a sense of guilt. The image of the narrow back streets with homeless kids, piles of garbage and holy cows crossed my mind and it felt indecent to be there. But I decided that it was too late and that I might as well enjoy it, so I took a deep breath and dived in the pool.

Later I had a sinful apple crumble at the German bakery down the road, and I stopped by one of the Ayurvedic spa for a divine foot massage. All of this for the price of a few pintes. Oui Monsieur. Oh dear it all felt so good I completely forgot who I was and where I was. I secretly wished I would meet a handsome businessman who would sponsor my upgrade to the deluxe package for the rest of my trip.

But I didn’t and a few hours later I was back to reality, the harsh reality. Making my way through amputees and crippled at the railway station, I had to fight at the counter to get an ordinary unreserved ticket and then negotiate with the train controller to change it to sleeper class in order to have a numbered seat on a hard berth with too many passengers anyway. The 7 hours journey in an overcrowded carriage which soon started to be invaded by grasshoppers was rather long and uncomfortable but it was a short journey for Indian standards. The arrival late at night in a gloomy and dusty town was quite depressing. But the ultimate punishment was still to come. The guesthouse was the doggiest place I have ever seen. The owner, after heavily coughing and deeply scratching her bottom gave me a big hug, welcomed me in her humble home and told me to call her mum. She then showed me the shared bathroom and opened my room door a with . As she switched on the light dozens of cockroaches ran to hide in all corner and a cloud of fat noisy insects gathered to greet me, along with two burst foam mattresses on a shaky bed frame, an old armchair covered with spiderweb, three cows peeping through the window and mooing loudly and a pungent smell of old urine. Welcome home my darling.

Fighting with all the flying bugs I put up my mosquito net on the fan after making a difficult choice between getting steamed or eaten by insects. I laid down under it and as I looked up again I saw dozens of unidentified huge black bugs having a party on the ceiling right above me. Some kind of cockroaches with wings. Yuk. Flying cockroaches. And some started jumping on the mosquito net. Poc. Poc. I could feel them landing. Just a few inches above me. I felt like crying. I switched on my torch light but had to switch it off immediately as they all started dancing. Poc. Poc. I could feel the weight of the mosquito net on my legs. Do not move. All I wanted was to scream, pack my bag and run away but it was too late as I was surrounded by bugs. I put on my hearplugs and I laid still like a dead branch. And I started praying. Praying that I would fall asleep quickly but most importantly that I would wake up unscathed. And apologizing too. For forgetting who I was and where I was.

Gentle reminder There is so much I want to blog about, so many...

Sat, 24 Sep 2011 21:56:50 +0200

Gentle reminder

There is so much I want to blog about, so many experiences I would like to share, so many topics I feel like exploring that somehow I am stuck. Suffering from a case of acute writer’s block. Or actually quite the opposite: I have too much to say. This is India, you get caught in a hurricane of colors, flavors and odors, and it never stops. I have seen so much during the past few days that I feel like I need a few days to absorb it before I can actually share it. But by then I surely will have seen so much more than I will need another few days to digest it, and so it goes…

Well in the meantime, I shall let you meditate on this odd sign which was on the barrier of a temple located on top a steep hill near Udaipur. Totally off the beaten track, with amazing views of the surrounding countryside. Sweating after a long walk in a baking hot sun - did I really need to climb up there at midday on a sunny day? - I was feeling like a goddess on top of Mount Olympus, and for a second I thought I was immortal. Then I saw the sign and I could not agree more.

Camels and chapatis I decided that the best way to cure the...

Wed, 21 Sep 2011 17:42:20 +0200

Camels and chapatis

I decided that the best way to cure the Delhi belly was to spend 36 hours in the desert, as in the end, dunes would be much more romantic than the guest house toilets.

Of course I got THE crazy camel who kept on dancing French cancan along the way and I had to hold him so tight I now have blisters in my hands and red marks on my ankles from rubbing against the stirrups. To my great pleasure, he would dive into thorny bushes every half hour and was twisting his head backwards the rest of the time, scratching his head against his neck. One of his favorite trick was to roll on his back with his 4 legs up right after he would kneel down to let me off - before I would have time to get off, of course.

