We woke to the alarm at 4:15 am and happily there was power to get ready by.
When we were set to go Ross woke up Kalendar to help
with the chair and our bags. Shook hands with the chowkidar and Kalendar saying
"Pir mélange." "See you later" and started down the dark mostly
deserted street--Ratan Ganj--to the Mirzapur railway station.
All the shops had their metel fronts closed and locked except for one small
paan and snack shop where the shopkeeper was flapping his rag duster
on the displays. A few dogs or cats eyes reflected back to me in the
light of my headlamp which I had switched on as the power had quit.
The forms of the occasional sleeping dogs by the side of the road
ignored us as we walked by. Two or three rickshaws passed us ringing
their bells, likely on their way to the station as well but
apart from
them and us and the occasional motorbike the street was deserted.
The station temporarily housed the usual covered bundles of sleeping
forms waiting for their trains that are seen at every train station
especially early in the mornings. A tabbycat dashed across the track
and in a moment hopped up onto the platform carrying a rat--easy
pickings on the rails. We've often watched the rats forraging on the tracks.
We carried on down the platform to cross at the ramped area as our
train left from platform 3. The train was on time and a railway
policeman helped us in getting them to open the door to our car.
He banged loudly with his lathi and shouted. A
woman and child was sleeping in the space behind the door. As it was
5:30 all were asleep. Ross found our berths and we settled in
surrounded by snores and the even breathing of the sleeping
passengers.We seem to always find ourselves on the slow trains
that stop at every little station and just put along. There was a faster train but
as we booked our tickets only 3 days ahead there was a long wait list.
"Ross and I are sitting on the side seats--still made up as a bench.
Very comfortable. We are stopped and watching an enormously long train
entirely full of red onions. It goes on and on. Of course there are
millions of Indians and they all eat onions. We are surrounded by
mostly old ladies, some curled up under blankets, some sitting up
eating snacks--pakoras--that a train seller has brought
around. Since we boarded the train there has been a non-stop
parade of sellers, the majority chai sellers in their high pitched nasel
voices. "Chai, chaiye", "Eh, pakori, pakori. Eh, pakori, pakori."
A toughened, dirty foot with cracked skin
around the toes and one toe adorned with a toe ring pokes out from
under the blanket across the aisle from me and the old lady opposite
from her has a big pouty bottom lip as if she has been put out for her
entire life. The smell of pakoras as the seller walks by, plus the
omelette toast mixes occasionally with the smell of shit coming up
from the tracks when we are stopped, and we seem to be stopped almost
as much as we are moving.
We are sitting beside another loaded passenger train and I see a woman
in full niquab--all covered in black with only an eye slit open. Her
hands are decorated with henna mendhi and one wrist is is adorned in a
six inch band of sparkling blue, purple and pink glass bangles and the
sleeves and front of her black dress cover are embroidered in gold leaf
designs. Their train moves away. Our train remains. Crows are hopping
about the track that is strewn with small plastic chai cups, plastic
bags, newspaper, biscuit wrappers and turd piles.
I watch a woman, perhaps 65, applying a scented green oil to her hair.
One small handful is scrubbed vigorously throughout her somewhat
sparse hair, then another handful and another vigorous scrubbing. She
then combs it and puts it into a tiny bun at the back of her
head. It shines. She rubs the remaining oil onto her face and arms.
The pouty lady actually has a nice smile. There are two couples across
from us and the other old lady (The bare foot lady) is massaging her
husband's calves and feet as they sit in the sun coming through the
open barred window. The husband of the pouty lady is lying down
on the other bench with his feet at the window warming them in the sun. The
foot massage gentleman is now cleaning his ears with a safely pin.
Ross is asleep stretched out on the bench in front of me. It's a cosy
scene.
Our lunch that we ordered has arrived. Chana dal, dal fry, rice,
chappatti and pickle. And there goes another train of red
onions, this time 40 cars. And now we move again.
We bought some mumfali-peanuts, from a one-armed seller and they came
with a little folded newspaper packet of what we assumed was salt.
Instead it turned out to be sulphur! Ross tasted it and I smelled it.
Smelled like matches.
