Thursday 14 April 2011

10 April: Enforced Shopping and Devious Rickshaw-wallahs


My latest adventure included a trip to Brigade Road, and Cubbon Park. Brigade Road is apparently the hippest, most modern spot in Bangalore, and Cubbon Park is a park founded by some guy named Cubbon. Reghanna had instructed me to get on the G4 bus, which I duly did. No air conditioning, but all the windows and doors are open.  A British health-and-safety inspector would have a fit, but it’s lovely and breezy and very practical – the bus doesn’t have to stop for people to get on and off!

When I got off I was, as usual, trying to figure out which direction to walk in (a curse on the city planners for not putting up street signs!), when an auto-wallah came up to me and offered to show me where to go.  It did occur to me to be suspicious of a man persuading me to get into his vehicle, but I was disorientated and he was persuasive. When we were on our way, he gave me the business card of a shop in Infantry Road, saying. “Very good shop. I take you there”. At first I protested that I wanted to go to Brigade Road, not Infantry Road, but the guy said that all the shops in Brigade Road have been demolished to make way for the new metro, which is, to give him credit, at least partially true.
Tourist that I am, I quickly looked up Infantry Road on the map and found that it was very near Cubbon Park, where I also wanted to go, so I gave in. The auto-wallah stopped in front of a small, very nice-looking shop. At first I was reluctant to go in (I had had visions of a mall, and pizza!), but I thought sod it, I might as well now I’m here. I’m glad I went, as it was precisely the kind of tourist-trap shop I quite wanted to have a look in, but wouldn’t have found on my own!
I ended up spending a fortune in rupees, but fortunately the exchange rate is in one’s favour in these parts. The salesman was brilliant, using a lethal mixture of charm, flattery and delicious cinnamon- and saffron tea to get money out of me! If you find yourself in Infantry Road, Bangalore, be sure to visit New Heritage Collection, #12/2 Plain Street, Infantry Road!
The auto-wallah, who was obviously in league with a veritable army of shop owners, tried to take me to some more shops, but as I’d already spent a criminal amount of money I was firm and demanded to be taken straight to the park! He then pulled the “you decide how much to pay me” trick. Rickshaw-wallahs to this sometimes. They tell you that you can decide how much to pay, so you quote him a price that’s reasonable. He then looks outraged and insulted, as if you’d just spat on his mother’s grave. Unless you’re hard-hearted and streetwise, you are then forced to give him more money! Fair enough - I’d probably do the same if I were a moustachioed auto-wallah!
On a side note, I have once again come to the conclusion that it is just lovely to buy things, instead of being the one selling them, for a change!

In Cubbon Park I continued my march of triumph in the capacity of tourist attraction. Not as many people asked to take my picture as in Lalbagh though – maybe it’s because Cubbon Park is smaller? Oh, and I also ignored the hideous statue of Queen Victoria. Spurned it, in fact, and refused to take a picture.


Lovely flowers in Cubbon Park
I’ve got my tickets for my excursion to Hyderabad next weekend. The guy selling the tickets asked casually if I wanted AC or non-AC, to which I replied, frantically, “AC! AC! AC!” You don’t want to go on a 10-hour bus journey in India without air-conditioning! (I don’t, anyway.)

If there are any rabid anti-feminists among you you’ll be pleased to hear that I have doctor’s orders to do kitchen work! However, it’s not some 1950s-style brainwashing at play, merely a wish to see how I cope with everyday chores. Consequently I chopped some beans today in the kitchen, with all the Tiny Friendly Ladies giggling! When I stopped for a stretch break they all said "Pain?" sympatheitcally - they are so lovely!

Manjula and I do yoga on the roof terrace every day now, sometimes in the morning and sometimes at dusk. It's lovely up there! Manjula reacts to sunlight like a vampire - Indian women are very careful with their skin!

Nirav, he of the hilarious instructions (“Don’t let your scapulas go flip-flap!”), turns out to be an absolute hoot! He tells me crazy stories from his time doing an MA in Australia, and we swap anecdotes about chavs (or bogans, as they’re known Down Under). Who knew that spine manipulation could be so much fun!

Thank you, come again!

Sunday 3 April 2011

3 April: The Market That Almost Was, and the Tiny Trousers

I suddenly realised that I look like an Uruk-Hai: Tall (the Alexander technique makes you taller), lean and with wild, straggly hair. Hobbits beware!

My goal today was to reach the old city silk market, and I can proudly state that I almost did!

I was lucky, as the bus I was aiming for arrived straight away, and what’s more, it was one of the snazzy Volvo buses! They have air-conditioning and play music (nice and loud, so you don’t miss anything). It’s expensive though – to go where I went, they charge 35 rupees for the privilege (as a price comparison, you can get a kilo of garlic for 60 rupees at the market, and a normal bus ticket costs about 12 rupees). On the other hand, it’s less crowded, and you can actually sit down. (It’s not too bad on the crowded buses either, though; Indian ladies with flowers in their hair are a lot less unpleasant to be squashed up against than greasy London commuters.) Getting off the bus and navigating out of the bus station, no mean feat in itself, I realised that a city map is only useful if there are street signs telling you what the roads are called! (Darren, I’m not saying I’m gonna stop complaining, but British street signage might possibly not be the worst in the world.) I managed all right (a nice man pointed me in the right direction), but I happened to find myself extremely confused right outside a police station, and asked a police man where I was. He told me where to go, but unfortunately failed to hide his scorn for lost tourists.
Despite scornful policemen and anonymous streets, however, I managed to move in the right direction, and actually found the market area! Though I didn’t find the actual silk market, I found the road that (apparently) leads to it, which isn’t bad for a lone blue-eyed Scandiwegian! The general market area goes on forever in every direction; you can buy everything from exquisite silks to nail clippers and human hair. I was far too disorientated to buy anything, apart from a couple of books. I’ve been craving Lord of the Rings lately (must be those random bursts of Old English translation I’ve been doing in a doomed attempt to keep in shape for Fil’s reading group), and I found it displayed alongside The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which somehow suited my mood perfectly: lost, filthy and utterly confused!

