Stuff I ate in Mumbai

I ate at a lot of places in Mumbai, because there was nothing else to do. Not when it was raining like that. Mumbai rain is singular, that's what any native will tell you, but there's times when it gets worse then that. The rain pounds down so hard on your umbrella, you get convinced the sky is falling in, the End of Things. The wind kicks up real strong down a narrow street, ringed by buildings, and your cheap umbrella blows out and you're soaked to the skin, your clothes clinging to you. (Showers at night become superficial, bandaids become a luxury (they fall right off). I wash swirls of dirt off my entire body at night but I don't know what the point is). Mumbai smells of wet-dog mixed with motor oil, and all the kids with their perfect hair wander around with plastic bags over their heads, looking pissed off. The Monsoon that Never Ends.

I went to go have chaat at Kailash Parbat, because I couldn't go to Chowpatty. Not in this weather. It's a small vegetarian restaurant very close to the center of Colaba, and is very well loved by the young and impoverished of the city. It's open air and gets a decent breeze, especially when the rain is pouring down, and they have every kind of chaat you could want, and tons of vegetarian food besides.

Chaat is the catch-all phrase for "tasty Indian snacks that come from the street most of the time but not always." Chaat is the lifeblood of India, the base heart and soul of the cuisine (in my mind) - it's what plain folks eat. Bhel puri, sev puri, pani puri, aloo chaat, bhala papri chaat, and on and on, too many varieties to name. Common ingredients in chaat are potatoes, dahi (yogurt/curds), chopped onion, mango, tamarind sauce, chili, lentil wafers, tomato, and puffed rice. Many chaats also involve chaat masala, a spice mix usually involving amchoor (green mango) powder, cumin, coriander, ginger, and black and red pepper. They're usually served on disposable bowls made of leaves - don't ask where they came from. All chaats share one commonality: they revolve around some form of fried dough. How can you go wrong?



My favorite chaat is bhel puri. The best way to describe it to a Westerner? Savory Rice Krispies. It's a combination of puffed rice, diced potato, red onion, tamarind and chili sauce, sev (fried strings made from besan powder), and fried papri puris (wheat bread). Most places will toss in chaat masala and chopped green mango as well. Every bhel puri cart makes it a little differently, and that's half the fun of it. No bhel puri is ever the same twice. Bhel puri is the iconic dish of Chowpatty Beach, and you are officially Doing Mumbai Wrong if you leave the city without consuming the stuff on that sandy and infamous stretch, fending off seagulls and souvenir-sellers alike. Use the papri puri as a "spoon." Kailash Prabat is said to make one of the better bhel puris in the city, and I'd have to agree. A great ratio of chutney to crunchy stuff, plenty of sweet and savory interplay of flavors, delicious and savory.



I also ordered a mixed vegetable "tawa". Pretty good, if not exceptional. Didn't really need it. Bhel puri is surprisingly filling. They do a fine thali and pav bhaji (buns with spiced vegetables) here as well. A good spot to try Mumbai-style chutney sandwiches. I've never quite "got" them.

I had come to Mumbai wanting to try Parsi food, but was pretty much totally confused. The classic Parsi restaurants seem to offer monumentally depressing menus of "Continental" stuff -think baked chicken, baked beans on toast, spaghetti Bolognese - and none of the reputed ethnic recipes of the subgroup. I remember eating at one of the supposed Parsi/Iranian restaurants and being primarily impressed by its badness. Sort of a half-assed ripoff of the omnipresent Persian and Lebanese restaurants found in the USA, with hummus that tasted powdered. Maybe the only way to get at Parsi food is to make a Parsi friend. Any takers?

I paid a visit to the Mahesh Lunch Home one day. It's one of Mumbai's rather exclusive clique of high-end seafood restaurants. The interior is futuristically blue-lit and small, and the waiters are friendly in the pompous, overly-sophisticated way of Indian servers in all quality establishments.



I ordered the rawas tikka. Rawas is India's "salmon," and it's particularly beloved here in Mumbai. It's a tasty and firm fish, and I ordered it Hyderabadi style - this means the fish is coated in a spice mixture involving plenty of green chili, and given a quick char. The flesh is firm and has a mild salmon-type flavor. Really quite excellent. Had an extremely butter-centric vegetable jalfreezi with. Bring your ghee glasses.



When I got my food, I, as is usual, took out my camera and began shooting pictures. The waiter grandly came over and asked, "Would you like me to take the picture?" Not sure what he meant. Me with the rawas - a family portrait? Taking the photograph of the food itself?