And the Satna station appears.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Friday, January 11, 2008
Village Wedding Day
We left the Hotel Resort Deluxe in our hired car at 7:10 am, Sunday, January 6. In addition to Ross and I, there was Kalendar, in charge of room service and housekeeping at the hotel, Manoj, the driver and Manu, a friend of Kalendar’s. We left Mirzapur for a village near a small town called Manda. We had been invited as Kalendar’s guests to the wedding of his wife’s brother, Kasim. Incidently, Kalendar means calendar in Hindi and is as unusual a name here in India as it would be in Canada.
After driving for an hour and a half through some rolling countryside, open fields and villages and perhaps two or three small towns we arrived at the end of a brick road with a few cottage compounds spread about at some distance from each other.
“We are sitting in a compound made of piled-up stones. There are two very small mud huts connected together and all around us are many women and children from babies to teenagers to old ladies and just a few men. We are the center of attention. A young girl sits behind me on a platform and in her limited English and my limited Hindi, I learn that she is in class 8 and she tells me the relationship of some of the people around me—her father, sisters, brother.”
Kasim, the groom, (looks to be about 20 but I later learn that he is 27), is brought out and stands before me looking completely unprepared for marriage—bewildered and a little in shock. This is a Muslim family so the wedding season seems not to apply as in Hindu weddings. Kasim is wrapped in a purple shawl. I see a sparkly bell tied to his wrist but so far he doesn’t look adorned for a wedding. I’ve been told the wedding is at 12:00 so there is plenty of time to prepare as it’s only 9:40.
“Small girls holding babies stand around me staring. There is a large stack of firewood over against the stone wall and a woman (Kalendar’s sister) has just picked up three pieces and taken them to a corner where there is a small cooking fire over which are a few bricks on which a pot is cooking. She adds the wood to the fire. Over the cooking fire is a roof made of straw and a bundle of animal fodder is stored up on this roof. We are brought chai, some small fried dough balls that are traditional wedding food, biscuits and fruit.”
Ross goes off with Kalendar who has left to bathe at the village well. During his bath Ross takes a long hike with another fellow all around the countryside consisting of jungle, fields, rocky outcroppings and cactus. Amrit. the owner of the car calls the driver from Mirzapur and everyone is worried. “Where is Ross? Where is Ross?”
I remain in the women’s area. A goat walks through the compound and a woman gives it a kick and chases it off. “Hut! Hut!” It scampers off. An old woman sits on the charpoy in front of me—Kalendar’s wife’s grandmother. She wears a turquoise cotton sari over her black cardigan. Beside her sit three children—one about 5, one perhaps 7 and the baby, Kalendar’s niece, 8 months old. I am now surrounded by chattering children. Three new women arrive to take part in the celebration and stand staring. Often women gesture to my legs and I say polio and they all nod. “Acha, acha.”
The girls take me out of the compound for a walk down the brick road past our car and the four waiting jeeps that have been hired for the wedding. We meet up with Ross who has returned from his hike. I have to say to the girls, “Diree, diree, jaldi nahine!” Slowly, slowly, not fast, as they attempt to race with me along the path. Then they all tell each other, “Diree, diree, diree!”
We assemble back at the compound where Kasim is washing himself all over with soap and double shampoo and everyone is sitting and standing around watching him, friends, family and neighbours. As Kasim washes, Kalendar stands up on a raised area changing discreetly into new underwear (called innerwear) all behind a new lungi, and then a pressed white shirt and pressed trousers. Now Kasim is doing the same, new underwear under a new lungi, new shirt and socks. He drops his lungi and puts on new trousers and suit jacket. All watch intently as he dresses. He sits on the charpoy and his uncle wraps his head in a turban made of starched white cotton. It takes two tries and a lot of fiddling to get it perfect. Uncle puts two garlands of roses and white flowers around Kasim’s neck.. The groom then leaves in the car with Kalendar, Ross, another friend and the driver to go to the mosque for prayers.
The uncle unpacks many floral decorations, lays them out onto the charpoy and sprinkles them with drops of water. Again I am crowded around with many women and children, having shown my photos once more.
The groom returns from his prayers and the charpoy is now placed near the entrance to the compound. He sits and over his back is placed a cape made entirely of roses. He is then covered with a headdress made of roses, white flowers and a tinsel crown. This has covered him completely, face and all and I think he must be suffocating under it. All the women family members group around him and one by one they come up to him with their hands gesturing from the top of head down several times in blessing. Kalendar now picks him up and carries him to the waiting car. Actually the car we hired to come to the village. Luckily he is a small man. Kalendar isn’t tall but he is more beefy.