I needed a new pair of jeans, since all my trousers (well, let’s not allow our delusions of grandeur to get the better of us: both my trousers) are too big. I look quite sad, like a sweaty hobo, with my large trousers and mad hair, and I thought, the trousers at least I can do something about. So I stopped off at the new mall which has just opened near Gottigere, on my way home. Malls, in my opinion, are repulsive and obscene, and totally against my principles, but damn, was it nice to shop in an air-conditioned environment after spending an entire day sweating worse than the Dead Sea! Two super-polite sales assistants insisted on measuring me, and did a special trick with the measuring tape to check where my curves were (I didn’t think my arse was that subtle). Then they gave me tiny, tiny sizes to try on, which was very nice of them, even if I ended up asking for a larger size, that I could pull up further than my knee caps.
Made over-confident by the nice shop assistants and the tiny trousers, I then went to the shop where they sell traditional women’s clothes and was swiftly brought back to reality after getting my head stuck in in several kurtas. Note to self:  Indian women are v. small and slender!
After spending a whole day not seeing a single foreigner, I suddenly spotted a girl at the mall who was taller, blonder and cooler than me, and instantly hated her (I mean, how dare she?) – evidently I’m still not very Zen in my thinking, despite everyone’s best efforts.

One sees swastikas here and there on buildings, which is quite nice, as they’re clearly completely unconnected to homicidal German dictators with small-man syndrome. There’s even a Swastik General Store in Gottigere! The most amusing signs, though, at least to a Swede, are those advertising “Muthoot Finance”. Let’s hope they don’t launch in Scandinavia.

Several children called me “aunty” today. “Hello, aunty”, they said. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Friday was a wondrous day; because it was April fool’s day, one of the trashy channels showed The Simpsons – ALL DAY! I enjoyed every minute, stopping just short of squealing with pleasure.

The Tiny Friendly Ladies are fed up with me saying “thank you” all the time, and have made it clear, without using a word of English, that they won’t tolerate this kind of behaviour any more. I am to learn to use at least the phrases “Have you had your food?” and “Yes thank you, I have” in Kannada if it kills me! So far I have mastered “Namas kara”, “hello”, because it sounds like “mascara”. (When you write your opus on Indian languages, Fil, I’m available to advise and caution.)

Regarding the treatment, the heavy artillery has been brought in: I’m getting more myofascial release treatment, administered by a lovely girl called Reghanna, since some trigger points sneakily returned when I wasn’t looking. I’m also getting sessions with a chap called Nirav. He looks for neck- and muscle imbalances, and apparently I’m a rich source of those. Nirav holds the distinction of having given me the funniest instruction I ever received: “Don’t let your scapulas go flip-flap!” (Unless my esteemed and mad father’s unforgettable statement that “It is impossible to overturn on a tandem bike if you’re going fast enough”, uttered while careering ahead uncontrollably on a tandem bike, counts as an instruction.)

Thank you, come again!

Tuesday 29 March 2011

27 March: More Public Transport!

Today, armed with Jeena’s bus list (I hesitate to call it a bus timetable, since it lists no times, only which buses go where), I set off for the Lalbagh botanical gardens. It was quite exciting, because none of the buses listed in my bus list actually turned up, so finding the right bus required some agile leaping on and off vehicles, employing the trial-and-error method (that is, frantically asking every bus driver, “Lalbagh? Lalbagh?” until one nodded). I ended up in one of those old buses that I suspect were built pre-Independence. (To those of you who, like me, lazily estimate Indian independence to have taken place “sometime in the sixties”, it was in 1947, as every schoolchild knows. Manjula courteously corrected me on that one!) Like old bikes, old buses don’t look trendy, but they’re built to last! They’re pretty crowded, but luckily Indian women are partial to wearing flowers in their hair, so it’s a fragrant experience.
When I got to the botanical gardens, I discovered that I have become a tourist attraction – people kept asking to take pictures of me with their children! Bizarre! But I guess it’s preferable to people hiding their children from you, and muttering curses as you walk by. The gardens are well stocked with trees, sheltering you from the sun, so I had a pleasant time, ambling round and being photographed by strangers. (Maybe people think I’m famous? Maybe the fame of the Dolly Parton cover band has already spread, before it’s even started?) Eventually I caught a bus back home, acrobatically leaping on and narrowly avoiding being flattened by other buses and auto-rickshaws. This bus was pretty spacey. Not as spacey as the Volvo buses, which are without a doubt the coolest, spaciest buses in town, but spacey enough to have a display showing you which the next stop is, and an announcement, in two languages!
I returned to the clinic sweaty and covered in dust, as per usual. Oh, and I got some pretty fabulous pictures from the public toilets, which are going on the blog! (For those of you not familiar with the toilet blog you may, if you wish, get acquainted here: http://theprivycounsel.blogspot.com/. Darren, you might like the latest post!)

Lalbagh Botanical Gardens
After reading innumerable books on yoga, meditation and stress management, it suddenly struck me that there’s a word for people who are tranquil, calm and joyful, and that word is annoying!!! According to the Dalai Lama, all negative thoughts are harmful, but I would argue that it is equally harmful to suffer the company of people with inordinately large nostrils, for instance, or listen to certain pretentious gits droning on about Derrida. Do I have to give up thinking hateful thoughts about people who bore me rigid by talking at length about Freud in order to find inner peace? Philosophising on this naturally made me think of Bridget Jones, who is constantly failing to achieve inner poise. I can’t give you a quote on the subject, though, because I am temporarily Bridget-less – I have lent Bridget Jones to Manjula! I was a bit worried that she’d find Bridget bizarre (Mark Darcy did), but apparently she was reading it the other evening and giggled so much that her flatmate asked her what she was laughing at.

Moving away from inner poise, there is some exciting news: a new treadmill has been installed! It has an elevation function so you can run uphill, and programmes varying the speed so you don’t have to do it yourself. Also, importantly, it’s not child-sized, like the old one, so there’s less risk of falling off and getting your face caught in it. I’m working my way through the programmes and sweating profusely, even absurdly – it’s been incredibly hot! There is also a lovely pink exercise bike, which I use thoughtfully- apparently the Dalai Lama has an exercise bike, too!

It’s been so hot! To the point where you open the window in the morning, and instead of being cool and fresh outside, it’s as hot as the previous afternoon. Apparently this heat is freakish for Bangalore, where the temperature usually doesn’t go above 30 degrees. According to Jeena’s Bangalore guidebook, old people complain that the city has become hotter since industrialisation, and especially since the IT boom increased traffic a few years ago. It used to be a lot cooler; apparently the British moved their troops here in 1809 because of the cool climate, and actually 19th-century bungalows in Bangalore all have fireplaces. On a side note, Winston Churchill was a member of the Bangalore Club and owed it 13 rupees when he left in 1901. The sum was never paid, says the guidebook – what a rascal!
There was a brief respite from the heat when it rained on Friday night, and again on Saturday evening – it smelled lovely! It was cloudy Saturday morning, but Manjula had a sudden impulse to do yoga on the roof terrace, and the sun came out just as we were doing our Surya Namaskar, sun salutations! Cooool! It’s pretty cool on the roof terrace; you can see further than from the cafeteria, and you can see lots of birds! And I think I have figured out what the “eagles” are – kites ("glada" in Swedish)! At least the birds on the signs at the botanical gardens, which looked exactly the same, were labelled as kites. Aren’t you glad that’s cleared up?

