Tuesday 5^th February

 

A very Tasmanian story…or maybe an apocryphal politician/anywhere story…

 

Michael Polley has been a parliamentarian in Tasmania for generations.  He is a genial man, and goes to EVERYTHING, to chat to the locals.  (This is why he is voted back in time and time again, of course…)  He tells the following story about a visit to the Longford Show:

 

This show is very popular, in the region.  Michael Polley is always there, meeting and greeting.  He walked past the woodchop, and there was Mrs Smith.

 

“Hello, Mrs Smith!  And how are you?  Oh good, and how are all the little Smiths?  Wonderful!  And Mr. Smith?”

 

“He died last month, Mr Polley.”

 

“Oh so sorry to hear that!” 

 

So off he trotted, past the hot American doughnuts, making baking, cooking all the while, past the merry-go-round, meeting and greeting merrily along his way until he came upon…Mrs. Smith.

 

“Hello, Mrs Smith!  And how are you?  Oh good, and how are all the little Smiths?  Wonderful!  And Mr. Smith?”

 

“Still dead,., Mr Polley….”

 

More India 2006

         

The vegetable market bordered on the spice area.  Lots of dear little hole-in-the-wall shops in the narrow winding streets on the edge of one of the lakes.  Pete was very taken with these shops and he decided to go and buy some spices.  They were very tempting, I must say, and very cheap.  And very potent, we have since discovered, much stronger than any we can buy here!  Pete has made some very tasty but fiery curries in his beautiful new kitchen.  I stayed out in the street and was immediately invited to come and sit on the wall with some oldchicks who lived above the shops.  They were very friendly and soon surrounded me, very confidently.  We had a lovely cosy time, just hanging out, and communicating by mime – they didn’t speak English at all.  I actually found that the women in Udaipor were much more friendly and forthcoming than in other places.  Usually in India the men were friendly and the women shy and retiring.  So what did these women want, other than my fair company?  Well, they wanted me to take photos of them, in different permutations and combinations.  The odd decrepit old husband came out of the shadows to join in the photographic frenzy.  One of them asked me where I came from – “Your country?”  When I said Australia, he beamed and said, in faultless English, “Ah!  Australian has very fine wool and very fine merino sheep.”  Well yes!  I was thrilled to bits with this, but my old codger marched off very briskly.  I tried to show him Pete in the nearby spice shop, to tell him that Pete was a sheep farmer and had in fact produced many fine merino sheep and much fine wool, but he had used up his entire English repertoire and wasn’t up for any more conversation. 

         

Pete came back with his lovely bags of spices and another elderly husband emerged from the throng.  He wanted to swap glasses with Pete.  I took a photo of them beaming out at the world, Pete in thick black frames, the Indian man in Pete’s high-tech almost invisible glasses; they had discovered, to their delight, that they had exactly the same prescription, bifocals and all.

         

I went back to my girly photo session.  They didn’t seem to want me to be in the photos and I was wondering what on earth I was going to do with 25 photos of elderly ladies in saris sitting on a wall.  Then I had a brainwave; I asked Shambu to take me to the nearest photoshop so I could get them developed.  He was more than willing to do this.  He hovered at the counter, and I suddenly looked at him and said, “Shambu, would you like a photo of you as well?”  “Yes please!” he shouted.  And one with you and Mr. Peter.”  The photoshop man took some shots of the three of us.  I gave Shambu his copies and asked him what he was going to do with them.  He whipped out a notebook and said, “I will put the photo here.  And here next to it you will write a testimonial for me to show other tourists.”  What an enterprising boy!  I did indeed write him a glowing testimonial, saying that Shambu is reliable, punctual and delightful company.  His English is limited but he will take you to some beautiful places that tourists don’t usually get to see.  I printed this as neatly as possible and he looked very pleased with my efforts although, as he can’t read or write, he had no idea what I had written… Later we picked up the photos and he undertook to take them to my spice street friends.

         

Our only planned event of the day was a boat trip on the lake, out to Jagmandir Island.  This, my notes say and my memory tells me, was just heaven.  The water was blue and calm, the sun shone, the palaces on the edge of the lake looked like dreamy mirages, and there was nobody obnoxious on our boat.  Amongst the passengers were a few young blokes on their way to work at the island hotel.  One of them leaned back and had a few gentle moments of zzzzz.  One of his friends spent the whole trip trying, successfully, to attach a large red Christmas bauble to the sleepyboy’s hair.  Much merriment when they got to the end of the trip.  The old palace on the little island is now a restaurant.  One of the other palaces is a huge and resplendent Hilton hotel.  We were very happy with our choice; we could look across to the splendour not far away.  We had about half an hour on the island, and what better way to spend it than sitting at a waterside table drinking Kingfisher and looking out at Udaipor reflected in the water.  The island is flanked by a row of almost life-sized stone elephants, all very old and weathered.  After our peaceful but hot sightseeing time we were ready to go back to the hotel for a peaceful swim in the beautiful clean blue pool, with its attendant tortoises.