carol's kitchen

Monday, November 26, 2007

Crowning Glory


Benaulim Beach, Goa

Released from the Ayurvedic clinic in Coimbatore I felt like I'd been sprung from jail. Not that I didn't love it but the restrictions, especially food and exercise, were beginning to get to me. While on the plane to Hyderabad I thought about the doctors' parting advice―don't eat seafood, don't eat fish, don't swim in the sea, take your medicines six times a day―and promptly forgot it.

Spent one day in Hyderabad visiting a dear old friend whose health is failing; God knows when we'll meet again. After listening to my horror stories about vicious hawkers up north, his daughter took me shopping and in two hours I made up for all the shopping I'd missed in Delhi and Rajasthan, with no hassles, in shops where prices were marked on the items, and friendly sales people who let me look at their beautiful things to my heart's content. I found everything I wanted, the prices were right, ate a great home-made Indian dinner, and started to love India again.

Happy to discover nothing has changed at the beach in South Goa, my home away from home: clean, peaceful, quiet, same cook and hotel staff, fishermen, farmers, old friends… this place is paradise on earth―if you don't mind the fact that nothing's going on, which is why I love it.

I spent the better part of four years in this place writing my book, delighted to be free of distractions; I got a clean place to live, on the beach and with room service, ate fresh delicious food, and swam in the sea every day―a writer's paradise.

Then I went home to sell the book, but have not succeeded―so far. It's a good story, well written, filled with love, sex, scandal, betrayal, and international intrigue, taking place on two continents, with a fabulous cast of characters and all the elements of a best seller. I just need one good, smart publisher. Can you help me? Please!

Spending the last three weeks of my four month journey putting myself back together, walking on the sand, swimming in the sea, watching sunsets, taking care of my teeth and buying all my pharmaceuticals for a year.

Went to see my dentist in Margao, a small town about eight kilometers from the beach. Hubert Gomez is an extraordinary man, a social activist, humanitarian, and a fine dentist. His office is state-of-the-art, with an in-house laboratory, the latest equipment and a skilled staff, including a lovely periodontist who performed gum surgery on me in a pink silk sari with a white jacket over it, a mask and sterile gloves.

The perio surgery cost me 700 rupees, $17.50, and a new crown for a molar will cost me 3300 rupees, $82.50. The crown, in Los Angeles, would have cost me $1500, and the surgery several hundred more. The quality of work is as good as the best in the USA, and rest assured, Dr. Gomez is a rich man.

I've ordered my meds from a reliable pharmacy. To give one example, cholesterol medication that would cost $90 for a month's supply with the discount of my drug supplemental plan in Los Angeles, costs just $6 here. The savings is greater than 20 times for two other drugs that are prescribed for me, and they are manufactured by India's top, profit-earning pharmaceutical companies. President Clinton came to India to purchase drugs for Africa. Of course I will purchase a year's supply.

The money I've saved on dental care and prescription drugs has more than paid for my ticket to India, plus all the great French bread and foie gras I ate in France.

This has been a journey of a lifetime: two months in sunny Provence with a love affair, heavenly Kashmir on a houseboat, the palaces of Rajasthan by car, the horrors of Delhi, the Ayurvedic care in Coimbatore, my old friend in Hyderabad, great shopping, and now this: paradise on the Arabian Sea. What a lucky girl I am.

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Tuesday, November 20, 2007

I Couldn't Agree More...


"Of the gladdest moments in human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of Habit, the leaden weight of Routine, the cloak of many Cares and the slavery of Home, one feels once more happy. The blood flows with the fast circulation of childhood... A journey, in fact, appeals to Imagination, to Memory, to Hope, -the three sister graces of our moral being. "


- S
ir Richard Francis Burton, 1856

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Feelings


Woke up this morning asking myself if I’m through with India. After the fierce money-grubbing hassles and all-out shock-and-awe attack on my health in Delhi, from which I still haven’t recovered, I’m beginning to think I’ve had enough.

