27th of November
It’s raining. It’s raining a lot. Not like the heavy monsoon a few months ago, and not the soft gentle rain a couple of minutes ago. It’s that heavy rain that makes you wish you’d stayed inside, or possibly brought an umbrella. It’s the rain that, when staying inside or bringing an umbrella, brings the coziest of feelings, possibly only contested by a campfire with close friends a warm summer night. I’d for some reason felt like the day needed to start and took off anyway. I should have stayed in bed.
The road had been bumpy at first but had now evened out a bit. It had started off with a creation of mainly small rocks and mud but had now gradually turned to asphalt which at home would be considered a massive improvement in comfort. The roads here are at some places so poorly constructed that it’s hard to say where one road end and where the next one begins, not to mention the giant holes in the middle of them.
I’d waken up early and then waited out the rain a bit before I took the motorbike out on the road. It was a soft rain by then but just a minute later had it started raining heavily again, just when I got on the main road. I was wet in a couple of seconds and cold for the first time in this country. No time to loose, I’d immediately decided on heading towards the restaurant with the amazing view I found yesterday, called the Laughing Buddha. It was a bit away but at least I’d started the day and wasn’t still in bed. I should have stayed in bed.
The water poured down my sunglasses as I tried to speed up down the deserted road. People seemed have the common sense I didn’t, to know when to stay home for example. I reminded myself that there still were a lot of holes and other natural speed bumps along the way and slowed down a little bit, mainly to ease my conscience, but I was still going pretty fast. It was a beautiful landscape that I passed, and any other day would I think about that and how my hair was playing in the wind. It was licked back today by the rain as water poured down my spine.
I eventually got to the Laughing Buddha, where I ordered a cop of chai and crept down under a blanket, wishing I was back at the hotel in my bed.
The Holy Man
26th of November
I found him sitting in his small hut as the first rain in weeks softly fell outside. He was an old man, marked by the years he lived here in the wastelands of India. The ruins from ancient cultures lay all around us in the small clutch of trees where he’d built a new life. Apparently was he from Italy originally, but during travels in this region did he run out of money and settled down at the guru in the temple. They fed him and gave him a place to stay, while he taught him about Shiva and the guru life.
There was no way of telling that he was Italian more than that he spoke English with some difficulties. He looked like any other guru, with the long beard, the long hair and the colored marks on the forehead.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Ehhmmm, maybe more than 20 years.” His voice cracked and the answer was more a whisper than anything else, but he smiled against my interest. He’d been here since 1970’s to be a little bit more precise.
He’s a guru at this local temple dedicated to the god Shiva. There is a small room in the middle of the biggest house in this complex of small huts. Some small trees had found their way through the hard ground around the huts and family of ravens watched us from the tree tops. He’d been a painter when he was younger and had made a big beautiful portrait of Shiva on one of the rocks. At the entrance sat two statues of bulls, also connected symbols of the god Shiva.
It hadn’t been at all what I expected. I’d seen a wise matured man, filled with the wisdom only age can provide but energy and patience mustered by dedication. Someone I could listen to and discuss belief with. This was just an old man, barely capable of getting to his own feet and in no way capable of handling a skeptical young man as me. Sure I could have got free food and bed, but there was nothing spiritual about this place and nothing holy about this man. He was just old.
I found him sitting in his small hut as the first rain in weeks softly fell outside. He was an old man, marked by the years he lived here in the wastelands of India. The ruins from ancient cultures lay all around us in the small clutch of trees where he’d built a new life. Apparently was he from Italy originally, but during travels in this region did he run out of money and settled down at the guru in the temple. They fed him and gave him a place to stay, while he taught him about Shiva and the guru life.
There was no way of telling that he was Italian more than that he spoke English with some difficulties. He looked like any other guru, with the long beard, the long hair and the colored marks on the forehead.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Ehhmmm, maybe more than 20 years.” His voice cracked and the answer was more a whisper than anything else, but he smiled against my interest. He’d been here since 1970’s to be a little bit more precise.