I politely declined. I always wonder what people in less internet-centric countries and age groups wonder when they see me ardently and extensively photographing my lunch. Kids these days.

I'll put together a Mumbai restaurant suggestions directory in a bit here. Seems like the right thing to do for all the major cities I hit on this here trip.

Stuff I ate in Mumbai

I ate at a lot of places in Mumbai, because there was nothing else to do. Not when it was raining like that. Mumbai rain is singular, that's what any native will tell you, but there's times when it gets worse then that. The rain pounds down so hard on your umbrella, you get convinced the sky is falling in, the End of Things. The wind kicks up real strong down a narrow street, ringed by buildings, and your cheap umbrella blows out and you're soaked to the skin, your clothes clinging to you. (Showers at night become superficial, bandaids become a luxury (they fall right off). I wash swirls of dirt off my entire body at night but I don't know what the point is). Mumbai smells of wet-dog mixed with motor oil, and all the kids with their perfect hair wander around with plastic bags over their heads, looking pissed off. The Monsoon that Never Ends.

I went to go have chaat at Kailash Parbat, because I couldn't go to Chowpatty. Not in this weather. It's a small vegetarian restaurant very close to the center of Colaba, and is very well loved by the young and impoverished of the city. It's open air and gets a decent breeze, especially when the rain is pouring down, and they have every kind of chaat you could want, and tons of vegetarian food besides.

Chaat is the catch-all phrase for "tasty Indian snacks that come from the street most of the time but not always." Chaat is the lifeblood of India, the base heart and soul of the cuisine (in my mind) - it's what plain folks eat. Bhel puri, sev puri, pani puri, aloo chaat, bhala papri chaat, and on and on, too many varieties to name. Common ingredients in chaat are potatoes, dahi (yogurt/curds), chopped onion, mango, tamarind sauce, chili, lentil wafers, tomato, and puffed rice. Many chaats also involve chaat masala, a spice mix usually involving amchoor (green mango) powder, cumin, coriander, ginger, and black and red pepper. They're usually served on disposable bowls made of leaves - don't ask where they came from. All chaats share one commonality: they revolve around some form of fried dough. How can you go wrong?



My favorite chaat is bhel puri. The best way to describe it to a Westerner? Savory Rice Krispies. It's a combination of puffed rice, diced potato, red onion, tamarind and chili sauce, sev (fried strings made from besan powder), and fried papri puris (wheat bread). Most places will toss in chaat masala and chopped green mango as well. Every bhel puri cart makes it a little differently, and that's half the fun of it. No bhel puri is ever the same twice. Bhel puri is the iconic dish of Chowpatty Beach, and you are officially Doing Mumbai Wrong if you leave the city without consuming the stuff on that sandy and infamous stretch, fending off seagulls and souvenir-sellers alike. Use the papri puri as a "spoon." Kailash Prabat is said to make one of the better bhel puris in the city, and I'd have to agree. A great ratio of chutney to crunchy stuff, plenty of sweet and savory interplay of flavors, delicious and savory.



I also ordered a mixed vegetable "tawa". Pretty good, if not exceptional. Didn't really need it. Bhel puri is surprisingly filling. They do a fine thali and pav bhaji (buns with spiced vegetables) here as well. A good spot to try Mumbai-style chutney sandwiches. I've never quite "got" them.

I had come to Mumbai wanting to try Parsi food, but was pretty much totally confused. The classic Parsi restaurants seem to offer monumentally depressing menus of "Continental" stuff -think baked chicken, baked beans on toast, spaghetti Bolognese - and none of the reputed ethnic recipes of the subgroup. I remember eating at one of the supposed Parsi/Iranian restaurants and being primarily impressed by its badness. Sort of a half-assed ripoff of the omnipresent Persian and Lebanese restaurants found in the USA, with hummus that tasted powdered. Maybe the only way to get at Parsi food is to make a Parsi friend. Any takers?

I paid a visit to the Mahesh Lunch Home one day. It's one of Mumbai's rather exclusive clique of high-end seafood restaurants. The interior is futuristically blue-lit and small, and the waiters are friendly in the pompous, overly-sophisticated way of Indian servers in all quality establishments.



I ordered the rawas tikka. Rawas is India's "salmon," and it's particularly beloved here in Mumbai. It's a tasty and firm fish, and I ordered it Hyderabadi style - this means the fish is coated in a spice mixture involving plenty of green chili, and given a quick char. The flesh is firm and has a mild salmon-type flavor. Really quite excellent. Had an extremely butter-centric vegetable jalfreezi with. Bring your ghee glasses.