My lovely camel was also boulimic and insomniac. He spent the whole night eating loudly and checking if I was still sleeping. Have you ever been waken up by a camel chewing bush right in your face? Yep, lovely. Especially when it happens every hour. “Do camel ever sleep?”, I asked my camel man. “No problem m’ame, no problem.” He was sweet but that was all the English he knew.

Yes, because with the mad camel came the camel man. I got the best package. Ok, he was kind of cute cause he lent me a red cap with a solar energy powered mini ventilator under the peak - no, I will NOT post any pics of me wearing it… My camel man was sweet but he was a young rebel. He was sleeping in the camel cart half of the day and singing Bollywood tunes the rest of the time. This would have been quite entertaining if he was holding my camel rope. And if my camel was not mad.

But anyway, as an independent women I quickly adjusted and began establishing a fusional relationship with my camel. We would even share the cooking dishes. The versatile silver plate was a camel drinking bowl by day and a chapati making dish by night. They would just use a bit of sand to clean it et hop, voilà. Nice.
Seriously, I had an amazing time, I mean it. Chapati cooked under the stars in a wood fire taste like heaven, they really do.

Good night my friends. I just had an amazing meal cooked by my...

Sun, 18 Sep 2011 18:09:14 +0200

Good night my friends. I just had an amazing meal cooked by my rajhastani camel men on a fire in the middle of the desert. I am lying down admiring the beautiful milky way and listening to the chanting of the desert creatures…How peaceful…How magical!

It is a bit odd to be posting while being in such remote place but this blog is about sharing the important moments of my trip with you, so I am happily doing it - + I am amazed that my phone works perfectly even in the desert!

Finally…The Delhi belly! I have been traveling to many...

Sat, 17 Sep 2011 18:36:44 +0200

Finally…The Delhi belly!

I have been traveling to many countries, for many years but for some reasons I have always been immune to the holiday tummy. Or so did I think until yesterday.

I started feeling dizzy in the afternoon, on my way to the rats temple. Yes, a temple full of hundreds of rats, which are fed and revered in the belief that they are reincarnated saints…A temple where, of course, like all temples, you have to walk barefoot - I still can’t believe I did an hour journey by local bus in the heat, to actually walk on rat shit and risk spending half of my money having to buy a silver coffin in case I would happen to walk on one of them and kill it.

Anyway, both Claude (a friend of a friend from London with whom I have been traveling for some days since we happen to be in the same area) and myself literally collapsed in our rooms as soon as we came back to the guest house. With 39 degrees fever, I was delirious all night and I caught myself chanting some Hindu prayers, calling for Shiva to save me. I was convinced I had cholera and dreaded having to be taken to Bikaner hospital. I mean, why do these things have to happen in a remote dusty oasis town?! But the best part of the story was that the water stopped running right after my first visit to the toilet - which, as you can imagine, was followed by many more - and that I totally forgot to buy some toilet paper. I will not get into details but I guess that somehow I was lucky to be in a delirious state as it all seemed okay at the time…

Venkatesh’s magic box Here I am, Indian princess, with a...

Fri, 16 Sep 2011 15:46:02 +0200

Venkatesh’s magic box

Here I am, Indian princess, with a necklace of fresh roses, a burgundi third eye, and beautiful mehndi freshly drawn on my hands. I, Queen of Jaipur, have had a feast of delicious pure vegetarian food, heard many stories about the ancestors and looked at treasures which were thousand of years old. I have seen thorned black and white pictures, silver coins and memories from an ancient time. All of this hidden in a rusty metal box, well kept under the bed. Later I was taken to faraway temples, maharajah palaces and princesses’gardens, I met cosins, nephews and friends, rode around the city from uncle’s billiard parlour to auntie’s guest house. I went to fancy cafes and humble side road eateries. I took hundred pics and laughed a lot. I was offered bouquet of flowers and a Ganesh that glows in the dark. Thank you sweet brahmin family, thank you for your kindness and hospitality!

Sunset on Pushkar lake The magic of India has operated again....