He’s a guru at this local temple dedicated to the god Shiva. There is a small room in the middle of the biggest house in this complex of small huts. Some small trees had found their way through the hard ground around the huts and family of ravens watched us from the tree tops. He’d been a painter when he was younger and had made a big beautiful portrait of Shiva on one of the rocks. At the entrance sat two statues of bulls, also connected symbols of the god Shiva.
It hadn’t been at all what I expected. I’d seen a wise matured man, filled with the wisdom only age can provide but energy and patience mustered by dedication. Someone I could listen to and discuss belief with. This was just an old man, barely capable of getting to his own feet and in no way capable of handling a skeptical young man as me. Sure I could have got free food and bed, but there was nothing spiritual about this place and nothing holy about this man. He was just old.
Hammock
20th of November
Wide-spread tropical beaches, the white sand so soft your feet sink in a few centimeters and you can feel the gentle heat from the sun. The palm trees with its majestic height calmly tilt out over the beach, the green leaves supply enough shade without taking away the natural magical light and warmth. The water is sparkling as the waves give you a calm background sound, the dolphins playing in the distant sunset with a few birds passing a blood-red cloud and you feel like there isn’t a problem in the world.
This isn’t paradise. This is merely nature and there is nothing divine about this creation what so ever. But this can be changed! For only 150 Rupees can you invest in a hammock, this elegant piece of design, which can provide you the comfort that you’ve always wanted. No matter how perfect the view is will nothing make it as godlike as the hammocks of Goa. Once you’ve tried it will you never want to leave it again.
The breeze, the careful warm breeze of the ocean, will sway you in the most romantic of ways, completing this supposedly divine place and make it to its fullest. There is nothing else on the market that can compete with this brilliant design. The comfort alone is worth more than eight times the amount, and with the simple construction is it close to priceless.
For only 150 Rupees can you get this brilliant bed of comfort. To the eye only a sheet of cloth but you know it’s so much more. For only 150 Rupees can you get it. Buy it today!
Wide-spread tropical beaches, the white sand so soft your feet sink in a few centimeters and you can feel the gentle heat from the sun. The palm trees with its majestic height calmly tilt out over the beach, the green leaves supply enough shade without taking away the natural magical light and warmth. The water is sparkling as the waves give you a calm background sound, the dolphins playing in the distant sunset with a few birds passing a blood-red cloud and you feel like there isn’t a problem in the world.
This isn’t paradise. This is merely nature and there is nothing divine about this creation what so ever. But this can be changed! For only 150 Rupees can you invest in a hammock, this elegant piece of design, which can provide you the comfort that you’ve always wanted. No matter how perfect the view is will nothing make it as godlike as the hammocks of Goa. Once you’ve tried it will you never want to leave it again.
The breeze, the careful warm breeze of the ocean, will sway you in the most romantic of ways, completing this supposedly divine place and make it to its fullest. There is nothing else on the market that can compete with this brilliant design. The comfort alone is worth more than eight times the amount, and with the simple construction is it close to priceless.
For only 150 Rupees can you get this brilliant bed of comfort. To the eye only a sheet of cloth but you know it’s so much more. For only 150 Rupees can you get it. Buy it today!
Coco huts
15th of November
On a long stretched white beach, where the waves happily rolls in over playing sun guests without causing disturbance to the resting baskers desperately working on the hungover from last night, amongst the palm trees poking the sun and the playing with the butterflies, there lays a few hotels.
Each year are these hotels torn down and the entire beach deserted for the off season. They are called huts for a reason because more then a luxurious tent with walls is it hard to call it. Well, a lot of imagination might do it, but still. They wall off the beach from the slightly more hectical tourist street running along the waterfront.
On two meter unsteadily looking poles are the huts constructed. On that altitude is every rhythm of romance unfortunately shared with everyone in the complex. They are surprisingly comfortable thou, and costs but a fraction of the price of a proper hotel which makes it ideal for a longer stay.
I would like to call them Coco sheds when I think about it...
On a long stretched white beach, where the waves happily rolls in over playing sun guests without causing disturbance to the resting baskers desperately working on the hungover from last night, amongst the palm trees poking the sun and the playing with the butterflies, there lays a few hotels.