When I got my food, I, as is usual, took out my camera and began shooting pictures. The waiter grandly came over and asked, "Would you like me to take the picture?" Not sure what he meant. Me with the rawas - a family portrait? Taking the photograph of the food itself?

I politely declined. I always wonder what people in less internet-centric countries and age groups wonder when they see me ardently and extensively photographing my lunch. Kids these days.

I'll put together a Mumbai restaurant suggestions directory in a bit here. Seems like the right thing to do for all the major cities I hit on this here trip.

Trishna Restaurant: Yes, it's more chili crab!

Trishna is one of those city classics, a Mumbai seafood restaurant that has been adored and heavily patronized for over 20 years. It's Mumbai style seafood, on the high end, and the kitchen prepares your chosen sea-creature in a variety of ways - Indian, Chinese, European, whatever. The place is so popular that they've managed to open an outpost in London, and it's a must-do on the foodie beat in Mumbai. Me? I like their chili crab. I really, really like their chili crab.

Trishna is located in Kala Ghoda, a nice stroll from Colaba. If it isn't raining. Hint: it is probably going to be raining.



Plenty of tourists come here so it has been Ruined. Judging by the incidence of Indian business groups and blue-haired and terrifying old ladies tearing apart fish and lobsters, though - there may be life in the old dog yet. They're remodeling one of the rooms, so this go-round, I was ushered into a room I didn't actually recognize. There were mostly tourists in there. I'm not in the camp that immediately dismisses a restaurant that has other tourists in it. Sometimes, if not always, tourists are actually right about where one might find a good meal. And think about it: Trishna is a high end place. Your average Mumbaiker might eat there occasionally, but they're not going to splash out on a biweekly basis. A vacationer or sight-seeer though - the logic tends much more towards the "Why the hell not?" Which is why I was there, anyhow.

It always feels a bit awkward to me, to dine alone in Nice restaurants. I'm 22 and I look a lot younger - people guess 15 or 16 a lot - and I always suspect the waiters are wondering what in God's name is going on, if I'm actually capable of paying, if I'm going to inquire in a chirpy voice about the availability of chicken fingers. I ignore their looks of apprehension and order up. Chili crab and bhindi masala. This is all I want to have at Trishna.



Me and chili crab have a sort of, well, perverse relationship. Everyone has a certain food product that they find so godamned delicious as to veer into the "mild, slightly uncomfortable erotica" category, and chili crab is mine. Trishna does a hell of a job with theirs - in my opinion, superior to the way it's done in the Homeland of Singapore. The sauce is a little bit chunky with plenty of ginger and garlic. The balance of sweet and spicy is on point, and there's a bunch of sliced and in-your-face red chilis tossed in there so you don't forget the "chili" aspect of the dish. Finally, Trishna manages to source some excellent crabs. I know how to make this dish, and it's not too hard, but it's a blessing to find one done so well in a restaurant, and especially in India. Oh, the bhindi masala is pretty damn good too.

I went twice in five days. I thought I was exhibiting a lot of self control, all things considered.

Singapore Day One: Chili Crab, Malay Food, Too Much Walking, Hostel Culture

When I go to a new place I walk, and I walk with serious commitment. Walking is, I think, the best way to quickly and viscerally get a sense of a new location: you figure out where things are, you learn how to cross the street, you cross through neighborhoods, buroughs, and districts, you begin to become an inhabitant. I feel quite a bit of this is lost when you take public transportation (metros, buses) instead - there isn't the physical connection, there isn't the sense of Point A to Point B. This is a convoluted way of saying I walked my ass off in Singapore.

I got into the expectedly sparkly-clean airport at around 6:00 in the morning, and went through the equally painless customs area. Hopped into a cab and was conveyed to my hostel in Little India quickly and easily. I had a long discussion with the cabbie about everyone's favorite topic, food. We got into the standard good-natured pissing match dance of weird things we eat, and he finally ceded defeat when I mentioned that I adore kimchi and that my dad makes excellent chili crabs. "Goodness, you're too Asian for me," he said, in a low whistle. I suppose that is flattering.

The hostel was clean enough and decorated in that hippie-chic way of hostels everywhere. "It's too early for check-in, but you're welcome to crash here," the attendant said, gesturing to a stand of bean-bags. I took his advice. I crashed.

