Mumbai, India

Just to set the scene, I'm in Qatar. It's 6:30am Qatar time, 9:00am Indian time, 4:30am Tunis time. I don't really know if I'm coming or going. I just took one flight and I know it's three more, until I get a cuddle with my Mummy and I run a marathon. I just ate a pain au chocolat and the TVs are showing horrendous footage from Syria. I'm trying not to watch it, because it's really upsetting, but everyone's eyes are glued.

But I just went to India, and it was Amazing.

My job has taken me to a few unexpected place so far this year, and India is certainly one of them. I won't bore you the details, but the days were long and packed full of meetings, sadly there was no chance for running around town, having adventures and making memories. However, I was still there, so I'll still try to tell you about it.

Are you being Served?

Coming from Tunisia, it was one-hell of a contrast. Indian culture is so polite, so humble, so proud, and very, very friendly. Service is something that you notice immediately in India, and the level of care and attention to detail is all so genuine. I arrived to Mumbai at 4:00am, exhausted and worried that I had a full day of meetings starting at 10am. I was met at the airport and driven back to the hotel and on the way, the driver asked: are you hungry, Madam? we could call ahead with the car phone and order your room service? I couldn't even think of food at that un-godly hour, but I appreciated the senitiment. Then at the hotel, I was taken straight to my (beautiful, shining) room and allowed to sign all the check in forms from there... infact, the lady pretty much tucked me in!

That's what it's like. Namastes everywhere, wonderful service and spectacular food. When I lived in the UK, I have the privilege to waitress with Indian Waiters who had trained at one of the services colleges here. They told me lots of stories about the classes they undertook, from elocution to practical exams in table laying and silver service. There's almost a French "career level" pride to the service industry.

We had some lovely dinners as part of my work trip, but one of the highlights was the service of a sorbet pallet-cleanser in the upturned lid of a teapot filled with liquid ice. So up my street.

 

Another evening, after 12 hours of meetings, I was skyping with the fam, when I decided to order room service. Usually I would rather get out of an evening, but I was so exhausted and my room was so pretty, that I didn't mind spending the night in. I just ordered some carbonara and a lemon tart and this whole princess-trolley of dreams arrived!

 

Hinduism

I don't know if you noticed, but I completely love religions. Not just my own, all of them. I am just fascinated by different belief systems, traditions, customs and the mechanism of faith which drives regular people to do sometime bizarre, sometimes wonderful things. Hinduism is no exception and is actually a religion that I studied extensively at school.

Hindus believe that there are lots of Gods, lots and lots. Like Roman and Greek mythology, the Gods have different responsibilities and are interlinked by complicated personal relationships too.

Idol in the office

The cow is holy. Very holy, sacred actually. India is the only country in the world in which the McDonalds does not sell hamburgers. Fact.

While I was there, there was a very special Hindu festival, the birthday of Lord Krishna, and the people of Mumbai celebrated in a very unique way.

Dahi Handi: गोकुळाष्टमी

Thursday was Dahi Handi, the day where the birthday of Lord Krishna (the eight carnation of Lord Vishnu) was celebrated in Mumbai. Since Krishna loved trouble and mischeif, the way this day is celebrated is by different communities coming together and hanging a cly pot up really high in the middle of their street. The pot is filled with sour yogurt, and flowers. They then invite competing teams to climb up and break it. The winning team is awarded a cash prize, put up by the community. But it's not all that simple. The pots are up really high, the community throw water and try to put the contestants off. Oh and the pots are right in the middle of the street, so you literally have to make a human pyramid to get to 'em.

Sounds like fun? It was brilliant.

So all day Govinda Pathaks, which is what the teams are called, travel around the city on the back of lorries and make attempts at the 2,000 clay pots that are swinging in the sky, ripe for the taking. It was quite a sight.

Here's a picture of a team in strategy talks - they commonly wearing matching t-shirts, sometimes sponsors by a sports club or a politician

Pot spotters - this is a serious business. There were pots yesterday that were worth US$2 mil. No jokes. But most were around $2000, shared between a team of about 50.

 The little children form the top of the pyramid, all barefoot.