Each year are these hotels torn down and the entire beach deserted for the off season. They are called huts for a reason because more then a luxurious tent with walls is it hard to call it. Well, a lot of imagination might do it, but still. They wall off the beach from the slightly more hectical tourist street running along the waterfront.
On two meter unsteadily looking poles are the huts constructed. On that altitude is every rhythm of romance unfortunately shared with everyone in the complex. They are surprisingly comfortable thou, and costs but a fraction of the price of a proper hotel which makes it ideal for a longer stay.
I would like to call them Coco sheds when I think about it...
Goa
11th of November
I’d been resting for an hour and felt the drowsy adventurous feeling creep up on me, the one when you really would like some excitement but just isn’t in the mood to make something happen. Now would be a perfect time for some crazy friend with a lot of ideas to call me. No one got my new Indian number thou, so I didn’t put much hope on anyone contacting me for this evening.
I put on my sunglasses, locked the door and strolled on towards the beach. The sun found its way through the leaves of palm trees, reaching for the sky. It was beautifully marine blue, the sky, and not a cloud in sight. Not that there were no clouds, they just weren’t visible for the humidity clouding the clouds. Figuratively. I passed the manager of the hotel and gave him a smile.
“… I knew all the roads but the roads did not know me, guaranteed.” Sang Eddie Vedder as I strolled through the small track of sand down to the beach. I found myself smiling. The sand was rolling over my feet as I walked along the track, I could feel it bounce on my calves. The sand was colder than earlier, and colder then the air. Not that this is considered cold in any way. Even now in the sunset was it warm enough for people to only dress in Speedos.
A breeze of warm air slid across my face as I took my first step down on the beach. It felt like a big bucket of warm water plunging over you in ultra rapid. It was in some ways soothing. I passed the sun-beds and sat down next to the waterfront. Wave after wave came rolling in across the hard sand, a couple of meters from my feet. I knew that the water was still warm, warmer than it ever got at home.
A couple of birds passed on a leisurely flight as the sun grew redder along with the sky. A couple was playing in the water and a man on a bike came to sell ice-cream. I found myself wonder why people tried to make this moment any different in any way. Someone to talk to could sure be nice right now, but beside that didn’t I have a single wish in the world. So how long should I stay here?
I’d been resting for an hour and felt the drowsy adventurous feeling creep up on me, the one when you really would like some excitement but just isn’t in the mood to make something happen. Now would be a perfect time for some crazy friend with a lot of ideas to call me. No one got my new Indian number thou, so I didn’t put much hope on anyone contacting me for this evening.
I put on my sunglasses, locked the door and strolled on towards the beach. The sun found its way through the leaves of palm trees, reaching for the sky. It was beautifully marine blue, the sky, and not a cloud in sight. Not that there were no clouds, they just weren’t visible for the humidity clouding the clouds. Figuratively. I passed the manager of the hotel and gave him a smile.
“… I knew all the roads but the roads did not know me, guaranteed.” Sang Eddie Vedder as I strolled through the small track of sand down to the beach. I found myself smiling. The sand was rolling over my feet as I walked along the track, I could feel it bounce on my calves. The sand was colder than earlier, and colder then the air. Not that this is considered cold in any way. Even now in the sunset was it warm enough for people to only dress in Speedos.
A breeze of warm air slid across my face as I took my first step down on the beach. It felt like a big bucket of warm water plunging over you in ultra rapid. It was in some ways soothing. I passed the sun-beds and sat down next to the waterfront. Wave after wave came rolling in across the hard sand, a couple of meters from my feet. I knew that the water was still warm, warmer than it ever got at home.
A couple of birds passed on a leisurely flight as the sun grew redder along with the sky. A couple was playing in the water and a man on a bike came to sell ice-cream. I found myself wonder why people tried to make this moment any different in any way. Someone to talk to could sure be nice right now, but beside that didn’t I have a single wish in the world. So how long should I stay here?
Sleeper
10th of November
I’ve got no idea why they call it sleepers. Not even a guess and especially not a theory. It is cheaper thou, a 12 hours train ride only cost 150 rupees so I can’t complain there. Compared to the horrible sleep I got waiting for the train would most ways of travel be considered a luxury or at least a walk in the park. This wasn’t.