I woke up about two hours later to an entry-way full of backpackers, most of them spreading butter on toast and ambling around bleary-eyed and hang overed. The hostel offered free internet services, which I availed msyelf of, doing some quick and dirty research on good stuff to eat and things to do. I had, incredibly, failed to do this before-hand in Australia. Maybe I got distracted in Kalbarri.



I finally got myself in order and jumped onto the street. Little India, I was chuffed to discover, really is Little India. It's like a chunk of Bangalore transmuted into Singapore, down to Bollywood dance-clubs, Ramadan celebrating mosques, guys with a habit of staring too much and chai wallahs dispensing idlis, appams, and dosai to hordes of guys wearing linen clothing and chappals. I grabbed a little plastic cup of masala tea (in classic Indian style) and proceeded to point myself in the general direction of the water. It was a bit far, but I knew that. The Raffles was conveniently located along the way.


I took a lot of photos of the Raffles. This is due to a lifelong and indisputably bourgeios love of ultra fancy hotels. I'm going to hell. An ancedote: I walked through one of Singapore's countless high brow hotels - maybe it was the Conrad - and found myself missing my parents a lot. I could not initially figure this out, until I realized that I had spent all our family vacations in fancy international chain hotels with concierge desks and tasteful but decadent decorations and fountains that were just shy of tacky and so on and so forth. This may be indicative of a deep internal sickness or simply part and parcel of how I live and how my family lives (for a couple generations, now). We have conducted our largely very happy lives in international hotels with concierge desks and bellhops in stupid outfits. Chocolate on the pillow (if you're lucky) and the Concierge Floor for our Very Special Guests. I like staying in hostels or homestays but sometimes I just want sterile and vast efficiency (unironically).

And the Raffles is colonialism personified, encapsulated, even. It was built in a style meant to approximate some sort of paradise-like Balinese rest house and it achieves its goal quite brilliantly. It's a very open air hotel with a lot of catwalks and courtyards and hidden fountains, and staff everywhere padding around and trying to look inobtrusive. The doormen are, naturally, large and scary looking Sikh's. How did the Sikh's get a monopoly on body guard and door man status all across Asia, again? I considered coming back later in the evening so that I might write and try to look degenerate and strung out, but decided it was in fact not worth paying 20 bucks for a Singapore Sling for the privelege. I fucking hope you get to keep the glass!



The Youth Olympics were going on in Singapore, and the city was appropiately kitted out with giant movie-screens, sports paraphenlia, and cartoons of adorable mascots to celebrate. It looks to me like all this kerfuffle over the youth Olympics is Singapore's way of making a play for the real Olympics - which, judging by this go-round, they'd do a bang up job of.


These mascots are kinda emotionally distressing.

Certainly there were endless crowds of school kids en route to the events (and probably to compete), and a lot of grown up representatives of the teams stalking the streets and looking lost. I had never run across a pack of dramatically hirsute Azer-Baijani guys in track suits before, but this would be my first oppurtunity.



I stopped in at the enormous Suntec Convention Center - which was hosting quite a few of the youth olympic events - and found myself in the middle of an incredibly delightful food court. You can imagine my delight when I found I could get noodle soup with fish balls and lots of green vegetables for breakfast here. You pick out your items from baskets and then they boil it all for you in incredibly hot water right before your eyes, whang it in a bowl with some dipping sauce, and off you go. Delicious.


The mysterious Fish Spa.

Singapore, much like Hong Kong, is actually a gigantic and interconnected mall. I figured this out soon enough, primarily because it's by far the easiest and coolest way to get where you want to go on foot. I managed to make it to the Esplanade, and came out within sight of the harbor and the iconic Mer Lion statue. It's a hell of a sight.

I made tracks for the Asian Civilizations Museum, which I had heard was fantastic. This was entirely the truth.



I adored these pop-art cartoons of famous Asian "heroes". This is Mouse Deer (an Indonesian favorite), Hanuman, and I believe Vishnu. Don't quote me, though. The exhibit was obviously pitched for kids but I enjoyed it entirely too much.

I spent the most time in the Southeast Asia gallery, primarily because I don't know much at all about the art of the region and would rather like to learn. I know exactly jack about Indonesia and Malaysia and was happy to have the museum step in to help. There was plenty of Khmer art on offer which was even better. I need to make myself an expert on Cambodian art, oh, you know, yesterday.


Contemplative Hindu guy. Con Cobra. Apparently multiples cobras are a popular vehicle for Vishnu when vehicles are displayed.


The Javanese are extremely attached to their keris knives, which are ascribed with an almost spiritual import. Have a sign.


A sign. As important as wives/flutes/et all. You know.


