stubborn as fuck

I quote.

Well, perhaps I am, but with good reason. You see, in possibly one of the world’s most profound and romantic displays of love, ever, my boyfriend bought me Malarone for my brithday.

That’s a common malaria prophylaxis for the tropical zone unititiated. Yes, an over-the-counter, blister packaged, international pharmaceutical company-produced anti-malarial. Giftwrap and card not included.

The swoon-inducing gesture was the result of a few lukewarm exchanges brought about by my stubborn refusal to heed the wishy-washy, mixed and often confused signals from the FCO, NHS, Indian Government and whomever else, on the subject of malaria in India. The disease definitely exists in India – and you hear horror stories of exceptionally unlucky businessmen contracting malaria after single bites in the transfer hall of Mumbai airport – but not in many tourist areas, not in the winter when there are no mozzies around and certainly not to the extent that vigilant pill-popping is required. A mozzie coil and some good midgie spray always seem a best first port of call before moving on to the hard grade-A stuff.

Phsyiology and goeography aside, my own choices,  the lessons I’ve learnt, places I’ve visited, people I’ve learnt to trust, those millions of scenarios and circumstances that have informed my very own view on the world have made me believe that these are very personal, individual decisions.

And, as a grown adult, I am willing to gamble on the likelihood of that one-in-a-million chance of a mosquito landing on that one-in-a-billion strip of pink, wintry flesh. Slim to none.

Nevertheless, presented to me the neat package of drugs was. Well, it’s the thought that counts.

It’s the same principal as choosing not to wear a helmet, have brakes fitted or use gears when riding a bike through central London. For example. I don’t choose those things, because I am too scared of the wrath I’d meet (from my family who gave me my very uncool bike) if I ever came a cropper on a city street. But… you know who you are. And the flowers are lovely.

ZULU TIME

The Met office always operates on GMT – their clocks never move forwards nor backwards: in the summer their lunches are slightly late and they always miss rush-hours.

In the Forces, time is alphabetical – GMT is Zulu time, continental Europe (+1) is Alpha time and so on. It helps to be both a numbers and words man there. It also helps to carry a bottle of Tobasco on exercise.

In the Islamic mindset of the Middle East, the year is 1430. A little behind spiritually, perhaps, but with such futuristic vision (architecturally, or perhaps just acquisitionally) that things balance out nicely. They are, like the rest of the world, firmly gripped by the recession of 2009.

In England, we shift time so that farmers can plough and little children can get to school safely. Big nights merge into bigger days in the summer and ‘days’ in winter are best endured, fuzzy and warm, in the dark belly of a pub.

In India, once upon a time, many stamp wielding men with thick glasses and lacquered side-partings decided to set a single, national time at half past the hour. This makes little difference to the rest of the non-air-travelling world but all the difference to, oh, say, Pakistan.

In Ecuador (and Gabon and, um, Halmahera and so on) there are disconcerting places where you can stand at midday without casting any shadow. Like ghosts, memories, acid trips and daydreams.

How is it that I know all these tick-tock timey facts and am always, yet always late? It is, to me, one of life’s great quantum mysteries.

an army marches on chai

Busying myself with providing tea, coffee, coke, crisps, hommous, carrots, cheese and pickle sandwiches – anything – to keep the stylist, model, hair person, makeup guy, lighting assistant, photographer and I full and warm on an evening fashion shoot on a bitingly cold winter’s day in the depths of 80s prefab east end London is… alright. The music blasts, beers swish things along nicely later and boredom is kept relatively under wraps – provided tea, tea and more tea is always on hand.

Busying myself with providing no help, lounging in the sun, reading my book, offering the odd enthusiastic coo, drinking chai from the chai-wallah, water from the water-wallah, dodging light boy number 13, flattering the oddly imperious assistant deputy hair person, eating fantastic biryani that sprang from the most humble of camp stoves, not touching a single piece of equipment in 48 hours, whilst all the time drinking more, ample and possibly too much chai in the balmy, pungent heat of a Mumbai afternoon, is, well…altogether more satisfactory.

And the fruits of all that labour?

Spittalfields and Colaba. Very different, very beautiful and both very much fuelled by copious pots of tea.

Coming soon: an ode to tea, the universal panacea

roads less travelled

AS the sun faded and the city’s carpet of lights spread below us, we could have hardly imagined what would play out over the next half an hour.

Seasoned travellers, we have all spent much of our lives working and living abroad, but the morbid, salutory lesson we learned that day was one we won’t forget. I have since discovered, following the driver’s death, that drinking and alcoholism are worrying problems amongst autorickshaw drivers in India.

Men who earn little more than $40 a month, ‘rickshaw-wallahs’, in their trademark khaki uniforms, are ubiquitous on India’s roads. Most are helpful, assiduous and honest, but we were unlucky enough to meet one of the minority, tempted by the few extra dollars a foreign passenger represents.

We knew we were in danger. Our driver heeded no sign of slowing down, maniacally jolting along straights and suddenly slowing, crawling around hairpin bends. We frantically tried to call friends in Jaipur but had no phone reception. Twice, we got out of the vehicle and started walking the 8km home, before making a deal with the driver to continue with snail-like caution.

The magnificence, energy and grittiness of India is almost numbing in its scale – after recovering, we went on to explore Rajasthan before heading south to Karnataka and on to the intoxicating Mumbai. No matter how many times we have taken risks, put our faith into strangers’ hands and lived to tell the tales, the shock of tempting fate is bewildering.

That night we accidentally scratched below the surface of a changing land. Despite our attempts and despite our best, well-travelled intuition, we stepped into the rickshaw for one last time, before, in a split-second of splintering glass and blind fear, our confused and scared foursome tumbled into darkness.

in the end there was the beginning

In under 48 hours, I will board a plane bound for India.

A land spiritually governed by the cyclic rythmns of Hindu beliefs and shaped by waves of power, belief and hope. I realise that I haven’t had time to prepare much and hope that the shutters to my virgin subcontinental mind will be flung open and laying it exposed and absorbant, ready to be bombarded by the sensual overload that I expect awaits.

In the past 20 days, three people I know have died and three people I know have given birth. My colleague became a father on Christmas day. Hot on his heels, my big sister eventually, theatrically (and excessively descriptively, if you are one of my mother’s friends) gave birth to an amazing, skinny, pink frog. The very next day, my work-mate and fellow office skivvy, Mike, died. On the very last day of 2008, my friend Louisa’s father died suddenly in his sleep. In the meantime, a friend had her first baby boy.

And so on.

As new life bubbles up, froths, squelches and hiccups into the world, slightly less new lives ooze, sigh, simmer and evaporate, leaving empty spaces. The cycle is undeniably poetic but as metaphorical as the Hindu wheel of life is, the process is solid, tangible and real. I have never realised before quite how circular, animalistic, predictable and natural life, and death, are.

It’s been a sobering few weeks. I’ve felt confused, responsible, lost, invigorated and adoring at once. I’ve cried, laughed, cooed and touched the tip of the enormity – and fragility – of human procreation. Albeit in a pretty small, urban way.

Steamy heat, city beat. Billions of fingers, toes, eyes, teeth. Millions of tongues, pony-tails, noses and tummy buttons. Mouths to feed, bodies to wash, phones to answer, babies to change, life to move on.

India. The timing is perfect.