Sleepers class is a couple of train wagons with an interior of booths. Each booth can carry up to ten passengers, assuming they’re not westerner-sized of course. Above each booth are low shelfs which in European country would take the passengers luggage but here was designed to double the passenger capacity. We fitted eight fully grown, in most directions fully grown, men up there. That was painful and I know, because I was one of them.
Most of us stayed for more than 10 hours on the train. After a few stations did someone bring a peacock-dress, in the size of a bathtub or two, which filled up the remaining air in our booth. I sat and hugged my knees and backpack. This wasn’t comfortable nor in any way considered luxurious. My butt hurt after half an hour which forced me to a half-hearted attempt to change position. I heard some of the other Indian passengers laugh at me.
I was the only foreigner on the train, at least in this part of it. Most people passing gave me an extra look, like they thought I was lost. I could in some ways see why. The reason I got this ticket was that every other already was booked and partly because I didn’t knew any better. I know now, and I wouldn't make this mistake again. Once is an experience, twice is a slow learner.
We grew to be a family by the time most of them were leaving. Many of us had fallen asleep on top of each other, me included, and there hadn't been much of a personal space for anyone. We shook hands and wished everyone a happy life when someone was leaving, because if someone had slept on top of you or the other way around is there a bond and a common decency to follow. I especially remember the family father who slept with a foot under my butt which didn’t really made the pain any less. All thou, there were no other place for it up there on the shelf, so it was either that or letting it hang in the passenger below him, an old lady’s, face. With this I shall end this description and encourage everyone to the same mistake as I did. Once.
I’ve got no idea why they call it sleepers. Not even a guess and especially not a theory. It is cheaper thou, a 12 hours train ride only cost 150 rupees so I can’t complain there. Compared to the horrible sleep I got waiting for the train would most ways of travel be considered a luxury or at least a walk in the park. This wasn’t.
Sleepers class is a couple of train wagons with an interior of booths. Each booth can carry up to ten passengers, assuming they’re not westerner-sized of course. Above each booth are low shelfs which in European country would take the passengers luggage but here was designed to double the passenger capacity. We fitted eight fully grown, in most directions fully grown, men up there. That was painful and I know, because I was one of them.
Most of us stayed for more than 10 hours on the train. After a few stations did someone bring a peacock-dress, in the size of a bathtub or two, which filled up the remaining air in our booth. I sat and hugged my knees and backpack. This wasn’t comfortable nor in any way considered luxurious. My butt hurt after half an hour which forced me to a half-hearted attempt to change position. I heard some of the other Indian passengers laugh at me.
I was the only foreigner on the train, at least in this part of it. Most people passing gave me an extra look, like they thought I was lost. I could in some ways see why. The reason I got this ticket was that every other already was booked and partly because I didn’t knew any better. I know now, and I wouldn't make this mistake again. Once is an experience, twice is a slow learner.
We grew to be a family by the time most of them were leaving. Many of us had fallen asleep on top of each other, me included, and there hadn't been much of a personal space for anyone. We shook hands and wished everyone a happy life when someone was leaving, because if someone had slept on top of you or the other way around is there a bond and a common decency to follow. I especially remember the family father who slept with a foot under my butt which didn’t really made the pain any less. All thou, there were no other place for it up there on the shelf, so it was either that or letting it hang in the passenger below him, an old lady’s, face. With this I shall end this description and encourage everyone to the same mistake as I did. Once.
Mumbai
9th of November
I could feel the freedom crushing down on me, I was on my own for the first time on the trip and I had no final destination. The man at the custom hadn’t been particularly happy about this. But I was free and it felt incredible, I could even smell it. The smell of freedom is apparently the same as old eggs with worse fish here in Mumbai, India.
The information desk, currently occupied by three cute Indian girls and me on the other side, had absolutely no idea where I could find a train going south. Their continuing attempts ask me for a destination were all in vain, mostly because I didn’t have any. It’s possible there was a language barrier here as well since not many seemed to speak English as good as I assumed they would.
After some time could they finally decide on where the closest train station was and I went for a taxi. On the way to the taxi did I ask a man in a business suit the same question and he provided a much likelier answer. The ride there with the taxi was the first smooth ride I’d gotten in months, without any massaging or even hurting vibrations. It felt exotic.
