I am in room Nothing. Im going to call it Seven. Its the joker in the pack of rooms Ive stayed in, in India so far. Bhopal, Goa, Kumbh, Varanasi, Pushkar, Bhopal, Goa. Seven Rooms, three of them were number 7, the rest didnt have any numbers, like this one, my brightly Orange Hindu bedroom #7.
Every room, starrts out as a functional respite from the rigours of travel, traversing ground over time to exist in another space for an alloted time. Every room, after a while becomes stagnant, and somewhat intolerable, a reminder of impersonal functionality it serves, imposing cost, and inevitable build up to departure to the next place. The space becomes familiar and a nest as best possible within the constraints. The room exists for a period and it is your prerogative to either ignore it and spend as much time out of it as possible, or to concede to it. There is no way of personalizing the space, as the knowledge exists that you will be leaving that room in a foreseeable period, and with that it becomes a crater for the veritable bag explosion when you are finally done with negotiations and finances. Just as quickly it becomes the events of the period which in some case are best left in the room when the door is closed and the bill is paid.
Its impossible to be tidy, your bag is designed to take as much as you brought and its designed to take that load utilizing every possible area of volume the space will take. So the contents spring out and are organized into whats needed, what is to be washed and what isn’t needed, which means piles.
If theres a desk it becomes my office, cables wires chargers batteries keys tools trinkets and gadgets adorn the surface. The equipment stays in the case because its safe from humidity, dust, heat and insects.
The bed becomes the other desk, designed perfectly to house everything at arms reach when you are laying under the 720rpm ceiling fan buffeting you with slightly cooler air, too drenched in your own sweat to contemplate anything other then momentary thoughts and vignettes of the days events before drifting in and out of sleep for the next five hours while fighting with mosquitos.
its amazing to me anyway, what your subconscious tells you. I kept telling myself for the last two years that I needed a new pair of sunglasses for my trip to india after the coating scratch debacle in the back seat of my friends car as I was trying to take pictures of the downtown heart of Seattle as we were whizzing by on the soon to be vanished ‘viaduct’. I had lost the rubber eyepiece from my Fuji 546 camera and the screw threads are pretty sharp, and between all those little b-bump’s on the viaduct i managed to scratch odd a healthy portion of the lens coating on my decade old Bolle coachwhip’s..
Anyway, Id convinced myself that I needed new sunnies for the trip and that it was time to buy only the best that I could afford, so I did a chunk of research on what good was and was convinced that the terminator style Oakley Batwolf’s were what I needed -fuck knows why I thought that these would be the best thing since sliced bread because i tried them on in a handful of stores and then poached a pair at a great price on eBay and as soon as I got them I whipped out the hot knife and branded some holes in the arms to attach the requisite shock-cord bungee, and I did it before id even worn the things out for a full day. Well after about 4 days i realized they were just never actually designed to stay on a normal human head, they are designed for cops and pin heads with long noses and axe shaped faces or faces that have been shaped with the help of an axe whichever.. or frat boys who wear them on their fat heads and dont actually put them over their eyes.
So then my REI shit-yerself-in-side-out annual discount came up and Id some money on my account anyway for whatever reason so i tested and played with a heap of styles and settled on a really comfortable pair of whatevers that were so insanely comfortable that I just dont know what baby. until I got up on my bike and they became buckets for sweat, and it really pissed me off. So I tried them off my bike and they were fine but then the summer came and the sweat came back and that killed them for India because well india is supposed to be warm over there like.. So I returned them and bought something else more pertinent to surviving a non zomby apokalips.
In a screaming cold sweat drenched wake up about something else entirely I couldn’t get back to sleep and amongst a few other things which Im sure will become their own uninteresting blog entries, I remembered that I was in fact a relatively smart 31yo when I came to the conclusion in that Nelson based backpacker oriented shop in New Zealand after leaving that really cool pair of sunnies Id had for almost 14 years, the ones with the crack in the right lens. They were so cool and they were high end knock offs of Terminator/Velvet Underground style Balorama’s,. in some cranky arsed paedo’ farmers house in Nelson after having missed my bus in Wellington. I remember that dirty old wanker came into the filthy room he provided in the middle of the night with his hands extended wearing gray track pants and a navy wool sweater and a large bratwurst down one leg of the trackies stinking of booze and thinking he could have his way with the alter boy fairy (me) who came to stay in his smelly old dirty lime colored walled, orange sheeted bed which was concave from abuse.. disgusting.
Where was I? Oh yes sunnies.. so in a moment of clarity I went looking on ebay for the same old pair of Coachewhip’s which had served me so well all these years only to find they aren’t made any more and the only ones I could get are used. Hopefully the lenses are Ok.