Indonesian throne for royals. Absolutely gorgeous.


Some more ritual knives. I find these a bit appealing.



The Makara, a mythological Hindu creature. This particular wooden statue was just awesome. I want twelve in my backyard.



This lion, created out of Islamic calligraphy, was particularly striking. Probably signifies Ali, who was, after all, known as the Lion of God.


Have a sign.


A lovely embroidered Chinese coat.


As explained.


I guess I failed Filial Piety.


Fantastic Chinese scroll painting, by....


One Zhang Guolao and Lan Caihe. You know.


I believe this is a Sumatran statue. I was shushed by the guard after taking the photo. Apparently it is okay in some rooms and not others. Okay.


Knives of the Deccan plateau. There may be a knife theme here.


They shall be explained.


A vehicle of Garuda, trotted out for major religious festivals. I don't know how I've managed to miss these throughout my entire time in India. It's a little embarrassing.


And a vehicle of a lion.


Tamil Nadu? They love this bidness.


Doomed aquarium fish.

Lunch was Singapore Chili Crab. Anyone who knows me and my proclivities may guess at my thing for Singapore chili crab. My father makes a fantastic version. I went off a Chowhound tip off and selected Palm Beach seafood, which happened to be located conveniently closely to the Fullerton Hotel, the Asian Civilizations Museum, and the Mer Lion (always covered in hordes of eager looking Japanese tourists). The restaurant was typical Chinese seafood joint "chic", with gigantic aquariums as the focal point of pretty much everything. I was seated next to a businessman, who delicately and systematically took apart a lobster. Not me. Oh, no, not me. I don't know why they use white table clothes in these places, you know? Seems like a bad idea. Bad idea when I'm in evidence anyway. I commune with crab, I get close to it, I get up in it's shit (as the saying goes). This is a tactile, semi-erotic, embarassing-when-viewed-in-public but oh so good experience for me. Poor businessman at the next table, having to witness the horror.


They give you a lovely appetizer of dried fish with sweet chili sauce pre-crab, which I deeply appreciated. i love dried fish.



I had spicy morning glory, which came out first. Excellent. Some sort of dried fish material in here. I am always down for dried fish. Hooray!



I took photographs of this crab with pretty much the same ambition and passion as a porn photographer. Can't say I'm embarrassed. Look at this beast. Just look at it. Good lord. It's like an erotic dream I've had, the sort of dream you carry with you throughout the day and that sort of enraptures you but is way too embarrassing to share with anyone. You get my drift? Or, you know, there is the alternate possibility that most people do not in fact have erotic dreams about crabs doused in chili sauce and in fact I am alone in the world, which is a sad and tragic thought. Well, look at this fucker. Just look at it. Didn't cost TOO much as these things go, either. The memories last forever. Forever.



Good lord, I took a lot of photos of this crab. The waitstaff obviously thought I was insane. Such is the lot of a food blogger.

So, the Merlion. Symbol of Singapore. It's quite new, actually - thought up by the tourism board in 1966 and conceptualized soon afterwards. The fish body represents the city's origins as a humble fishing port, and the head represents the city's original name of "Singapura" - city of the lion. (Apparently the city's Malay founder had an encounter with a funny-looking lion on the island and named it as such). There are five Merlion statues in the city - only five official ones - and the tourism board carefully controls how the image is used. The primary statue originally was placed at the mouth of the Singapore river, but was moved to its current Official Viewing Platform near the Fullerton Hotel in 2002. It is now crawling with Japanese tourists. Getting a picture of it is difficult.



I walked back past the modern art museum, but couldn't summon up the energy to go inside. I did take pictures of this fantastic Ming Wong sign.....\


And these emotionally distressing statues.

So there's this thing called hostel culture, or at least I call it that. I am often gripped by flights of superiority and other repellant personality traits: I do not like or approve of hostel culture, and herein I will explain why. Hostel Culture seems to revolve around a bunch of people from the same (or pretty much country) who speak (pretty much) the same language and look (pretty much) the same, sitting around the hostel and getting sloshed together and feeling they have had a profound cultural experience. Look, it's fun to get drunk with new people, god knows I'm the last person to deny that, but it's the insular, lurking nature of Hostel People that pisses me off.