Sorry, this is so rubbish - this is the best picture I got all day. Y'know, we had to work and all. And my peals of excitement weren't quite matched by my colleagues, so I couldn't get the driver to stop everytime we saw a good formation.

Hopefully this poster will help, it's advertising a good pot, and it has a nice picture of Krishna on it.

Health and safety was considered extremely important. See how that child is wearing a helmet, and...err... a lifejacket...

I really need the toilet, so I'm gonna have to wrap it up there, here are some quick other pictures from India. I have a year long visa, so it's likely that they'll send me again.

Otherwise, I'm on my way back to the UK... see you at the finish line ;)

Doha, Qatar

My trip to India included a 24-hour layover in Doha, Qatar. Ever since I found out that on the first night of Ramadan, 600 Qataris were hospitalized as a result of overeating, it’s been a place close to my heart. Excess, pride and wealth, are words that are often used when describing Qatar, now the third most obese nation in the world (after the U.S. and my beautiful U.K.).

Flying business, they put me up in a giant suite in the Movenpick – the biggest hotel room I have ever seen, and on arrival from Tunis I had a super sleep with some lovely dreams before hitting the mean streets of Qatar before my evening flight to Mumbai.

I was on working hours, so I had to check in and send a couple of emails every now and then so that no-one would get too suspicious, so the Museum of Islamic Art with its free Wi-Fi was a natural and appealing choice. I rocked up in the appalling heat (it was so unbearably hot, I can’t believe that humans actually live there). I was wearing a new dress from my “made in Tunisia” collection – High Carbon Lifestyle, Low Carbon Wardrobe, and was feeling pretty lovely.

At the front desk, the man was all smiles, “Welcome to the Museum of Islamic Art, here is your map and here is a guide and we have a special exhibition at the moment of gold swords and these can be found on the third floor and by the way, do you have a shawl for your legs?”

“A what?”

“Sorry madam, but you need to cover your legs…”

“Oh, I don’t have anything…”

“Here you are,” And he hands me a nasty-arse skirt to cover up my infidel legs and my pretty dress that was actually made by a Muslim. I scurried to the bathroom to put it on before causing any more offense. (see how I complain about sexism but use blue and pink to denote boy and girl voices...)

 

But the museum was super, it was free and it was very interesting and informative without being too boring. The had some really nice stuff on typesetting and calligraphy, a huge collection of handwritten Korans. Of course, the sword collection was there too, but I would have like to touch them (just an idea for the future Mr Museum of Islamic Art Man) and feel the weight. I was also delighted to bump into my brother there:

 

There was a jewelry collection there too, and I picked out my Christmas present. I have been really good this year, and so a quick word with Father Christmas, and this should be in the bag. It was gold and diamonds and emeralds. I'm sure it was worth enough to feed a small country

... caviar. I'm sure it was worth enough to feed a small country caviar.

I just took the little walk to the main road for the museum to pick up a taxi and it was the hottest walk ever. My skin was damp within seconds. Although I was expecting dry heat, it was really sweaty and humid. I took this picture, because as I was walking along, I couldn't believe that people had just discarded old dates as they ate and walked... then I looked up and realised I was walking beneath some date trees. They were much shorter and stumpier than in Tunisia.

I asked the taxi driver about the humidity and he said that it hadn't rained since last April. That's April 2012. That's insane, my friends.

Then I went to the souk, but everything was shut because there is a kind of siesta after lunch and everyone was napping. But it looked like an Aladdin town so I took a picture and had a milkshake with some Qataris, who told me how excited the country is to be hosting the World Cup and the Olympics.

Outside the souk was a parking lot:

 

Then I did some obligatory tax-free shopping, before taking a little nap of my own and heading back to the airport for the flight to India.

Thank you very much Qatar, it was a lovely day and a brilliant rest-stop for m journey... but I am certain beyond a doubt that I could never live there. Ever.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Like a dream within a dream, my voyage home had many internal voyages, and being a girl who actually enjoys the physical displacement of travel, as well as the cultural and holistic implications, I though some might be worth telling you about.