After some time we are told to go to the car in which was sitting the groom covered in his rose cape and tinsel rose headdress. We sit in the back with Kalendar’s wife and two small daughters, 2 and 5, groom and driver in front. Behind us were the 4 jeeps with all the family members. We set off beyond the end of the brick road across the open land where there was no road and barely a path. We didn’t have a jeep so it was quite a procedure to make our way through the rocks but we finally came to a paved single lane road, the jeeps having passed us well before and were waiting.
For 15 kilometres we drove on that road through a very dry area, almost desert like. We shared oranges and cashews with all in the car. When we came to the bride’s village we came to a vehicle that had stacks of speakers and a generator. On the side was a sexy dancing couple—INDIA DJ—written in large colourful lettering. There seemed to be some confusion as to where we were to go. We turned around as did the DJ truck, but I think it was so we could make a grand entrance into the village. Ross and I got out, the DJ truck turned on its blasting speakers with distorted Indian disco dance music and the groom car followed.
Ross and I dropped down into a field for a pee, unseen, and then we caught up with the parade—the DJ truck, behind which was a huge crowd of wildly dancing young men and boys, the groom’s car and then the 4 jeeps. When Ross joined in with the dancing they all roared with approval. After dancing along the paved road awhile we turned off onto a path which the DJ truck could just barely fit onto. The boys were dancing all the way and my ears and body were throbbing to the booming bass.
Ahead through the fields we could see a yellow marriage tent set up with sunflower designs painted on the fabric walls. The car with the groom, the jeeps and the DJ truck pulled up to the tent. We were escorted into the tent where there were men sitting and children playing. Ross was asked to sit on the one table until the groom arrived. Then a chair was brought for him and the groom was again carried to the place of honour on the cloth-covered table. Some wedding appetizers were served to all consisting of a fried pastry, a ghulab jamen and two other sweets, one pink and one white. I ate the pastry and half the ghulam jhamen and gave the rest to Kalendar’s friend, Manu.
After sweets we were told it was time to eat and we were taken to another table. A chair was brought for Ross but Manu and Manoj, the driver sat cross-legged on the table opposite us. There was lovely puffy and chewy thick naan bread baked in a tandoori oven, mutton curry, (probably goat), rice pilou, what they call green salad which is sliced carrots, tomatoes, onions, white radish, cilantro or some sort of parsley and lemon and a sweet rice dessert. There was also fried fish and chicken.
All the time we were eating Kasim just sat there under the weight of his floral decoration. Friends came and chatted with him and then came the Imam to do the ceremony. This all took place without the bride! After we finished eating we visited the women’s area hoping to see the bride. There were many women eating but no bride. I believe she was hidden away in the house—perhaps under her own decorations. (Kalendar told us she came out at 6:00 but we had left by that time, much to his disappointment.) We didn’t see the bride but we did see the marriage certificate and were told they were now married. Kasim now had his flowers removed.
We were expected to eat again about half an hour after the first meal but we couldn’t eat more than a few carrots. The food was prepared in numerous enormous cooking pots on fires outside under some trees by specially hired wedding cooks.
It was now about 4:00 and the owner of the car was continually calling saying we should be on our way back to Mirzapur. As much as we were sorry to leave, it had been a long day and so very full. I was ready to return.
After driving for an hour and a half through some rolling countryside, open fields and villages and perhaps two or three small towns we arrived at the end of a brick road with a few cottage compounds spread about at some distance from each other.
“We are sitting in a compound made of piled-up stones. There are two very small mud huts connected together and all around us are many women and children from babies to teenagers to old ladies and just a few men. We are the center of attention. A young girl sits behind me on a platform and in her limited English and my limited Hindi, I learn that she is in class 8 and she tells me the relationship of some of the people around me—her father, sisters, brother.”
Kasim, the groom, (looks to be about 20 but I later learn that he is 27), is brought out and stands before me looking completely unprepared for marriage—bewildered and a little in shock. This is a Muslim family so the wedding season seems not to apply as in Hindu weddings. Kasim is wrapped in a purple shawl. I see a sparkly bell tied to his wrist but so far he doesn’t look adorned for a wedding. I’ve been told the wedding is at 12:00 so there is plenty of time to prepare as it’s only 9:40.
