Today Rod and I had a lovely day out with my quilty friend, Kehi. Kehi and her husband Marcus have just moved to Chennai, so we were lucky to catch up with her before we go.
She told me of her visit to Ideal Beach on Sunday, about an hour's drive from Chennai. There's a resort hotel there and some beach shacks selling trinkets for tourists. One of the shacks sold seashells (probably easier to do than to say), and Kehi spotted a great big orange shell she wanted. Badly. But the man said the price was 750 rupees, which Kehi felt was quite a lot for a seashell. She told the man she'd be back later to hear his best price. Then she went down to the beachfront to sit under a palm tree, read a book and drink champagne. I'm not really a beach person, but this beach is well named, for that sounds pretty ideal to me.
She told me of her visit to Ideal Beach on Sunday, about an hour's drive from Chennai. There's a resort hotel there and some beach shacks selling trinkets for tourists. One of the shacks sold seashells (probably easier to do than to say), and Kehi spotted a great big orange shell she wanted. Badly. But the man said the price was 750 rupees, which Kehi felt was quite a lot for a seashell. She told the man she'd be back later to hear his best price. Then she went down to the beachfront to sit under a palm tree, read a book and drink champagne. I'm not really a beach person, but this beach is well named, for that sounds pretty ideal to me.
Around two o'clock a worker from the resort next door came over and told everyone the beach was closed, there'd been a tsunami warning. Now they take tsunami warnings pretty seriously here, as eight thousand people died on this stretch of coast in the Boxing Day tsunami. The hotel guy said they wouldn't be allowed to stay on the beach, but they could come and sit by the pool. Presumably they wanted Kehi to drink their champagne...
Marcus collected their things and began to move towards the pool. But Kehi was not going to give up on that shell so easily. She ran back to the beach hut, not because she was afraid of the impending waves, but because the sand was hot and Marcus had taken her sandals. The shell seller was closing up, he'd been given the tsunami warning too. Kehi offered him 300 rupees, but he really wanted more. She reminded him a tsunami might be on its way, so he took the 300 and she took the shell. Then she joined Marcus and all the others around the resort's pool, a whole five metres further back and two metres higher up than the tree she'd been so happy underneath. And the tsunami never came...
Kehi, Rod and I spotted this shop in the market in New Friends Colony. It sells cigarettes and paan, a mixture of tobacco and spices wrapped in a betel leaf. Paan is chewed by many across India and South East Asia, and after chewing, leaves your mouth full of red saliva, which stains your teeth and is customary to spit out. It's not wine tasting, there are no spittons, it's on the ground. Lovely. On both counts.
Marcus collected their things and began to move towards the pool. But Kehi was not going to give up on that shell so easily. She ran back to the beach hut, not because she was afraid of the impending waves, but because the sand was hot and Marcus had taken her sandals. The shell seller was closing up, he'd been given the tsunami warning too. Kehi offered him 300 rupees, but he really wanted more. She reminded him a tsunami might be on its way, so he took the 300 and she took the shell. Then she joined Marcus and all the others around the resort's pool, a whole five metres further back and two metres higher up than the tree she'd been so happy underneath. And the tsunami never came...
Kehi, Rod and I spotted this shop in the market in New Friends Colony. It sells cigarettes and paan, a mixture of tobacco and spices wrapped in a betel leaf. Paan is chewed by many across India and South East Asia, and after chewing, leaves your mouth full of red saliva, which stains your teeth and is customary to spit out. It's not wine tasting, there are no spittons, it's on the ground. Lovely. On both counts.
This shop keeper's obviously a fan of alliteration...
1 comment:
Hey I've just realised, of you come home there won't be any more blog posts from India. Yeah I know I can be a bit dim at times but it's only just sunk in. No fair I love reading these. Can't you stay there? No. Oh well I guess we will have to make do with tales from England then.
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