There were two particularly exciting things that happened on my trip home:

• I drove a car for the first time in maybe two years. Before that, I had spent the two previous years driving an automatic in Uganda, so that probably doesn't count either, so really it was the first time I had driven in four years. I was so nervous, but it was brilliant because my sister took me out for a test before hand to re-teach me all that I had forgotten. But all that I had actually forgotten was how much I actually enjoy driving. So now I'm getting all excited about buying a new car next year. The best thing about when you drive? You get to pick the music!
• The second great adventure relates to the switching of the flight service by British Airways from Tunis from Gatwick airport to Heathrow. This doesn't sound like a big deal, but it has made direct flights to the UK a bit more difficult and expensive to come by this summer. I have used some innovative solutions, like flying to Paris and then picking up the Eurostar to Kent. But on my return journey last week things didn't work out so simply: 

I was late for the Eurostar to Paris, and although it hadn't left the station yet, the man said I couldn't board. I gave him the please-help-me eyes, with an extra portion of eyelashes, and explained that I had to catch a connection to Tunisia that afternoon and I was really, really sorry. He said he would try, and after some clicks on his computer, he made me an offer:
"I can put you on the next train," He said, "The only problem is, it only stops at Disneyland"
I sighed.
"So be it," I whispered.

- an extract from "Stories about how I earnestly try to go back to Africa, but end up in The Happiest Place on Earth" by Michelle Tutt

Zakynthos, Greece

At the printer in the office the other day, my Italian colleague remarked on my nice summery tan (and plethora of freckles!) and asked where I had been on holiday? When I informed him that I had spent a glorious week on the island of Zakynthos in Greece, he became very excited and started reciting the following sonnet (which he later emailed to me... someone had had too much coffee...). I stopped him around the second verse, politely, reminding him that although I was impressed with his Poetic Recall, my Italian does not extend far beyond "buongiorno principessa" (from my favourite film "La vita è bella"). Anyway here she, is, and beneath, the translation.

Sonnet IX, "A Zacinto" - Ugo Foscolo written 1802-1803 

Nè più mai toccherò le sacre sponde
    Ove il mio corpo fanciulletto giacque,
    Zacinto mia, che te specchi nell’onde
    Del greco mar, da cui vergine nacque

Venere, e fea quelle isole feconde
    Col suo primo sorriso, onde non tacque
    Le tue limpide nubi e le tue fronde
    L’inclito verso di Colui che l’acque

Cantò fatali, ed il diverso esiglio
    Per cui bello di fama e di sventura
    Baciò la sua petrosa Itaca Ulisse?

Tu non altro che il canto avrai del figlio,
    O materna mia terra; a noi prescrisse
    Il fato illacrimata sepoltura.

Translation by Nick Benson:
 

Never will I touch your sacred shore again

where my young form reclined at rest,

Zakynthos, regarding yourself in waves 

of the Greek sea, where Venus was

virgin born, and made those islands bloom

with her first smile; nor did he bypass

your lacy clouds and leafy fronds

in glorious verse, the one who sang

of fatal seas, and of the broad exile

after which, exalted by fame and by adventure,

Ulysses kissed his rocky native Ithaca.

You will have nothing of your son but his song,

motherland of mine: and our fate already 

written, the unmourned grave.

So that's a bit beautiful - Ugo Foscolo was born on Zakynthos in 1778 when in was under occupation by the Venetians. He moved to Milan after the collapse of the Venetian empire and never returned.

My time in Zakynthos may have been a bit less poetic, but no less epic.

The Spartan Run

I was really nervous about this. The longest and most important training run of the entire marathon running period. Really nervous. I calmed my nerves by telling everyone all about it and putting a tonne of pressure on myself. This didn't help a great deal, but I certainly learnt a thing or two about the way I cope with obsticles. Or something.

Anyway, I didn't want it hanging over me the whole holiday, so I had some massive pasta on the first night and snuck away early to bed, while the party rolled on. Rising early (maybe 5am?!) I had some of the bagels that I have brought with me, a load of water and then I went for it.

I had already measured out a 15km loop on the island, so the idea was to do that twice and then a bit more, and come back, and lie down. I set out as the sun rose, a little after. As I had already feared and joked about with my friends - there were loads of people still out from the night before, drunk and stumbling around, being sick, being carried home or wondering around aimlessly, wondering where their hotel was.

