Feesh and Cheeps, mite

Namaste boloists!

Aah, Pushkar. Sweet, rickshaw-free, arsehole-free, Pushkar. After the devils’ dusty buttcrack that was Delhi, this place has come just in time. The constant attempts to rip you off in the Indian capital are remarkable for their sheer persistence and ingenuity, and it’s true that the middle class liberal in me just wants to put it down to “part of the experience – you just gotta do it”, but there is nothing to test your faith in humanity like being conned into several white knuckle/brown pants/yellow lungs rickshaw rides to some pimps’ sham of a tourist office when the rail ticket that you wanted was a matter of yards away in the station that you were stopped entering by a ‘helpful’ local. That is apart from being unable to walk down a street without acquiring a friend who chats away to you whether you’re listening or not, flatters you, flatters England, pleads that he really only wants to talk to you and improve his English and then offers you a good deal at shop yaar. And apart from the unbelievably callous attitude that you instinctively develop towards any kind of beggar, no matter what number of limbs they don’t have.

Anyway, Pushkar: parrots, cows, good food, lovely hotel, starry-eyed german women and people who ask where you’re from and then (mostly) leave you alone, if not then they actually help you or say something like ” Lovely Jubbly”, “Feesh and cheeps”, or Äwrroit mite”. Charming natives, what. And the 6-hour train ride helped me sleep for the first time in 4 days. That’s all for now – just realised I’ve put bolo before calling home. Not dead, Mum – just getting round to it…