Why bother traveling to an exotic city if you're going to spend the entire vacation in the general vicinity of the hostel or on the front porch of said hostel, drinking can after can of cheap beer and discussing one's own country in great detail? What's the damn point? Not to mention that such a situation inevitably leads to quick-onset and vicious drama - someone hooks up with someone, someone accuses another someone of stealing someone's stuff out of their bunk or whatever, someone flips out and wants to go home but can't, and on and on and on. Staying at hostels is fine, there's no harm in that, meeting people at hostels is fine, but dear God get out of Dodge and check out the city instead of hanging out out front. I have succumbed to this same impulse before and now I try to avoid it. It is not inevitable. I like to think this is the truth.

I chatted with a few folks in the interest of solidarity, figured out (per usual) that no one was interested in going to eat weird-ass food with me, and shoved off in the direction of supper. Which was conveniently nearby. The mosque was beginning to fill up with worshippers, and rice and dates were beginning to be dispensed out of enormous and steaming vats to the faithful. All the cats in this neighborhood are missing bits of their tails. The men walk by a little too closely, just like in India, and just like in India I put up mental angler-fish spines and they mostly leave me alone. I like to think I am clever and fierce and urbane. This is also probably a fallacy.



Chowhound commanded that I sample some Malay Muslim food, and not being one to deny the hive mind, I made tracks for such. Hjh Maimunah was located quite close to Little India in what appeared to be the Muslim sector of town, and it was rocking after midnight. Ramadan was in full swing and packs of families were chowing down after a long day's fast.



The second discovery I made was that Malay Muslim food is 1. delicious, 2. cheap and 3. plentiful. A rice plate loaded with stuff cost about seven Singapore dollars and was enough to feed at least two of me. I picked out fish in black soy sauce, tripe cooked with coconut milk, sambal greens, dried stir-fried fish (one of my favorites of all time) and some sweet chili sauce on top. Scrumptious.

I committed a horrible sin and began eating with my left hand (suppose to be used for toilet functions, icky as fuck to use for food, you know the rest, but i am left handed, so, you know, it's a dilemma) , but a nice little lady next to me tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at my right hand. Whoops. Thankfully this was all in good fun and we made friends in a sort of broken English way immediately afterwards. A normal looking British guy walked in a few minutes later with a hijabed and ultra traditional looking Malay woman. His wife? What's the story there?

After dinner, I decided to make for the Esplanade and the bay to see what it looked like all lit up at night. This, as always, entailed more walking. I've never felt quite as safe in a darkened and immense city at night as I did in Singapore. It's one of the many benefits of the whole "benevolent dictatorship" thing. I hate to say it, but, well, truth. I ran into the Nigerian team en route, who were attempting to find a place to hail a cab so they could get back to the Olympic Village. I took them under my wing and guided them to the Raffles taxi stand.

Well, I did one good deed that day.

I ended up walking under the hyperactively modernist opera house to get to the Esplanade, finding myself semi-lost in a warren of Mall Mall Mall. I walked by a pack of teenage boys, who watched me coming with big glittery eyes for a moment. "Hello there!" one boy said in a shy voice, and I said something approximating "Good evening" to him in passing since I was intent on my goal. I heard him say behind my back, triumphantly, "See, I talked to her!" to his friends.


I finally got back to the hostel - feet hurting like hell, but happy - and set up my laptop. I began chatting with the professorial looking guy next to me. Turns out he was indeed a professor of anthropology at (of course) Sacramento State University. Lived in Midtown. He was in the city doing research on Wallace - you may know him as Darwin's arch rival - who did a large amount of work in Indonesia (mostly Borneo) and deposited some documents on his evolutionary study and the city's origin in the local archives. A Tamil Indian gent joined the discussion, and we spent the next two hours merrily discussing the fabric of the universe, showing each other pictures of stromatolites and Indonesian and Tamil art, and arguing about the cultural and actual status of women in India, Indonesia, and the USA. I am a hobby evolutionary biologist (what a thing to be) and derived extreme pleasure from talking to someone who actually was one. This would be the upside of hostels.

I then retired to my bunk upstairs at around 2:00 AM. I discovered to my displeasure that the Bollywood club next door did not, in fact, close at 11:30 like nice Bangalore clubs but instead kept rocking all night long. Thankfully, ear plugs and a stuffed whale shark clamped over my face blocked out the noise. I dropped off.

Onwards to Kalbarri

The beach near Kalbarri.

We arose somewhat worse for the wear, owing to the large amount of fried food and wine from the night before. Lyn was worse off then myself. The day had dawned windy and a bit overcast, and it looked like a storm was contemplating forming up over the Indian Ocean - this would not, as it turned out, bode ultra well for the weather in Kalbarri. I grabbed some mildly drinkable coffee at the gas station on the way out of town.