Thu, 15 Sep 2011 08:29:02 +0200

Sunset on Pushkar lake

The magic of India has operated again. I’m watching the sunset on the beautiful Pushkar lake, from the top of a temple after two Hindu priests with bright orange turbans invited me to enter. A fire is burning in the courtyard below and religious music is playing loud. The water is glazed and the sky has touches of pink and mauve. Bells resonate throughout the hundred temples in town. I almost feel dizzy for the atmosphere is so heavy with spirituality. I realise how blessed I am to be experiencing this, to be discovering new places, religions, people, food, customs. I feel absolute peace, mere happiness and a total sense of freedom and I wish this moment could last for ever. I take a stroll around the lake, wandering from one gath to another. Some men in white clothes try to talk to me, and my very limited hindi ends the conversation in big laughters. They later offer me a banana, sharing without expecting anything in return. All I can see in their eyes is a mix of curiosity and genuine kindness. Something I have not seen for a long time.

I had a pancake for breakfast. Well an Indian pancake of course....

Mon, 12 Sep 2011 19:42:50 +0200

I had a pancake for breakfast. Well an Indian pancake of course. A nice soft one, flavoured with curry leaves, lentils and spices. A pleasure to the eyes. BUT. There was one little thing that bothered me, to say the least. It was stuffed with two toasts. Two slices of plain toasted bread. A pancake stuffed with toasts?! Ahahaha. I couldn’t believe it. I carefully removed them and ate only the outside. A pancake stuffed with toasts….India will never stop to amaze me.

First ride on a motorbike. 10 miles by night. Ok, I was not...

Sat, 10 Sep 2011 21:29:53 +0200

First ride on a motorbike. 10 miles by night. Ok, I was not driving but still…Les cheveux dans le vent…Je n’reconnais plus personne en Harley Davidson… Thrilling. Red lights are purely ornamental, roundabouts can be taken both way depending on what is most convenient for you, cows have the ABSOLUTE priority, headlights are only an option, you may drive on the other side of the road if needed, and of course, in any case, “please horn” as often as you can to get the full Dolby stereo experience. There surely is a God in India, and he must have been in charge of traffic tonight cause I am safe in bed, struggling to fall asleep though, after such an intense experience…Bonne nuit les petits.

Yesterday after the bombing, as if it was not enough, there was...

Thu, 08 Sep 2011 15:23:50 +0200

Yesterday after the bombing, as if it was not enough, there was an earthquake. I was lying on my bed reflecting on the blast and on how fragile human life is when all in a sudden my bed starting shaking, together with the entire room. It took me a few seconds to realize it was an earthquake - I first thought there had been another attack. People in the guesthouse were shouting, I rushed outside and found the caretaker and the cook in the hallway. “Is everything ok?”, I asked - I doubt I could have found anything more stupid to say but I was feeling a bit awkward in my nightie. “No problem m’ame. Brouuuum brouuuum brouuum. Finish”. I went back to my room not quite reassured, dreading the next tremors, reading all the literature I could find on internet on earthquake safety, contacting half of the world to figure out what to do and finally concluding that all I could do was pray. The building I was in was totally shaky, the walls and ceiling full of cracks and the front door looked with a chain, so I said to myself “Good night Johanna, see you tomorrow Inch Allah”…

I’m off to Jaipur now, sitting on the station quay sweating like a dog despite the fact it’s only 8 am. I have a cold, a stiff neck and my left eye is totally swollen - amazing how the body can react to stress - but I feel relieved I am leaving. I was touched by Delhi and its beauty but I felt it was time to leave. Bye bye sweet Delhi, bye…

First journey by train. 3rd class, of course. I look through the window. Miles of shanty towns along the railway. Tones of rubbish, with kids, old men, cows, pigs and dogs looking for who knows what. True poverty. For some reason and although I feel weird about being the silent spectator of such misery, I am detached. I guess that’s the only way to go about it otherwise you cannot travel through India.

New Delhi. Wednesday 07 September 10.17 am. 11 people lost their...

Wed, 07 Sep 2011 20:16:00 +0200

New Delhi. Wednesday 07 September 10.17 am. 11 people lost their life and more than 70 were injured. I find out about the bombing as I am sitting in the Consular section at the French Embassy. I decided to go there to register in case I have any problem. I wouldn’t normally do this but it seems my instinct was good as I wanted to go precisely in the area where the bombing happened that same morning and changed my plan after I was told the consular section closes at 12.30pm. I bet I would not have really enjoyed being in the neighborhood.