Lanes on a road is useless, as proven by the vehicle-powered citizens of Mumbai. If there ever was a need for them did people form new ones automatically, but the ones existing were just there for the looks. I tried not to breath. The smell of freedom was slowly shifting from bad eggs and worse fish to just eggs, which some might be considered an improvement. These eggs had already passed someone.
Here I encountered the same problem as before, just asking for a ticket going far south was impossible, and the place with a map was apparently not open. I had to settle for a ticket to southern Goa, otherwise I wouldn’t get any ticket at all. The next train I could get a ticket for left in the morning at 6:55. It was currently 01:30 and I really didn’t feel like going anywhere. I took a stroll around the train station.
There were people sleeping everywhere, absolutely everywhere. It was even hard for me to find a free spot when I finally decided to do the same. The smell of worse fish had returned to join the bad passed egg touch to my freedom, and the feeling that I was laying in whatever caused this smell was creeping up on me. It was a really poor sleep. Hopefully would I be a bit more comfortable on the train.
Yeah right…
I could feel the freedom crushing down on me, I was on my own for the first time on the trip and I had no final destination. The man at the custom hadn’t been particularly happy about this. But I was free and it felt incredible, I could even smell it. The smell of freedom is apparently the same as old eggs with worse fish here in Mumbai, India.
The information desk, currently occupied by three cute Indian girls and me on the other side, had absolutely no idea where I could find a train going south. Their continuing attempts ask me for a destination were all in vain, mostly because I didn’t have any. It’s possible there was a language barrier here as well since not many seemed to speak English as good as I assumed they would.
After some time could they finally decide on where the closest train station was and I went for a taxi. On the way to the taxi did I ask a man in a business suit the same question and he provided a much likelier answer. The ride there with the taxi was the first smooth ride I’d gotten in months, without any massaging or even hurting vibrations. It felt exotic.
Lanes on a road is useless, as proven by the vehicle-powered citizens of Mumbai. If there ever was a need for them did people form new ones automatically, but the ones existing were just there for the looks. I tried not to breath. The smell of freedom was slowly shifting from bad eggs and worse fish to just eggs, which some might be considered an improvement. These eggs had already passed someone.
Here I encountered the same problem as before, just asking for a ticket going far south was impossible, and the place with a map was apparently not open. I had to settle for a ticket to southern Goa, otherwise I wouldn’t get any ticket at all. The next train I could get a ticket for left in the morning at 6:55. It was currently 01:30 and I really didn’t feel like going anywhere. I took a stroll around the train station.
There were people sleeping everywhere, absolutely everywhere. It was even hard for me to find a free spot when I finally decided to do the same. The smell of worse fish had returned to join the bad passed egg touch to my freedom, and the feeling that I was laying in whatever caused this smell was creeping up on me. It was a really poor sleep. Hopefully would I be a bit more comfortable on the train.
Yeah right…
The curious girl
9th of November
The flight was delayed several hours so I had some time to kill at Delhi Airport. I’d finally escaped Nepal and was currently on my way to the southern sunny beaches of India. With the time to spare had I unsuccessfully tried to find a currency exchange before settling for an ATM, just to pay for something to drink. With my bottle of water in my hand and a content smile across my face did I take a seat at the gate and turned on my laptop.
A little girl was sitting beside me, about 8 years old and curious about everything. She had a bright yellow hat with big white eyes on, one of those hats parents for some reason find suiting on a child, but in a very humiliating way. The girl and the hat were both curiously facing the movie on my laptop, an American action comedy which none of the girl and the hat likely understood the least bit off. They were both frozen in excitement still.
I offered her an earplug to hear the movie. She smiled big and suddenly got really shy. Apparently hadn’t it dawned on her that her indiscrete tries to watch the movie had been that obvious. Her eyes searched for the safety of her mother’s gaze, who smiled back at her daughter. Then she smiled at me. The girl looked at the movie, then at me and when meeting my eyes she turned to her mother again. This repeated itself about five times before she at last agreed to take an earplug. She was beaming of happiness.