“Small girls holding babies stand around me staring. There is a large stack of firewood over against the stone wall and a woman (Kalendar’s sister) has just picked up three pieces and taken them to a corner where there is a small cooking fire over which are a few bricks on which a pot is cooking. She adds the wood to the fire. Over the cooking fire is a roof made of straw and a bundle of animal fodder is stored up on this roof. We are brought chai, some small fried dough balls that are traditional wedding food, biscuits and fruit.”
Ross goes off with Kalendar who has left to bathe at the village well. During his bath Ross takes a long hike with another fellow all around the countryside consisting of jungle, fields, rocky outcroppings and cactus. Amrit. the owner of the car calls the driver from Mirzapur and everyone is worried. “Where is Ross? Where is Ross?”
I remain in the women’s area. A goat walks through the compound and a woman gives it a kick and chases it off. “Hut! Hut!” It scampers off. An old woman sits on the charpoy in front of me—Kalendar’s wife’s grandmother. She wears a turquoise cotton sari over her black cardigan. Beside her sit three children—one about 5, one perhaps 7 and the baby, Kalendar’s niece, 8 months old. I am now surrounded by chattering children. Three new women arrive to take part in the celebration and stand staring. Often women gesture to my legs and I say polio and they all nod. “Acha, acha.”
The girls take me out of the compound for a walk down the brick road past our car and the four waiting jeeps that have been hired for the wedding. We meet up with Ross who has returned from his hike. I have to say to the girls, “Diree, diree, jaldi nahine!” Slowly, slowly, not fast, as they attempt to race with me along the path. Then they all tell each other, “Diree, diree, diree!”
We assemble back at the compound where Kasim is washing himself all over with soap and double shampoo and everyone is sitting and standing around watching him, friends, family and neighbours. As Kasim washes, Kalendar stands up on a raised area changing discreetly into new underwear (called innerwear) all behind a new lungi, and then a pressed white shirt and pressed trousers. Now Kasim is doing the same, new underwear under a new lungi, new shirt and socks. He drops his lungi and puts on new trousers and suit jacket. All watch intently as he dresses. He sits on the charpoy and his uncle wraps his head in a turban made of starched white cotton. It takes two tries and a lot of fiddling to get it perfect. Uncle puts two garlands of roses and white flowers around Kasim’s neck.. The groom then leaves in the car with Kalendar, Ross, another friend and the driver to go to the mosque for prayers.
The uncle unpacks many floral decorations, lays them out onto the charpoy and sprinkles them with drops of water. Again I am crowded around with many women and children, having shown my photos once more.
The groom returns from his prayers and the charpoy is now placed near the entrance to the compound. He sits and over his back is placed a cape made entirely of roses. He is then covered with a headdress made of roses, white flowers and a tinsel crown. This has covered him completely, face and all and I think he must be suffocating under it. All the women family members group around him and one by one they come up to him with their hands gesturing from the top of head down several times in blessing. Kalendar now picks him up and carries him to the waiting car. Actually the car we hired to come to the village. Luckily he is a small man. Kalendar isn’t tall but he is more beefy.
After some time we are told to go to the car in which was sitting the groom covered in his rose cape and tinsel rose headdress. We sit in the back with Kalendar’s wife and two small daughters, 2 and 5, groom and driver in front. Behind us were the 4 jeeps with all the family members. We set off beyond the end of the brick road across the open land where there was no road and barely a path. We didn’t have a jeep so it was quite a procedure to make our way through the rocks but we finally came to a paved single lane road, the jeeps having passed us well before and were waiting.
For 15 kilometres we drove on that road through a very dry area, almost desert like. We shared oranges and cashews with all in the car. When we came to the bride’s village we came to a vehicle that had stacks of speakers and a generator. On the side was a sexy dancing couple—INDIA DJ—written in large colourful lettering. There seemed to be some confusion as to where we were to go. We turned around as did the DJ truck, but I think it was so we could make a grand entrance into the village. Ross and I got out, the DJ truck turned on its blasting speakers with distorted Indian disco dance music and the groom car followed.
Ross and I dropped down into a field for a pee, unseen, and then we caught up with the parade—the DJ truck, behind which was a huge crowd of wildly dancing young men and boys, the groom’s car and then the 4 jeeps. When Ross joined in with the dancing they all roared with approval. After dancing along the paved road awhile we turned off onto a path which the DJ truck could just barely fit onto. The boys were dancing all the way and my ears and body were throbbing to the booming bass.