The doctor reiterates that my trigger points are gone, but he wants me to stay an extra week so I can be strenghtened by Jeshma, stretched by Manjula and beaten black and blue by Ajeesh. So I'll be home round about Easter.

Dhanyavad, come again!

21 March: Hurrah! Adventure!

I ventured a bit further than the supermarket yesterday, and went to the Bannerghatta national park! I went on safari in a green bus which had metal mesh over the windows, to stop vicious carnivores from consuming the sweaty tourists within!
The safari started in the herbivore park, where Bambis grazed, and also gazelles, boar, and gigantic bison. Next we came to the bear park. If I believed in reincarnation I’d want to come back as one of those bears – they’re entirely vegetarian, and spend their time sitting on their arses, eating watermelons and honey.
After the bear park we came to lion territory! There were one-year-old cubs playing and frolicking! The lions, bears and tigers at Bannerghatta are not wild, having mostly been rescued from circuses and zoos, and other such inhumane institutions. They don’t hunt but sit on their arses and get fed punctually every day at 17:30. Still, they’re beautiful! Tigers are absolutely enormous! Since I was on my own I got to sit at the very front by the driver and guide, and had the best view. The guide helped me take pictures when the animals where on the wrong side of the bus. He also told me all about the animals, and extorted a tip from me at the end of the tour.
I wanted to go on what the park advertised as an “elephant joy ride”, but apparently the elephants were busy doing other things that day.

Lions at Bannerghatta National Park,
dreaming of sausages
A giant white tiger
The food truck turned up...and the bears were off!

Having got the bus back from the park, I walked back through the village – and was attacked by people smearing paint! The Holi festival was in full swing, and people were throwing paint left, right and centre! As I walked back people kept bursting out laughing (which may or may not have been due to my sweaty, paint-smeared appearance) and shouting “Happy Holi!"

Colourful people during Holi

 It turns out I’m even healthier than Mr Burns (apart, obviously from the usual crippling disability) – all my blood test results were completely normal. The doctor thinks that with some more rehab I should be able to do computer work for at least a few hours a day, and Ajeesh has licence to start beating me black and blue again. This is good news for future career plans: Sarah, I know there’s a shrine devoted to me at Millets (and quite rightly, too), but the long-term plan is still to get away from retail! Far, far, far away. (Providing, of course, that cripples are hot on the job market right now.) If all else fails I’m thinking maybe an all-female Elvis cover band. Or a Dolly Parton cover trio! I know Rox can sing and look fabulous at the same time, and Ruth, being super musical, can play the piano, harp and accordion (simultaneously?), and I could maybe bang two wooden spoons together.

I’m still trying to learn to relax enough to benefit from Manjula’s chakra meditation. It’s surprisingly difficult, but I found a most amusing guide to meditation in the library. Some excerpts from the introduction:

“The mind is thinking usefully about thinking and thinking: pondering about this, wondering about that, turning over assorted problems. Indulging in these suppositions gives the mind no rest.

(…) Instead it continues on its own way with mindful awareness lagging behind, unable to catch up. We almost manage to bring it in but then it slips away to (thoughts of) ‘America’, and upon following this we find it’s already back to ‘Thailand’ or ‘Germany’ and so on.

(…) Whatever, if the mind isn’t with the breath it’s off rambling and concocting.

(…) I would like you to bypass the affair of voices heard in this state. They sound a bit indistinct like over long distance telephone lines. You may actually seem to see and hear both local and distant conversations concerning yourself.

(…) The mind must be reprimanded and when necessary brought to order by intimidation. Such threats will leave the mind baffled and dazed and it can then be led back to the meditation object.”

(From Meditation by Dr Mohan Makkar Ph.D. (A.M.) and Dr Geeta (Naturopathy); introduction by Phra Acharn Plien Panyapatipo. Winsome Books India. Delhi, 2007.)

That's it for now, folks.

Thank you, come again!

13 March: Beaten Black and Blue

I’ve been telling Ajeesh about how, in my underwater rugby-playing youth, the nurses at the blood donation ward would stare in horror, when I came to give blood, at the bruises on my upper arms caused by my rather violent hobby, and ask if by any chance I was a victim of domestic violence. Ajeesh seemed to find this quite funny, giggling happily as he slapped my arms. The idea with nerve desensitization is to cause pain to the soft tissue along a nerve, in this case the ulnar nerve, thus desensitizing it. Unfortunately the only effect so far is to cause giant bruises. Personally I’m inclined to think bruising is to be expected when slapping the arm fairly vigorously for 5-10 minutes, but the doctor, at my consultation on Friday, looked a bit horrified and didn’t seem to think it was normal at all. Hence I am to have blood tests in case I have other, unrelated, medical problems. I am reminded of Mr Burns in the Simpsons episode where he goes to the world’s most expensive clinic to have his health checked, and it turns out he’s suffering from several fatal diseases at once, all of which cancel each other out, rendering him perfectly healthy.
I think my bruises are pretty cool and have been showing them off to everyone. Unfortunately when I showed them to Manjula, she was deeply shocked and had tears in her eyes, and then I felt guilty for being so insensitive! But Manjula says both she and her mum are praying for my arms, which is very nice of them!

I continue my wildlife-watching, Rapunzel-style through the window. I was very excited when I spotted a large, grey, weasel-type creature skulking around in the bushes outside, and Manjula told me it was a mongoose!  (I now feel like a top wildlife observer, like David Attenborough – am expecting a knighthood in the post any day!) If I didn’t suspect it of having rabies I’d go out and play with it and feed it grapes. I’ve been trying to tempt the birds to perch on my window-sill by leaving grapes on it, but they’re not interested, and there are now eight sun-dried raisins slowly decaying outside my window. There are some nice black-and-white birds, some rather comical tiny green ones, and stupid-looking large white ones, who follow the cows around. One of the cows has a tiny baby calf which is absolutely adorable, hopping around on unsteady legs!
 There are large birds of prey circling around, no doubt searching for weak-looking patients. Jeshma says they’re eagles, and she may well be right. My ornithological knowledge is very slight, and for all I know they might be hawks, sparrows, or tits, but they are certainly enormous. If they ever decide they fancy raisins for lunch I’ll take a picture; I won’t, however, plague you with the numerous pictures of distant out-of-focus black specks that I have taken so far. To continue this thrilling list of Indian fauna, there are also giant butterflies (titilli in Hindi – yoga is most educational!) flapping around, and dragonflies.