The movie ended shortly after, possibly because I sped forward a bit, so we continued to go through the alphabet. School is much funnier on a computer as we both agreed on. She knew it well after a couple of tries, so we continued with creating words and then sentences. As a nice finish did she lost all interest in the teaching aspect and got confident to just type whatever she felt like. It was something like this:
“
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssjhhhbjhbjhjbjafsassssssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggggggggggheafajfakglaalcdknafafkbhawbhwbhasldajda;;ca;q214o9r787654345678gtyfyuvggfderyuklnbkujjiuhj
“
I won’t pick up my laptop to teach a strangers child again, no matter how cute they are. Unfortunately was her seat located directly behind mine on the plane, to the regret of both me and the man beside me. Let’s put it like this: None of us got any sleep that last flight.
The flight was delayed several hours so I had some time to kill at Delhi Airport. I’d finally escaped Nepal and was currently on my way to the southern sunny beaches of India. With the time to spare had I unsuccessfully tried to find a currency exchange before settling for an ATM, just to pay for something to drink. With my bottle of water in my hand and a content smile across my face did I take a seat at the gate and turned on my laptop.
A little girl was sitting beside me, about 8 years old and curious about everything. She had a bright yellow hat with big white eyes on, one of those hats parents for some reason find suiting on a child, but in a very humiliating way. The girl and the hat were both curiously facing the movie on my laptop, an American action comedy which none of the girl and the hat likely understood the least bit off. They were both frozen in excitement still.
I offered her an earplug to hear the movie. She smiled big and suddenly got really shy. Apparently hadn’t it dawned on her that her indiscrete tries to watch the movie had been that obvious. Her eyes searched for the safety of her mother’s gaze, who smiled back at her daughter. Then she smiled at me. The girl looked at the movie, then at me and when meeting my eyes she turned to her mother again. This repeated itself about five times before she at last agreed to take an earplug. She was beaming of happiness.
The movie ended shortly after, possibly because I sped forward a bit, so we continued to go through the alphabet. School is much funnier on a computer as we both agreed on. She knew it well after a couple of tries, so we continued with creating words and then sentences. As a nice finish did she lost all interest in the teaching aspect and got confident to just type whatever she felt like. It was something like this:
“
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssjhhhbjhbjhjbjafsassssssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggggggggggheafajfakglaalcdknafafkbhawbhwbhasldajda;;ca;q214o9r787654345678gtyfyuvggfderyuklnbkujjiuhj
“
I won’t pick up my laptop to teach a strangers child again, no matter how cute they are. Unfortunately was her seat located directly behind mine on the plane, to the regret of both me and the man beside me. Let’s put it like this: None of us got any sleep that last flight.
Roland
3rd of November
I met him yesterday in the hotel lounge. I recognized him on his sailor look from the day before, when both of us spent the day queuing for an Indian visa. When sitting restless and waiting does the surrounding area become far more interesting then usually, and the people waiting with you form a sort of bond. It's the form of bond that almost makes you greet each other when you meet on the street, but just almost. You haven't actually introduced yourself yet.
He was having dinner yesterday when I recognized him. Not that he's overly discrete, he got a big white beard and a sailorcap on top of such a friendly face that I'd never dream could tell a lie. Maybe he recognized me as well, maybe he didn't, but I took my chance and complimented him on the sailor look.
I met him in the lounge today as well when he came in for lunch. He remembered me this time at least, because it was he who took contact. I knew that kind mature voice.
His clothes had a blue theme, from the sailorcap to the linen shirt to the jewelery. It fitted his calm personality perfect. The jewelery wrapped around his thick fingers and wrists as if they've never been removed, each one of them with a big ocean blue stone in the center. His face was old and tired, but happy with it as after a long eventful run. He had obviously a lot of stories to tell.
We sat there and talked for a while. He was, due to himself unfortunately, from America and had been travelling for a year. Most of his stories came from his year in the hotel business, and it was good stories as well. It was those stories that made me hopeful about achieving an interesting life, since it seemed like that just happened to you while you were busy doing other things.
Maybe he'll come by tomorrow as well.