I feel saddened by what happened. I know it happens often, all around the world but being close by makes it different. Later in the day I decide to go to the political center of Delhi, and walk all the way to India Gate (the area where the bombing took place) which I can see in the faraway distance. It’s unusual for a respectable lady, especially for a white one to walk alone along this road. I can feel the men staring at me. The sky is very low, the air extremely humid, there are armed policemen and soldiers everywhere, the atmosphere is heavy yet I find Delhi beautiful - and the armed forces reps very sexy…It all feels quite unreal actually.

Masala dosa: heaven! I am amazed at the incredible skills Indian...

Tue, 06 Sep 2011 17:49:00 +0200

Masala dosa: heaven!

I am amazed at the incredible skills Indian people have for cooking. Give them a few veggies and a pinch of flour and they will create beautiful and tasteful dishes in no time. Like true magicians, they know how to play with spices and entertain their guests from the first spoon to the last. Eating in India is a journey in itself, a symphony of flavors. I love Indian food… Especially when it’s served in a dodgy looking side-alley restaurant. You get royal treatment for daring going there and the chili thrill as well, all of that for a ridiculously cheap price. You may also get the Delhi belly syndrome in the package but so far I am doing great!

Delhi airport 4.05 am. I finally find the taxi driver I booked...

Mon, 05 Sep 2011 17:05:00 +0200

Delhi airport 4.05 am. I finally find the taxi driver I booked through the guest house. Well, not quite what I imagined. A skinny 15 years old lost in a gigantic threadbare pair of jeans. “Welcome Mrs Johanna Danis” says the piece of paper. I am wondering if he came with a tricycle but alleluia one of his friends is waiting for me in a beat-up car parked in a back alley behind the airport. Illegal car pick up service it is. Here we are…Welcome to India Mrs Johanna Danis! We are driving through Delhi periphery in the middle of the night and yet there is traffic. “Please horn”: that’s what all the trucks have tattooed on their bottom. As if anyone needed to be reminded… Here driving is all about honking. All day long a symphony of rickshaw, motorbike, trucks and cars resonate throughout the city. Non-stop. Maddening. Welcome to the kingdom of horns. And every time you cross the road it feels like this is the last day of your life. Run Forest, run.

The car pull down in a dirty and dark side-alley. Ringo Guest House. A sleepy old Indian man opens the chained door and I have to cross a lake to reach the staircase. ” It’s been raining a lot?”, I ask. They stare at me. “No m’ame, normal”. It’s the rainy season you stupid thing. It’s pouring on Delhi and the city is all mud and stagnant water. Forget about your new shoes darling, it’s Camel Trophy time.

My bed is like a piece of wood. I am not even sure there is a mattress, but I’d rather not see what’s under the bed sheet. I asked for a room with a window not to feel too claustrophobic but I am starting to regret it as the street concerto is going to be my lullaby. Calm down. Breathe. Do the colour meditation. It starts itching everywhere. I think the inexistant mattress is full of flees. I can’t sleep. Maybe it’s bed bugs? Breathe.The fan is driving me crazy. Off. I sweat like a dog. On. Off. On. Off. I can’t sleep. I neeeed to sleep putain de merde. And when I finally manage to fall asleep at 7.50 am, I am woken up by some hardcore drumming on the door. “Passport m’ame, paaaaaassporrrrrt please”. It’s 8 am and it’s bloody registration time. “Sorry m’ame you have to change rrrroom this rrrrroom 700 roupies. Wrong room. 500 roupies rrrroom smaller m’ame”. I thought I got the worst room in the guesthouse. Well, it seems like it was the upper scale one. The “new” one has the same cell-type bed, gloomy neon and maddening fan. But it is smaller indeed. Much smaller. Especially the bathroom. I touch the toilet bowl when I try to shower. And trust me it’s not the cleanest I’ve seen. Close you mouth not to catch any disease, I remember. I laughed when I read it in the guidebook but now believe me my mouth is tightly shut. I decide I’ll shower once every two days, it will be safer.