Bird of prey, on the look-out for cripples
I am now getting treatment from a nice lady called Jeena. She is normally in charge of the foreign patients, but she has been in Kerala opening a new clinic until now. Jeena likes cricket, wrestling and violent films. Bless her, she asked if I would like her to get me some beer! She also promised to get me a bus route guide so I can go on adventures! There’s a national park not too far away where I’d like to go, and take pictures of animals – perhaps elephants! (Elephants don’t have rabies, do they?)

 I had a wonderful day on Wednesday – I had three desserts! There was rice pudding for lunch, then one of the Tiny Friendly Ladies knocked on my door in the afternoon to give me a piece of cake, and in the evening the lovely housekeeper made me fruit salad! (Actually I think she’s worried that I’m getting too thin, and is trying to restore me to a more traditional shape – I’ve been getting a hell of a lot of fruit salad lately!) I told Ajeesh of my delight at getting rice pudding, which you get in Sweden at Christmas, and he explained that it is because it is a dish from Kerala. Because Kerala is on the west coast, it is where all the missionaries and traders ended up and consequently, apparently, European dishes originating in India are all from Kerala! (At least according to Ajeesh who is, like half the staff at the clinic, from Kerala.) Also, Ajeesh said, because there are so many missionaries opening schools left, right and centre, Kerala has a literacy rate of 100 percent. This made me think of Bede, and made me very annoyed. If only the Anglo-Saxons had stayed heathen and illiterate! (Of course one could argue that they have, but that’s a topic for another day, and a different level of sobriety.)

Thank you, come again!

6 March: Village Excitement, Unknown Herbal Product Excitement, and a Tragedy

I have sad news. One of the rabid dogs’ tiny puppies, the ones who like napping in the middle of the road, has entered the eternal rest, forever napping by the side of the road. Perhaps it’s for the best; there’s no lack of scrawny dogs eating only God knows what (or rather, I know exactly what: rubbish) and, in a Darwinian sense, napping in the middle of the road is not the cleverest of habits.

I went for my weekly supermarket pilgrimage today. On the way I was hailed by Yusuf, my favourite auto driver. He is nice and fleeces me slightly less than the other auto wallahs, and I always ask reception to call him if I need to go somewhere. Yusuf offered to drive me, but as I preferred walking I declined, thereby confirming his suspicions that I am off my rocker. However, these are kindly people, who accept that you’re off your rocker, and treat you with compassion.

Proving that life here is by no means lacking in excitement, a large car, driving very fast, decided to honk very loudly just as I was passing two cows and a dog. All three took fright and scattered in every direction, resulting in me getting very cosy with one of the cows, and forcing the driver to stop. Ha.

Ladies who lunch
I bought some interesting hibiscus tea at the supermarket. I’ll let you know if it turns out to have intoxicating properties. I also cleaned them out of their entire stock of sandalwood soap, which smells gorgeous. This may come in handy, as one of the many interesting effects of the spicy food is to make me smell like sweaty curry after (and to a large extent during) my morning runs. You have been warned.

I managed to top up my phone, with the help of a dodgy man in a phone shop. Unlike the dodgy man who sold me the phone, this one didn’t try to also sell me an enormous gas canister. I was almost disappointed – add-on sales are so important.

The treatment continues. The nerve desensitization remains painful. Jeshma now does lots of strength training with me – Arnold Schwarzenegger can go home. According to Jeshma, I have good core strength, which is good to hear as Manjula declared, when I arrived, that my lower abs were in shit state, and I’ve been doing lower ab exercises ever since. Apparently they have now paid off. The doctor is of the opinion that I am about 50 % rehabilitated, and I shouldn’t have to stay longer than three months – hurrah!

I have constant Bridget Jones déjà-vu, as people keep asking me if I’m married. I’m starting to feel like an immoral floozy, and worry about being eaten by Alsatians. I told Ajeesh about the amusing  visa registration form, and he explained earnestly that yes, in India a woman belongs either to her husband or her father. Tough luck on my father, say I. (He should have married me off when I was seventeen, had long blonde hair and was worth twenty camels.) I can at least take advantage of other people’s marriages; the other day we got dessert with lunch as it was Manjula’s parents’ 25th wedding anniversary – even though Manjula wasn’t even here! Also, there is an American tv programme which is amusing and repulsive in equal measure, called The Bachelorette (or The Bachelor, depending on whether the current season is about a repulsive woman choosing a husband from 25 repulsive men or the other way around). A physio called Robin and I are both fascinated by this concept and keep each other updated on the latest happenings. (I missed the episode where Matt from London chose which girl to marry as I had to go down for my doctor’s consultation, but luckily Robin could fill me in – he chose the vulgar one from California, whose mother had had so much plastic surgery done that she looked like an anorexic trout.)

That’s all for now.

Thank you, come again!

2 March: Indian Mutiny

I've been reading Bravo Two Zero, Andy McNab’s account of a Special Forces mission that goes wrong, landing the surviving soldiers in an Iraqi prison, where they are horribly tortured. I still say that’s nothing, and McNab should try some myotherapy with Jeshma. Then we’ll talk about torture. However, I am now having more myofascial release therapy than trigger point therapy, and that is, believe it or not, quite pleasant.

My trigger points are more or less gone now, which means that, theoretically, I should be free of pain. I’m evidently not, however, which makes me, to use the medical term, a bloody freak. The current theory is that my nerves are still irritated, causing pain. I am therefore having something called nerve desensitization, which is every bit as unpleasant as it sounds, and not necessarily much less painful than trigger point therapy, though at least painful in a different way, which is refreshing. (On the other hand, when I arrived, my neck muscles were in constant spasm (that means that the muscles were permanently tense, not that I was in any way spastic, Declan and Fernando); almost unbelievably tense. All the therapists asked if I had frequent headaches, and were astonished to learn that I don’t.)

I have finally got hold of a phone that works with my Indian SIM card! I went to the village and bought the cheapest phone I could find from a very dodgy man. Anyone with an urgent need to tell me how fabulous I am can now do so. I haven’t yet figured out how to top up money on the damn thing, though, so if I don’t respond that’s probably why. On a side note, as a blue-eyed Scandiwegian one sticks out a hell of a lot more in Bangalore than in York or London. Some people in the village stare to such an extent that I find it necessary to keep my giant sunglasses on at all times and pretend to myself that I am a very sweaty film star. Saying that, if I don’t manage to rehabilitate my way out of RSI hell, the only career option available to me may be that of invincible rock goddess.  I say again: anyone want to start a band? Though I lack musical ability, I look good in a leather jacket, and can probably be trained to play a tambourine or other simple instrument.