I met him yesterday in the hotel lounge. I recognized him on his sailor look from the day before, when both of us spent the day queuing for an Indian visa. When sitting restless and waiting does the surrounding area become far more interesting then usually, and the people waiting with you form a sort of bond. It's the form of bond that almost makes you greet each other when you meet on the street, but just almost. You haven't actually introduced yourself yet.
He was having dinner yesterday when I recognized him. Not that he's overly discrete, he got a big white beard and a sailorcap on top of such a friendly face that I'd never dream could tell a lie. Maybe he recognized me as well, maybe he didn't, but I took my chance and complimented him on the sailor look.
I met him in the lounge today as well when he came in for lunch. He remembered me this time at least, because it was he who took contact. I knew that kind mature voice.
His clothes had a blue theme, from the sailorcap to the linen shirt to the jewelery. It fitted his calm personality perfect. The jewelery wrapped around his thick fingers and wrists as if they've never been removed, each one of them with a big ocean blue stone in the center. His face was old and tired, but happy with it as after a long eventful run. He had obviously a lot of stories to tell.
We sat there and talked for a while. He was, due to himself unfortunately, from America and had been travelling for a year. Most of his stories came from his year in the hotel business, and it was good stories as well. It was those stories that made me hopeful about achieving an interesting life, since it seemed like that just happened to you while you were busy doing other things.
Maybe he'll come by tomorrow as well.
I've got HBO
2nd of November
Nope, didn’t do shit this day. Only time I left the hotel was when I went out for dinner in the evening. It was a nice day thou, I’ll probably do it again tomorrow.
Nope, didn’t do shit this day. Only time I left the hotel was when I went out for dinner in the evening. It was a nice day thou, I’ll probably do it again tomorrow.
Away
30th of November
That lovely feeling of rebellion struck my body this morning again. The feeling when you wake up, that it’s something wrong with it all and there have to be something done about it, anything, even if it’s just making a big fuzz to draw attention to the problem. Correction, my stomach felt rebellious, and it was either rebelling against me or something else. A big fuzz did it manage to make at least.
This was my last day at the Happy Home, my last day of work, but to be able to blame my absence and lack of work this day on the fact that I was sick felt kind of good. I wouldn’t really miss this work, might miss the kids a bit, for a while, but it hadn’t been the most emotional. The old Orphanage Mother Shila on the other hand was really upset about me leaving, and that made it even more awkward. I felt happy about it.
Just avoiding the kids was a bit easier now since school had started off properly now. It’s kind of ridiculous that this is the first actual normal day that follows the schedule we’ve been trying to plan after for the past weeks. Normal or not, it still weren’t much to do and what could be done could any of the other kids do better than me. It still didn’t feel right in some way.
I took good bye of Shila and gave her some money. It felt like it was expected in a way, and I really don’t know what to do with that feeling. This entire day was confusing, like it was a big cloud of gray covering everything. I just want to get rid of all responsibility to this place and get away. Away to Kathmandu is a start.
That lovely feeling of rebellion struck my body this morning again. The feeling when you wake up, that it’s something wrong with it all and there have to be something done about it, anything, even if it’s just making a big fuzz to draw attention to the problem. Correction, my stomach felt rebellious, and it was either rebelling against me or something else. A big fuzz did it manage to make at least.
This was my last day at the Happy Home, my last day of work, but to be able to blame my absence and lack of work this day on the fact that I was sick felt kind of good. I wouldn’t really miss this work, might miss the kids a bit, for a while, but it hadn’t been the most emotional. The old Orphanage Mother Shila on the other hand was really upset about me leaving, and that made it even more awkward. I felt happy about it.
Just avoiding the kids was a bit easier now since school had started off properly now. It’s kind of ridiculous that this is the first actual normal day that follows the schedule we’ve been trying to plan after for the past weeks. Normal or not, it still weren’t much to do and what could be done could any of the other kids do better than me. It still didn’t feel right in some way.
I took good bye of Shila and gave her some money. It felt like it was expected in a way, and I really don’t know what to do with that feeling. This entire day was confusing, like it was a big cloud of gray covering everything. I just want to get rid of all responsibility to this place and get away. Away to Kathmandu is a start.
Prenumerera på:
Kommentarer (Atom)