I'm not gonna lie and put a false smile on this. It was really, really hard. It was hot, dusty, the route was boring, long. It was the hardest physical training I had ever done.

I got alot of thinking done. I had alot to think about. So it was good to have this time with just me and the road (and a couple of guard dogs testing the lengths of their harnesses, some zippy vespas and the odd car).
Then I ran out of things to think about, and spent the time drawing nice parallels with the birth of the marathon in Ancient Greece and my training, and how I'm just like one of the 300 Spartans. This made me feel strong and legendary and wonderful. 33km or 4 hours and 13 minutes later, I was done.

It was hard - I was slow, dehydrated, and I really struggled, but I still can't wait for the Marathon. This whole thing has been completely incredible.

Then I went to a Tinie Tempah concert, because, yeah, I'd earnt it.

No Panties in Zante

If you thought that Zakynthos, or Zante, its Venetian name, was an island of poetry and endurance running, then I'm sorry, my preciouses, but I have been leading you up the garden path.

 Zante is a hedanistic playground for twenty-some-things to dance around, act irresponsibly and have a wonderful time. It's a right-of-passage for British culture to do these types of holidays, with your mates, preferably in matching t-shirts, to spend far too much money, get up to all sorts of mischief and get a glorious suntan.

All of the clubbing package destinations offer a similar set-up, Malia, Zante, Kavos, Ayia Napa, Magaluf... all the hotels are located around a central strip. Everyone goes out for dinner and drinks in their hotels until about mid-night. Then people start going to a few bars, alongside the strip. The bars all have attractive "promoters" outside. These are usually people who have come out for the whole 5 month season and spend their time luring groups from the street into their establishment, with shouts of:

"Alright ladies, where are you off to tonight? Fancy coming in here for a cheeky little one?"

If you don't want to stop, but want to take advantage of a good offer, you can take a drink for the road, in a plastic cup. Drinking on the street is positively encouraged. As is the inhalation of laughing gas, which is sold everywhere, by the balloon.

Then, around 3am, you hit the strip.

This is where all the big clubs are - and the foam parties, and colours parties, and themed things, and big giant clubs, and full moon nights. For girls it's free to get in everywhere, for guys, less so.

And then you finish up around 8am, grab a gyros, and go on home. Simples.

I got to thinking in my pensive drunkenness how different this was from Tunisia (and yet how physically close we are) and I started to think is this liberating? is this better? Girls and lads feeling free from judgement and social pressures and an oppressive society. I certainly felt happier and more free, but was this just because I understand this culture, it is mine and it has shaped me, that I don't feel the entrapment of it? Because there is still the way we judge one another on looks, still the social pressure to drink and enjoy feeling out of control and still the shaping of a society that encourages an extended youth, a Peter Pan culture of Manchildren and Lolitas, whose lack of responsibility is endearing and playful, why be "only young once", when you can be young forever?

It was wonderful and I was delirious with happiness, but I kept my panties.



Girl vs. Food

This is hard to write you about. On a holiday when I achieved, probably my biggest feat of human endurance, that 33km run, my body also let me down in epic proportions. If you've run long, you'll know this, but after a long, long run, you usually have no appetite. Nada. Not to be too graphic guys, but, all that motion... your tummy is usually in pieces. Just have some protein and some water and wait until things are a bit more settled to replenish those calories. 

So after all that running and then the concert and subsequent afterparty. I woke up the next day, with a hangover and the hunger of the Incredible Hulk. So I was ready for a food challenge. Very ready.

It was the perfect challenge. I have been eating Sunday dinners all my life. Big ones too. When I was 18, I went through a summer of eating a Sunday dinner at the pub I worked at, then going home straight afterwards and eating my Mum's roast too. Sometimes I would even go round my then-boyfriend's Mum's too, and so clock three in one day. Good British food, I have no limit for this stuff. The odds were all in my favour, all we had to manage was the execution. The waitress came over, I made my order.

She recoiled back, alarmed. "No girl has ever attempted this," she said. I assured her, I could do it. I must have had a determined look about me, because suddenly she seemed to understand.