Thanks to Manjula I’m also increasingly flexible, i. e. I have moved on from the frozen mammoth stage to the next level; defrosted mammoth. Manjula is on holiday this week, so I’m trying to do the yoga poses and relaxation by myself, but it’s not the same without her telling me the colours of the chakras. However, any holiday time the staff here get is richly deserved. They work incredibly long hours, six, sometimes seven days a week. I wish I could say that I’ll never complain about work hours again, but we all know that’s not gonna happen.

The tv loyally continues to supply awful films for my enjoyment. Apparently the Indian nation is obsessed with Sylvester Stallone films, as one or other of these seem to be on most nights. There are probably little Indian grannies getting their camouflage paint on and waving large knives around in excitement.

I showed the Tiny Friendly Ladies some of my pictures from Facebook. They responded enthusiastically to the ones of Becca looking mad as a spanner, and of Line with a fetching ginger moustache. They also seemed to find it hysterically amusing that I’ve been taking pictures of the cows outside through my window.

View from my window: A baby calf and its mother, licking her own arse.
Now I’m going to lie down on the floor.

Thank you, come again!

20 February: Mad dogs, Englishmen, and Swedish Women

Namaste!

The doctor thinks I’m making “reasonable improvement”, and I now have “satisfactory mobility of the shoulder girdle”! Pretty cool, but the pain remains the same, and the treatment continues interesting. Jeshma says that if it becomes unbearable, I can have ultrasound treatment to reduce the pain from the myotherapy.  I wanted to say something sarky along the lines of “becomes unbearable?”, but restrained myself.

Since I am now trying to reduce my reading, I watch more tv in the evenings, mainly dreadful romcoms that would have Darren in convulsions, frothing at the mouth. There are lots of Indian soaps, but they’re even more incomprehensible than Emmerdale, so I avoid them.

When filling in the application for my visa registration all those weeks ago, one of the questions on the form was “name of husband or father”. Since I didn’t think the officials would be impressed with the answer “living in sin”, I dutifully put down my father’s name (at least my parents are respectably married), which seemed to do the trick.
This patriarchal attitude extends further than visa forms; it also means that when going to one of the other clinics, about an hour away, for Alexander technique lessons, the clinic manager didn’t want me to go by myself, but sent a dashing young escort along! And I had the option of going on a motorbike! At least I think that’s what the guy said, but when I asked if he had a spare helmet he looked so confused that I said I preferred to go in an auto-rickshaw, which is marginally safer, and indeed on the way we saw an overturned motorbike leaking petrol by the side of the road. If you’re not familiar with the autorickshaw, imagine the result if Mr Bean’s car mated with a moped; it’s got three wheels and a back seat big enough for two people or an Indian family.

Rickshaw-wallah (green face paint courtesy of the Holi festival) with his auto-rickshaw
Once I knew where the clinic was, however, I went by myself, and at first got mercilessly fleeced by the rickshaw-wallahs. They take one look at me and triple the price! However, one day I decided to haggle. The rickshaw- wallah gave me a preposterously high price and explained, despite speaking no English, that he was demanding more because he had waited an hour outside the clinic. I said “Go ahead, punk, make my day”, or words to that effect, and told him what I would pay, at which, to my surprise, he smiled (rickshaw- wallahs never smile).  I probably still paid too much, but we were both pleased with having haggled! I have since learned that wearing my black skull-and-crossbones cap effortlessly brings the price down by about a hundred rupees.

I have also, under the guidance of Diya the nice Alexander technique teacher, come into contact with buses! In keeping with India’s contrasts, some are air-conditioned Volvos; some are, I swear, pre-Independence, with holes in the floor and cracks in the walls, though cosily decorated with flower garlands and pictures of Ganesh. Also, most of them have nice conductors, like on the old London buses. (If there is no conductor, the driver will somehow manage to take payment and give you change while driving, holding the steering wheel with his feet if necessary.) There is no time table, which is strangely liberating. You just wait by the side of the road, and sooner or later a bus, hopefully he right one, turns up. I went shopping with Diya one Sunday a couple of weeks ago. Getting back was an EPIC adventure!
Getting of the bus at a certain bridge, I attempted to hail an auto-rickshaw. However, since the clinic is so far away out in the sticks, nobody knew where it was. A nice auto driver tried to call the clinic to find out, but it turns out the receptionist only speaks Hindi, and everyone else speaks Kannada. The nice auto drivers instructed me to take a Volvo bus instead, to a certain hospital, and try again from there.
After getting off at the hospital, I again tried to get an auto, but the drivers either don’t know where Anjanapura is, or don’t want to go there because it’s so far away. A nice man told me to get another bus to a certain bus station, and try again from there (anyone spot a theme emerging?), helpfully writing down the name of the place I was aiming for.
Getting off at the bus station, I literally bumped into one of the rickshaw-wallahs who fleeced me before I learned to haggle. He smiled in recognition but wouldn’t take me to the clinic. However, he pointed me in the direction of the bus towards Anjanapura.
After about 40 minutes I was in the middle of nowhere, just lame cows, brush vegetation and dust as far as the eye could see. At this point the driver suddenly remembered me, and told me I’d gone too far, and would have to get off and wait for the next bus in the opposite direction. I was starting to get worried as I didn’t know where I was, it was past five o’clock and the sun sets round 6:15 – I did not want to be lost in the dark! (Also, an inner voice kept telling me that this was exactly why the clinic manager doesn’t want me to go out alone. I told it to shut up.) Luckily there was a family with small children also waiting for the bus. They seemed entirely harmless, and were too busy allowing their children to throw stones at the lame cows to show any inclination to rob or beat me.
When the bus finally arrived, a nice lady conductor in a smart khaki uniform took me under her wing. I was as sweaty and dishevelled as ever Elizabeth Bennet was in Pride and Prejudice, and curiously enough my sweaty appearance seemed to have roughly the same effect on the young men on the bus as Lizzy’s did on Mr Darcy. A thousand pities that Mr Darcy wasn’t on the bus, or I could have bagged myself a rich husband! The conductress told me that the young men all said I was beautiful. A strange penchant, but apparently one that’s shared by young Indian men on buses and 19th-century English landowners – they like sweaty women! I thanked the conductress and told her I think Indian women are beautiful (though considerably less sweaty than me). Finally she told me that we had reached Anjanapura.
Getting off the bus, I still had no idea where I was, but, pushing past a turkey, a gaggle of geese and a hen, I found a nice rickshaw-wallah who knew where the clinic was. In my joy and relief I agreed to pay him 100 rupees for what turned out to be a 5-minute journey. Absolutely preposterous, but you don’t haggle when you’re desperate, and 100 rupees is still only just over £1!