Ahead through the fields we could see a yellow marriage tent set up with sunflower designs painted on the fabric walls. The car with the groom, the jeeps and the DJ truck pulled up to the tent. We were escorted into the tent where there were men sitting and children playing. Ross was asked to sit on the one table until the groom arrived. Then a chair was brought for him and the groom was again carried to the place of honour on the cloth-covered table. Some wedding appetizers were served to all consisting of a fried pastry, a ghulab jamen and two other sweets, one pink and one white. I ate the pastry and half the ghulam jhamen and gave the rest to Kalendar’s friend, Manu.
After sweets we were told it was time to eat and we were taken to another table. A chair was brought for Ross but Manu and Manoj, the driver sat cross-legged on the table opposite us. There was lovely puffy and chewy thick naan bread baked in a tandoori oven, mutton curry, (probably goat), rice pilou, what they call green salad which is sliced carrots, tomatoes, onions, white radish, cilantro or some sort of parsley and lemon and a sweet rice dessert. There was also fried fish and chicken.
All the time we were eating Kasim just sat there under the weight of his floral decoration. Friends came and chatted with him and then came the Imam to do the ceremony. This all took place without the bride! After we finished eating we visited the women’s area hoping to see the bride. There were many women eating but no bride. I believe she was hidden away in the house—perhaps under her own decorations. (Kalendar told us she came out at 6:00 but we had left by that time, much to his disappointment.) We didn’t see the bride but we did see the marriage certificate and were told they were now married. Kasim now had his flowers removed.
We were expected to eat again about half an hour after the first meal but we couldn’t eat more than a few carrots. The food was prepared in numerous enormous cooking pots on fires outside under some trees by specially hired wedding cooks.
It was now about 4:00 and the owner of the car was continually calling saying we should be on our way back to Mirzapur. As much as we were sorry to leave, it had been a long day and so very full. I was ready to return.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Gudwara Visit
Our friend dear Sikh friend, Kusum called on Friday morning to say that she was attending an event at the local Gudwara (Sikh Temple) just down the road. She had brought hot porridge for me and Ross went to fetch it from Nuncu, the driver. She said she had no time to visit as her cousin was arriving, but happy surprise, she came, curious to see our room and to say hello. She told us that it was the 10th Guru’s birthday. The night before from our hotel balcony we could see the Gudwara all lit up with coloured lights. She encouraged us to visit the Gudwara in the afternoon as they were serving lunch to the community and would be very pleased if we came shared their food. So after doing some internet we walked the short distance to the Gudwara. There were many people in the lane outside the entrance, some obviously Sikh and some maybe or maybe not. We were shy about just walking into the compound but one young man said, “Yes, yes, go in.” Up the path we walked and into the gate. Ross took off his shoes as others were doing and put them on a shelf. A young woman came up to us; I know we looked confused as to where to go and what to do. “You must cover your heads with a handkerchief.” I had a scarf, Ross had nothing but someone produced a somewhat grubby, once white handkerchief and tied it around his head. Our friend said if we could, we should go upstairs.
I got on Ross’s back and some young men carried the chair up the rough gray concrete stairs. At the top the girl instructed me to remove my shoes and we followed our new friend along the walkway at the edge of the open courtyard to a room packed full with women on one side, men on the other and children everywhere, about two or three hundred, the air hot with bodies. The girl made a way for us through the women’s side to the edge of the men’s side. At the front of the room on the left side were three Sardhars (Sikhs). One was singing devotional songs, one was playing harmonium and one tabla. In the center was a raised alter, brightly lit and decorated with strings of marigold garlands and other holy items. As I don’t know a lot about the Sikh religion so I cannot say what was on the alter but there was another Sardar, I assume he was a priest, waving a tassley fan back and forth. Our friend encouraged Ross to go up to the alter as others were doing. He bowed down with his head to the floor, arms outstretched, following the example of the person in front of him. He came back to our spot and we listened to the music until it finished. A man came up to the front and made some speeches and after listening politely for a time we decided to leave the room.