On the way out of town, we paused at the beach at nearby Jurah Bay, and were suitably impressed by the Power and Drama of Nature. The photos do a poor job of conveying the impressive irritation of the wind, the waves, and the clouds, I'm afraid. But perhaps you get the idea.



We also passed by these very eery white sand dunes. Lyn loves sand dunes, although we didn't manage to pass near enough to a really nice, pretty unmolested specimen for us to jump on it. Pity.

In the winter, the bush outside Cervantes, en route to Greenough, turns rather inexplicably green and English country-side like. There are tall trees, incredible spreads of mustard and sunflowers, peacefully grazing sheep, and old colonial farmhouses a plenty, as well as plenty of tea houses serving up scones and clotted cream. This verdant landscape is a product of the same illusion that one Captain Cook fell prey to when he first sighted Botany Bay. Cook made the unfortunate mistake of confusing Australia's *wet* season (Winter) for its *dry* season - and concluded that Australia would make a downright lovely place to farm and replicate a cozy English countryside existence. He was very, very wrong, but this illusion is what prompted England to send over the first batch of convicts in the 1787 "First Fleet." Remarkably, Australia managed to turn itself into a great and prosperous nation anyhow. But this was not, as you can imagine, a very easy process. In any case, the region around Greenough, Geraldton, and Northhampton is very friendly and gentle looking in the winter time, and it's a remarkably pleasant drive.



The wind here is a mite powerful, as evidenced by this deeply unhappy looking tree near Greenough. Some friendly local goats were using it as a shelter.



We paused to eat in Geraldton, the only city of any real size between Perth and Broome. Geraldton is a fairly characterless port city with a bit of a run-down aspect, although it is rumored the place will explode into wealth and splendor once some nearby mines are opened. As it is, the promenade area near the water is nice enough, and we proceeded to forage for food. We were accosted on the street by a very exuberant Green Peace volunteer with an eyebrow ring who would very much like us to donate to stop whaling. Fair enough: but as Lyn explained to me, in Australia, you can't just slip a charity representative on the street a 20 and call it a day. Oh, no. You must set up a direct-payment account and hand over your credit card number if you'd wish to make a donation, which is all sorts of unnerving when dealing with hippie boys with eyebrow rings in good old Geraldton. We declined.

Another byproduct of Geraldton's extreme isolation is its expensiveness: the restaurants here all charged extorinate prices for plain old lunch fare. We ended up settling on a perfectly average Thai restaurant a little off the main strip. There's also a very nicely located Dome here, right on the water. Dome is nothing if not predictable.

We headed out of town in the direction of Northampton, en route to Kalbarri. Northhampton is yet another Dusty and Sort of Old WA colonial town, featuring a couple of museums the guidebook warned us off as "boring" and the required pub, truck stop, and general store. The biggest tourist-attracting event in this town is the annual "airing of the quilts." To give you an idea of the incredible fun and adventure this place exudes. Still, it's one of the oldest towns in the region - Welsh and Cornish miners began working here in 1848, and the Lynton Convict Hiring Station was erected in 1950. And that's, well, about it. Okay, they do hold a Purple Bra day, where purple bras line the streets instead of quilts to raise cashola for breast cancer. That's actually pretty adorable. The major Historic House in town was built by convicts. Australia was built by convicts. Australia is not entirely sure it is okay with this but is soldiering on anyhow.



On the way out of Northhampton, nearby Port Gregory, there is a goddamn pink lake. This totally fascinated Lyn when she passed by last time, and I have to agree: it is totally, completely, a brilliant pink lake. This is not due to judiciously applied artificial dyes, of course. It's singular pinkness stems from a powerful bloom of algae, which produces pink-hued beta carotene. This beta carotene happens to be quite lucrative - think vitamin companies - so there's an aquaculture harvesting company collecting the stuff nearby. In the meantime, passerby's and residents get to enjoy the never ending thrill of a motherfucking pink lake.



Finally, we made it to Kalbarri, or at least the outskirts of town. To get to town, you pass through the sea cliffs bit of the national park, which totally failed to disappoint. The sight of incredible sandstone cliffs running right into the churning Indian Ocean was nothing if not impressive.


The drama of the sea. Dramatic.



It was incredibly windy up there,which was a bit unnerving (so many signs imploring tourists not to tumble off cliffs and die, the mind goes places), but I still got some pictures I deem mostly acceptable.