One day I saw two camels walking along the road, as cool as cucumbers! Next time I’ll try to get a picture!

The weather has got warmer – it’s now nearer 30 than 25 most days. However, the mornings have suddenly become a bit misty; you can see dew on the ground and smell moisture in the air, and the sky is sometimes a bit cloudy during the day! Normally when I get up, the sun is going crazy and I feel like Bertie Wooster when Jeeves says, “The weather appears extremely clement, sir”, but at the moment I’m more like Mma Ramotswe when she smells rain! (Though not in appearance. Thanks to the treadmill and the healthy food, I'm quite a lot less round than Mma Ramotswe.)

The food remains delicious and the Tiny Friendly Ladies remain friendly. Breakfast is usually chickpea curry with chapatti bread (like tunnbröd) or, even better, a type of fried chapatti the name of which Diya told me but which I can’t remember, which is like a mix between a pancake and a croissant – extremely delicious and calorific! Sometimes the chickpea curry tastes a bit like ärtsoppa, which is strangely comforting, and the food often has cinnamon or cloves in it, which reminds one of childhood Christmases and is a bit confusing.

There is an annoying ad on tv for Bournville chocolate (a smarmy male voice says, “The finest cocoa from Ghana, a recipe from England”, and you just want to shout, “shut up you smarmy colonialism-perpetuating bastard, English chocolate isn’t that good anyway!”, however, the fifteenth time you see it you can’t help but salivate) which has now, after five weeks, brainwashed me to the point where I HAD to have some. Consequently, I walked to the supermarket today. A new category has had to be added to the list of creatures stupid enough to go out in the midday sun when they don’t have to – it is now “mad dogs, Englishmen and Swedish women”. By the time I got to the supermarket I was drenched in sweat; it was streaming down my face, to the amusement of the other shoppers. I kept my sunglasses and my skull-and-crossbones cap on and tried to look normal. It took me just over an hour to get there, and a bit longer to get back, as I had a heavy rucksack and blisters, and then - THEN I saw the supermarket Diya was talking about - right at the end of the village, 20 minutes from the clinic! You live and learn! As I was approaching the clinic, a man with a child on a motorbike turned round and stopped, so his child could either a) laugh in delight at seeing me, or b) laugh at me. Scenario b seems more likely. Fair enough.

I have moved up in the world, and now receive treatment from two chaps called Ramesh and Ajeesh, instead of Manjula, who now only does yoga. Ajeesh likes cricket. The world cup started yesterday, and I’m starting to feel like I should at least look up the results on the BBC website. Yesterday, Ajeesh explained the rules to me, then said, “so now you understand the rules of cricket”, which I didn’t dare contradict. If P. G. Wodehouse and Stephen Fry haven't managed to explain cricket to me, then probably nobody will!

Well my dears, I think that’s everything.

Thank you, come again!

Monday 28 March 2011

15 February: Myotherapy Blues

Have you ever had bruises in your armpits? Take it from me, it’s not pleasant. I’ve written a poem. I call it “Myotherapy Blues”. I meant to insert it elegantly at the end of an e-mail, but what started out as two lines soon became 13 stanzas, and I feared for the attention spans of my readers, especially Declan and Cyrus. So it is now (almost) an e-mail in its own right.

I’ve put off typing for a while, but, though the pain remains the same, the good doctor is pleased enough with the progress of my trigger points to recommend that I start typing and writing, slowly. I’ve had to change my reading habits, since it was pointed out to me that prolonged bending of the neck is very bad news indeed for the nerves trying to get to the arms and fingers. I hadn’t realised this despite my, ahem, extensive reading on the subject. So I read and write in 10-minute intervals, with a lot of stretching and lying on the floor in between. Rock’n’roll! (It’s occurred to me that reading with glasses is worse than reading with contacts, since you have to bend the neck more with glasses. Maybe the solution is to get enormous ‘80s-style ones?)

Please note that “interesting” is a euphemism for “painful”, ever since Jeshma inflicted such excruciating pain to my thumb that I had to tell her, between repressed screams, that I found the experience interesting. We both found that funny, and now giggle heartily at my squirms and grimaces whenever the treatment becomes especially interesting. We take whatever amusement we can find here at Iraqi prison camp.

If you’re wondering why Diya is “teaching me how to sit”, it’s because Diya’s the nice Alexander technique teacher. She’s been teaching me all kinds of cool things like sitting, standing, and walking – it’s all going on my CV!

Anyway, here’s the poem. If anyone would like to compose music for it, go ahead (and if anyone wants to start a band or a barbershop quartet, I have a fairly pleasant alto soprano – Jeshma even claims to find my howls of pain musical, but then that may just be her sadistic nature). I‘ve got a feeling that Myotherapy Blues could become a massive rock’n’roll hit! However, you’ll find that it works quite well to the tune of “Camp Granada” (“Brev från Kolonien” på svenska), though you may have to slur a few syllables with a British drawl in order to make the syllable count add up.
If you need a refresher, here it is:


Och på svenska:



Myotherapy Blues

I’m a cripple, don’t you doubt it
Full-time job? Forget about it!
A few months at Recoup Clinic
should hopefully restore health to this cynic

I’m racked with pain that won’t abate
My deltoids’re in a sorry state
My arms are full of trigger points
Oh dear God, it hurts when they mobilize my joints

My poor neck is in constant spasm
The pain is certainly no phantasm
My muscles burn like they’re on fire
And all my nerves are stretched like piano wire

My posture’s slumped and, not to mention
nerves are trapped by muscle tension
You’d think I was in my forties
See, my jaw is locked as if in rigor mortis

The clinic’s full of vicious sadists
pretending to be therapists
I feel like a tortured soldier
A fellow digs his elbow into my shoulder

Jeshma tortures my poor fingers
For days and days the pain lingers
While Manjula treats tendonitis
I swear, the pain is worse than appendicitis

Myotherapy’s a painful process
It sure ain’t a dance on roses
It is a hardship to endure
Prevention is certainly easier than the cure

I am here at Recoup Clinic
I would love a gin and tonic
Anything to ease the pain
The only drugs here are produced by my own brain

during yoga, called endorphins
They’re not quite as good as morphine
Diya’s teaching me how to sit
While Jeshma digs her fingers into my armpit

It tickles and I scream and howl
This treatment really is quite foul
Jeshma just laughs and makes it worse
Nothing I can do but swear and silently curse

Trigger points are interesting
I‘m black and blue as if from wrestling
But to Jeshma and Manjula
inflicting pain is nothing at all peculiar

Now there is a point to all this
The violence is not gratuitous
My thoracic outlet syndrome
produced this astonishingly beautiful poem

One day I’ll go home all cured
I’ll thank Jeshma and Manjula
for the pain that they inflicted
My condition was bad but I finally kicked it


Thank you, come again!