Our friend had taken us under her wing and came along with us back downstairs. She asked if we wanted to stay for lunch. (That, of course, had been our main purpose in coming!) We went into a large room where women and children were sitting around the edges of the room and in three or so rows, sitting on narrow burlap floor coverings laid out on the floor. The girl assured us that it was fine for Ross to be there. We settled into a corner and now our friend was joined by one of her friends. They asked what ever we were doing in Mirzapur as there was nothing to do. I told my story. They said that for them Mirzapur was like a prison. Our friend, the older girl, said she would like to go to university in another city but her father wouldn’t let her travel away. They were amazed that my daughters weren’t married. “Aren’t you going to make them?” “There is no way I can make my daughters do anything. That is their choice.” They were thrilled by that. “Oh, please can you adopt us and take us back to Canada with you?” They were bright fun girls with terrific senses of humour. They were in grades 12 and 10, or as it is said here, Class 12 & 10.
Some young serving boys came into the ladies lunch room and handed out tali trays with formed depressions for food made from pressed leaves held together with tiny bits of stick like toothpicks. Other boys and men came with stainless steel buckets and ladled out dal, subje, salad and halva and another passed out chapattis. It was a great meal and they kept coming round to give more and more. We finished our meal and left immediately as there was another group ready to come for their meal.
We said our farewells to the girls and went to find our shoes. They had closed the gate and were only letting in a few at a time. A large crowd had formed outside the iron gate, many who were very poor, disabled or a bit mad or perhaps drunk. One fellow tried to bow down to my feet, the second time this has happened in Mirzapur and I think both times they were intoxicated. Ross left his borrowed handkerchief tied to the wire of lights along to walkway as we left the compound and headed back down the road to our hotel—Hotel Resort Deluxe.
I got on Ross’s back and some young men carried the chair up the rough gray concrete stairs. At the top the girl instructed me to remove my shoes and we followed our new friend along the walkway at the edge of the open courtyard to a room packed full with women on one side, men on the other and children everywhere, about two or three hundred, the air hot with bodies. The girl made a way for us through the women’s side to the edge of the men’s side. At the front of the room on the left side were three Sardhars (Sikhs). One was singing devotional songs, one was playing harmonium and one tabla. In the center was a raised alter, brightly lit and decorated with strings of marigold garlands and other holy items. As I don’t know a lot about the Sikh religion so I cannot say what was on the alter but there was another Sardar, I assume he was a priest, waving a tassley fan back and forth. Our friend encouraged Ross to go up to the alter as others were doing. He bowed down with his head to the floor, arms outstretched, following the example of the person in front of him. He came back to our spot and we listened to the music until it finished. A man came up to the front and made some speeches and after listening politely for a time we decided to leave the room.
Our friend had taken us under her wing and came along with us back downstairs. She asked if we wanted to stay for lunch. (That, of course, had been our main purpose in coming!) We went into a large room where women and children were sitting around the edges of the room and in three or so rows, sitting on narrow burlap floor coverings laid out on the floor. The girl assured us that it was fine for Ross to be there. We settled into a corner and now our friend was joined by one of her friends. They asked what ever we were doing in Mirzapur as there was nothing to do. I told my story. They said that for them Mirzapur was like a prison. Our friend, the older girl, said she would like to go to university in another city but her father wouldn’t let her travel away. They were amazed that my daughters weren’t married. “Aren’t you going to make them?” “There is no way I can make my daughters do anything. That is their choice.” They were thrilled by that. “Oh, please can you adopt us and take us back to Canada with you?” They were bright fun girls with terrific senses of humour. They were in grades 12 and 10, or as it is said here, Class 12 & 10.
Some young serving boys came into the ladies lunch room and handed out tali trays with formed depressions for food made from pressed leaves held together with tiny bits of stick like toothpicks. Other boys and men came with stainless steel buckets and ladled out dal, subje, salad and halva and another passed out chapattis. It was a great meal and they kept coming round to give more and more. We finished our meal and left immediately as there was another group ready to come for their meal.
We said our farewells to the girls and went to find our shoes. They had closed the gate and were only letting in a few at a time. A large crowd had formed outside the iron gate, many who were very poor, disabled or a bit mad or perhaps drunk. One fellow tried to bow down to my feet, the second time this has happened in Mirzapur and I think both times they were intoxicated. Ross left his borrowed handkerchief tied to the wire of lights along to walkway as we left the compound and headed back down the road to our hotel—Hotel Resort Deluxe.
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