I waited nervously, strategically going to the toilet at intervals - Then it arrived:

It was a MONSTER. The waitress warned me, it's the Yorkshire Pudding that will do you in, but my stomach was in lieu of at least 2 years' of Yorkshire Puddings, so I went straight for the meat and potatoes. It was so hot, the gravy was on fire, and the 20 minute time limit had my heart racing.

I did my best. It was delicious, but here's how my plate looked after 20 minutes.

Heartbroken, I fell at the last hurdle. I was so sure and so confident, but alas, it wasn't meant to be.

I saw that waitress many times over the rest of the holiday as her boyfriend worked in out favourite bar. She always seemed to give me the eyes that told me: she knew I was a winner and a champion in my heart, but that Yorkshire Pudding had just caught me on an off day.

England's Green and Pleasant Land

I just had such a brilliant holiday home, and here are some stories from my lovely UK

I am not Dead... I am in Herne Bay

My hometown is little. The kind of little where you walk around and know people. But it has reputation for being a bit dull. This is not entirely unfounded. There's little industry nearby, and not a great deal to do. When I was 10, they opened a swimming pool and cinema - but the roller-rink was recently closed down... swings and roundabouts, swings and roundabouts.

So a bit art festival is a big deal. Enter "I am not Dead... I am in Herne Bay", a centenary festival to celebrate the visit of Marcel Duchamp, the Franco-American artist, in 1913, when he famous wrote in a postcard to a friend the phrase from which the festival drew its name (in German).

After hosting some lectures and formal exhibits, the arts council also put some fun stuff out for the plebs (me!). 

Marcel Duchamp worked in an extreme form of extremism, producing a group of work known as "readymades". This involved taking everyday objects, and joining, signing, or simply titling them and hence allowing them to become an art piece.

Such as the urinal used for "Fountain"

 

And the cheap Mona Lisa Postcard "L.H.O.O.Q.". If you pronounce these letters in french it sounds like "Elle a chaud au cul" - She has a hot arse!

 

I didn't attend any of the events of the festival, but we had fun jumping all over the exhibits. I put Freddie in the urinal, not realising that it was just on two wheels and the whole thing swung about and almost fell over. He screamed until I got him out. No matter. I am still the best Auntie.

Don't Dream it, Be it.

While I was home, I also went to the Rocky Horror Show! This has been a dream for a while. I actually can't believe that I didn't put this on the 30before30 list. My friend sent me a message a while ago and said that it was touring and coming to Canterbury and did we went to go. Yes we wanted to go! But the times were difficult, because of my other commitments I could only make the matinee... could we still dress up for the matinee? My friend wasn't sure... maybe we would be the only ones. So we went in plain clothes. Boy, were we wrong.

Do you know about the Rocky Horror Show? It's 40 years old. Forty. Wow.

If you don't know it's a show about alien transvestites based on 1950's B-horror-movies. It's racy, but also a bit embarrassed of itself, very camp, lots of fun and energetic. Since the release of the accompanying film "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" there is a culture of audience participation, where the audience arrive dressed as characters from the the show, and shout responses at certain parts of the play and sometimes throw things, like toast, kit-kats and rice, as is appropriate in the script.

I guess that it's not that fun to clean up theatres (especially the new, refurbished Marlowe in Canterbury) so props were banned.

But we still destroyed the timewarp.

An Officer and a Gentleman

It wasn't that I never thought my university friend, Gemma, would ever get married, but headstrong and stubborn, she used to tell me she never would. 

"Okay" she once relented, "maybe for the dress..." 

So imagine my delight and surprise when she announced her engagement to a former student that she had met while doing her PhD in Astrophysics, who was now an officer in the army. This, I had to see.

The wedding was beautiful, very chilled out and relaxed. I've been privy to lots of wedding planning lately as I am bridesmaiding and maid-of-honouring all over the place, and I'm very aware of all the planning spreadsheets and tasting and whatnots that go into planning the reception. So I smiled and laughed when Gemma and Simon (the groom) were doing the rounds on the tables as the dessert was served and asked "ooh!? what are we having?". So Gemma!

The reception was the most raucous I have been to, the dancefloor was never empty. And just a day after seeing Rocky... 

I cannot be held responsible for my actions when they played the Timewarp...