30 January: The Crazy Gibberish-Adventure Continues

The treatment, it marches, as Hercule Poirot would say. According to Dr Sharan the trigger points are reducing in number and intensity, but there are some resilient ones in key areas, hence the pain remains. He asked if I'd feel able to cope with an extra session a day, which is funny, as I've been having frequent thoughts of Le Chiffre extending his hospitality to Bond in Casino Royale, and Bruce Springsteen has started leaping from my subconcious to snarl "I was bruised and battered / Unrecognisable to myself" in my head. However, temporary pain is a low price to pay to get rid of crippling, chronic pain. All the same, I feel that a "Bravery under Torture" medal or two, perhaps awarded by Andy McNab, would not be unmerited. A couple of swarthy Iraqis to hold me down during my giggling fits when Jeshma hits a ticklish spot would also be useful.
One of the therapists, Jerrish, is very nice, but his hands have a fierce grip! The other day I was treated to the sensation of having my collarbone pulled. This particular form of torture is part of what is called "joint mobilization". Don't try it at home.

Manjula has started me off gently with yoga, but we have rapidly advanced to a tree pose! I'm roughly as flexible as a frozen mammoth, but that's ok, 'cause I've got all my cool Sweaty Betty yoga outfits! Manjula is a girl who speaks in superlatives and repetitions. In yoga, she likes to achieve "maximum stretch", and she's not content to ask you to merely relax, it's "relax relax" or even "relax relax relax relax"!
In addition to the myotherapy and yoga, I've got roughly three hundred strengthening and stretching exercises to do. It takes a hell of a long time to do them all - it's lucky I've got sod-all else to do! (Fil, I'm glad the Indo-European poetics book is so long. I've got a feeling that if I ever finsih it, I could start all over again and still find it interesting - I suspect that I don't absorb all the finer points of Greek hexameter). My favourite exercise is the amusing hands-shaped-into-motorcycle-goggles one - the one Justyna could do, but Betsy struggled with. (Although those coktails could have had something to do with that particular bout of poor hand-eye coordination...) Turns out it's an excellent nerve stretch! Hurrah!

For those who are going to be in the vicinity of Yngsjö this summer, you are hereby informed that there will be kayaking and horse riding!!! In the meantime, a pox on Darren and the neighbours for having fun without me! All your escapades will have to be repeated in April! There will be plenty of pub action, and also champagne action! You have been warned. (The only drugs here are endorphins, produced by one's own brain during yoga.) After my prolonged health-boosting existence, I will be in need of a good dose of depravity, shouting, and talking bollocks about Norse etymology! And cheese.

The weather, which has been chilly (as in, you need a long-sleeved top to sit outside) is nice and warm again. I continue my futile hair-bleaching activities on the roof. Kerstin, your kind gift of SPF 50 sunscreen is invaluable!

We conclude with a quoite from Paul Linden, from Comfort at Your Computer:

"...it is inhumane to let people suffer and injure themselves simply because it would take some thought, effort, and money to prevent and relieve their suffering (...) It is important to realize that computer users are up against the real limits of the human body. In order to continue using computers in the workplace, the physiological limitations of the body have to be respected. If the question is, 'What computer workstation setup will allow eight hours of uninterrupted computer work every day?' there may be no answer at all."

Thank you, come again!

25 January: The English Patient

Damn. Turns out the last English patient here was extremely charming and vivacious, and spent all her time learning all the local languages and teaching the staff to dance salsa on the roof. I even overheard the Tiny Friendly Ladies speaking fondly of her, and they don't even speak an Indo-European language (thanks for that information, Fil)! I now feel extremely introverted and eccentric by comparison.

I suspect there is a malicious cannibalistic sect at work, as it is becoming increasingly obvious that I am being fattened up like a pig. The nice housekeeper has taken to making me enormous bowls of fruit salad with ice cream, and the other day I was served a pudding resembling risgrynsgröt but made with some kind of noodles, and a cubic metre or so of sugar. However, help is at hand - even though I'm not supposed to go outside due to the rabid dogs, the discovery that there is a treadmill in the children's therapy room keeps me sane! Also, yoga starts today - hurrah! I may not be doomed to become obese, toothless (tea without sugar is but a distant dream) and covered in warts, and have to go and live in Hackney. (Actually, the buttons on my North Face trousers have stopped popping, which means that all is well.)

Actually, so far my health seems fine. The nurse who changes my sheets every morning also, for some reason, checks my pulse and blood pressure which apparently, despite my paranoid thoughts about Amelie in the film, remain normal, and each morning we conclude that I live to see another day.

My hair which, when I left, was a purplish grey colour (Karin, don't read this; it will pain you) due to a mishap with a box of L'Oreal colour, has turned an unpleasdant yellowish tinge. I guess I got what I deserved. I try to get some sun exposure on the roof, in order to turn it into an attractive sunbleached blonde.

There is a library! With computers! And books on Alexander technique, shoulder surgery and relaxation! There is also some ficiton left by former patients. Half of them are in Dutch (that would be from the head of the Dutch RSI organisation whose blog from the clinic I attempted, unsuccessfully, to read), and the rest are the complete Twilight series. If things get desperate, that's what I'll be reading, unless I come to my senses and throw myself off the roof first. All the desks in the library have footrests (or fotubaurda, as we say in Gothic), encouraging an ergonomically correct posture.

Thanks to Suresh and the enthusiastic honking Toyota, I have slain the monster of bureaucracy and successfully registered my visa! Since we had to wait around while the officials twiddled their thumbs and mislaid documents, Suresh and I had lunch. He selected the food and I paid, an arrangement which I suspect he found ideal. On the way home we drove past a truly appalling block of luxury flats, called "Prestige Notting Hill". It appears one of Britain's gifts to the Empire is a building style which can only be described as neo-mock-Tudor. I'll send pictures as soon as I've stopped retching. The prize for Spectacular Sight of the Day, however, goes to two big bulls, horns locked in battle, in the middle of the road (not that anyone raises an eyebrow). Apart from the smell of sewage from the river, and the pollution, the air really is filled with spices, which is pleasing.