Entering Kalbarri town itself is a dramatic experience. The meeting of the river and sea is a real natural wonder, and even more so when a storm is coming in and the waves are turbulent and discontent. Surprisingly, Kalbarri has only been occupied since the 1950's or thereabout. It's now become a tourist mecca, albeit on a minor scale. It's very isolation means that huge numbers of folks aren't coming through here on anything approximating a regular basis. The other part of the National Park is the substantial Murchison River Gorge, which is composed primarily of red sandstone and looks startlingly like those found in the American southwest.


Eurypterids are cooler then you are.

The science dweeb in me was thrilled to find out that the canyons houses an impressive numbers of "trace" or "icho" fossils, which are composed of tracks or other impressions made by early life. Kalbarri has a number of trilobite prints. Far more awesomely, it also hosts the tracks of Eurypterids, which are giant aquatic scorpions that persisted into the Triassic era.

The town of Kalbarri itself is a very small and pleasant tourist spot, composed primarily of condominiums, fish and chip shops, and souvenir emporiums. We had rented a small cottage at a B&B in town and headed there forthwith. It was run by a tanned and cheerful older guy who (as we would later learn) supported himself by way of training people to perform High Ropes Rescues from the top of buildings and things. That is definitely hardcore in any sense of the word.


The Indian Ocean, being magnificent.

We headed out to the Wildflower Center to have a bit of a stroll prior to checking in. This region of WA is renowned for its spring wildflowers, although we were just a week or so too early to really get the full effect. The Wildflower Center is a small, private operation run by a family who possess both an ardent affection for nature and an amusing inability to spell, as evidenced by the interpretative signs. I amused myself by looking for Bulldog ants, one of Australia's most horriyfing creatures. They are large, highly aggressive ants that jump when agitated, have an inordinately painful sting, and are capable of tracking a human for a mile. Sadly, I didn't find any, although I hopefully tried to agitate several nearby ant colonies (mostly by stomping and yelling COME ON, ANTS. JUMP, YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!) . Lyn was sad she didn't get to see the hilarious results if I DID find them.


These flowers resemble purple pixels. I love them.


I have no idea, but weird, yes?

The cottage, as it turned out, was decorated entirely in Seashell Baroque by the proprietors wife. There were seashells glued literally to everything. Beds, light fixtures, walls, you name it, there were seashells glued to it in mildly Satanic patterns. I was worried that I would wake up with seashells stealthily affixed to every part of my body. Other then that, it was nice enough, and I enjoyed paging through the remarkably boring (you can understand, I think the juxtaposition there) collection of local newspapers. Apparently the Old Bastards club is by far the most happenin' group in town. Party-party.



We headed out to the beach for a while to watch the sun go down, and I did a bit of beachcombing. I found a mummified octopus, which Lyn resolutely refused to allow into the car.



I also spotted this sea-gull. I am still uncertain what kind it is, though it is the immature variety (you can tell by the drab plumage). I like the juxtaposition of the common silver gull with the big guy.



A bevy of wild Galah parrots, chewing on the grass and conversing among themselves. Listening to parrots hang out is great fun: you can tell they are having animated discussions with one another. As an American in Australia, you constantly find yourself making internal BUT THAT'S A ZOO ANIMAL comments to yourself, then feeling sort of embarrassed.

As there is nothing to do whatsoever in Kalbarri other then go to the pub (which I am certain would be filled with Old Bastards having a geriatric good time), we headed off to a embarrassingly early dinner. We picked out the Black Rock Cafe, named after a large rock in the nearby bay, and situated nicely on the coast. Not that we could actually see the water since it was dark outside, but the thought was there. The surprisingly ambitious menu featured a lot of local meat and produce, so we hopped to it. Australia has a pleasing number of good restaurants, even out in the absolute middle of nowhere. Truck stop beef n' gravy excluded.




I ordered a local lamb shank, with a red wine reduction sauce, mashed potatoes, butternut squash, and some veg. Very nicely done, and Aussie lamb's reputation is totally deserved. My mother will be thrilled to hear that Australia has converted me into a mashed potato lover. Something about the Fatal Coast just compels one to slam down the mashers, apparently. Yum. No, I do not know what the garnish of red squiggles are. Maybe beet?



Lyn had an equally good sauteed snapper with a banana-curry sauce. At first blush this sounds horrifying, but it in fact was very good, with a subtle fruit background and a nice, spicy flavor. A step up from the soggy meat pies over soggy meat sauce with extra meat I was sort of expecting to find in Australia, no?

We retired to bed early (shocker), with the intention of a busy day of national park going, river cruising, naturalist-geekery and other awesome ahead of us. This would be somewhat truncated, as I will explain shortly.