"Come, friendly bombs..."

The treatment is slowly having effect. I realised with a shock this morning, after my myotherapy session, that the tingling pain in my right hand was reduced. It's very strange, as I don't remember what it's like to not be in pain. I can also move my arms easier, and even clasp my hands behind my back without discomfort. (The last patient, the vivacious charming one, couldn't move her right arm at all, or drink or eat unaided, when she arrived, but skipped out of the clinic, symptom-free, four months later).

Thank you, come again!

21 January: Taking the Pain

You live and learn. Or not. Indian people eat with their hands, and manage to do it gracefully. I, however, get special treatment: to avoid me spilling and slobbering all over myself, which would be unpleasant for everyone involved, I get a spoon with every meal! The food is extremely good, and extremely cheap. Sometimes it's mouth-scorchingly hot, but I have yet to come across anything quite so horrendous as Fernando's Mexican Pasta From Hell. People keep telling me that if I want plain food, I have only to ask. I take this to mean that I look pathetic, struggling on with my spoon and my runny nose, and that everyone pities me. However, I didn't come to India to eat toast, and so I soldier on. It does sometimes take me a long time to finish a meal, as I have to stop between every mouthful to breathe and wipe my nose.
The treatment continues. I think Andy McNab would be impressed with the way I take the pain, like a pro (or Iraqi prisoner)! I wonder, though, how staunch he would be in the face of tickling. (Does the SAS train its soldiers to resist tickling, Darren? Or perhaps the Regiment's soldiers are less ticklish than me; I would betray my king and country in an instant, if tickled in an Iraqi interrogation cell.) Trigger points, the bastards, tend to congregate on the border between the torso and the arms, that is, the armpits. I go into convulsions of giggles, and have to bite my lip! I infinitely prefer the pain.
I have been for another airing in Suresh's enthusiastic honking Toyota, and realised that I have been unfair: nobody believs in indicating! Or seatbelts. Luckily the Toyota is large and sturdy, and the traffic moves very slowly, thanks to everyone weaving in and out between cars, and all the dogs, cows, schoolchildren, etc, in the road. The object with the outing was to attempt to register my visa, however it turns out you need five hundred types of paper, and the crock of gold at the end of the rainbow. The battle continues.

Traffic.

Hurrah! My very first care package has arrived! A helicopter turned up, scattering bounty from the sky (or rather, a uniformed porter knocked on my door, haha). Many thanks to the anonymous philantropist who sent me "Maigret and the ghost", a delightful French mystery! Please let me know who you are so I can forward your name to the Nobel committee. (I have my suspicions, but one likes to be sure.)
I make progress, of a sort, with my Gothic. Mostly it's gibberish, but today I managed to make out a complete sentence! Needless to say, it's when Matthew starts waxing lyrical on the subject of fornication that he finally becomes lucid.
The weather is extremely pleasant, about 20-25 degrees (Celsius, of course). It turns out my Millets Value t-shirt is perfect for the climate!
Time to finish, lest I undo all the good work!
Thank you, come again!

17 January: The Adventure Begins

So, our adventure begins. After assuring ourselves that the toilets at both Abu Dhabi and Bangalore airport were satisfactory (even excellent; pictures to follow), we arrived in, as Andy McNab would say, shit state, after about 19 hours of travelling, indecently early on Friday morning, after a most amusing cab drive with a cabbie named Suresh, who doesn't believe in indicating, but has all the more faith in honking.

The clinic is situated in a suburb full of lazy cows (yesss! There are holy cows in the road!). At the moment there are no other RSI patients here, so I've got nobody much to talk to, however the staff are extremely friendly, though the accent takes a bit of getting used to (and I thought Irish people were bad!).


The "cooking facilities" turned out to consist of a single microwave in my room, so I take my meals in the cafeteria on the roof, staffed by tiny friendly ladies, and with an incredible view of the surrounding scrub brush and electricity cables.

My plans to become enviably slim through moderate, ideally not life-threatening diarrhoea may come to nothing (though I haven't given up yet) - the whole clinic is incredibly clean, and the tap water is bloody drinkable. Huh.
A fashionable tan also seems out of the question, since foreign patients are not encouraged to leave the clinic alone (though we agreed that tans are vulgar, right, Rox?). As a result, I'm a bit cooped up. Please send books. (A woman cannot live on Gothic grammar and Indo-European poetry alone, however impressively intellectual she may try to look.)

Dr Sharan has diagnosed me with thoracic outlet syndrome (google it if you can be arsed), and treatment has begun; I'm to have myotherapy, yoga and Alexander technique teaching (taught by a former patient)! Two gentle, softly-spoken girls called Jeshma and Manjula (yesss! Like in the Simpsons!) are in charge of myotherapy - you wouldn't think to look at them that they could inflict such pain! I've got a lot of trigger points (stiff points in the muscles), and they need kneading to death. It hurts.

Oh, and I'm staying at the clinic, so all letters, presents, awards, small fluffy puppies etc may be addressed here:
Recoup Neuromusculoskeletal Rehabilitation Centre
#312, 10th Block,Further Extension of Anjanapura Layout
Bangalore, Karnataka
India 560062

I haven't found a post office yet, and since my laptop died, I've only got internet access when the nice admin guys lend me their computer, so communication may be sporadic and somewhat impersonal. Apologies.

There is a variety of local fauna observable from the roof; apart from the cows, wild dogs roam the grass. Only the thought of Millets-Sam, and his weird and smelly behaviour after his rabies shot, prevents me from flinging myself off the roof to play with them. Little birds flit about, trying to get in through the windows, stupid bastards - Darren's dad would love this ornithological hotspot!

India is fantastic for vegetarians! Although, when approaching Abu Dhabi, I found myself watching a desert sunset, and thought, "let me off! I want to go there!", I doubt the food would be as good. The tiny friendly ladies smile and serve me incredibly good food, though I have to carry tissues at all times, since the spices make me snotty. Sometimes the tiny friendly ladies (very tiny; about the size of my gran, or even smaller!) come up to me and give me Indian sweets! (Their beautiful saris make me wish I looked a bit Oriental like Roxanna, so I'd look good in a sari. Stupid homogenous Scandinavian genes!)

Thank you, come again!

P.S. Books are welcome. Please don't send anything expensive, as I may have to leave some behind - maybe something from Oxfam?