I’ve spent long stretches of time in India over a span of more than thirty years; have watched the unspeakable misery and filth of poverty continue to fester while a growing portion of the population thrives and prospers; prices keep rising and service goes down; the greed factor, mixed with pollution, has come to outweigh the fascination.

I got 490 viruses from inserting my memory stick into a computer near my hotel in Delhi, (infection capital of the world) and then sticking it back into my laptop. Why doesn’t someone invent a condom for memory sticks?

I got screwed by the smooth talking travel agent in Delhi who sent me on a great trip, gave me a good car and driver, but most of the promised “luxury” hotels turned out to be seedy flea bags for which I foolishly overpaid in advance.

This morning I realized if I desire beautiful Indian things I can go to Little India in Artesia, half an hour’s drive from West Hollywood, and shop at my leisure. There I can find everything I want and of better quality, with fixed prices, probably not more expensive than in India, and with no vicious sales-demons clawing and tearing me apart.

I’d like to make a suggestion for fashion savvy male WeHoans: try wearing a sarong (called lunghi in south India, dhoti in the north) for a change; they look great with tee shirts or regular shirts, and in my opinion are very sexy.

Walked over to the temple this morning to watch the pooja ceremonies, prayers, chanting, drum beating, bell ringing, burning of offerings, idol worshipping, smearing of foreheads with pastes of different colors...

Damn, I love India—and I hate it too.

My ayurvedic navarakizhi treatment continues. Five ladies rub me down with warm medicated oil, and then with cotton bags filled with rice meal dipped in hot rice milk; then wash me and dry me.
Now they’ve started a treatment on my eyes called Tharpanam, which is so bizarre you probably won’t believe it. They build a wall of sticky paste made of black graham wheat flour and water around my eyes, like goggles, stick in glass cylinders, and pour warm medicated ghee (clarified butter) into them. The treatment lasts 30 minutes during which time I have to continuously open and shut my eyes inside the melted butter. After that’s over I have to snort smoke from burning rags to calm my running nose. I swear it’s true.

During the seven days of this treatment I’m not allowed to go out into the sunlight, but only leave my room after the sun sets, like a vampire. I get to watch a little TV—grade C movies on HBO, reruns of Friends, The Restaurant, Anthony Bourdain, countless commercials for shampoo, diamond jewelry, and mobile phones, knock-offs of our reality shows: dancing with stars, singing competitions, comedy acts, and tear-jerking Bollywood movies with fabulous costumes, music and dancing.

A team of Brits have arrived to shoot yet another documentary about this place. Rooms will be even harder to get. I’m leaving the clinic on Monday, not cured of my cough but raring to go. I’ll fly first to Hyderabad to visit an old friend, then to Goa for clean air, beach, seafood, and hopefully a little fun.

I’ve saved the best news for last: my friend Huli’s son, Josiah Citrin, has just been awarded two stars by the Michelin Guide for his restaurant, Melisse, in Santa Monica. That’s as good as it gets in the USA, and I’ll bet a crème brulée he’ll get the third star, the highest honor the French can give for gastronomical excellence. Bravo, Josiah!

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Another Day in an Authentic Ayurvedic Clinic

More from The Arya Vaidya Chikitsalayam and Research Institute in Coimbatore, India

As I had already completed the full five week course of treatments at this incredible Ayurvedic Clinic a couple of years ago, for some reason I can no longer remember I decided this year I would only stay for two weeks.

Wrong!

Now I wish I could stay longer but alas, they have no room for me. This place―having but 36 rooms―gets booked up months in advance. They're turning down people every day. And now that that PBS has finally aired the documentary made here during my last visit I can well imagine what's coming.

Of course anything can happen between now and the 19th. of November when I'm supposed to leave. Someone could cancel.

Right?

Anyway, my doctors are giving me their best shot in the short time I've got left. In addition to bombarding me with round the clock herbal medicines they're starting my intensive treatment tomorrow. I will be getting "Elakizhi Podikizhi" for 30 minutes and "Full Body Navarakizhi" for 45 minutes a day; not sure yet for how many days, but I'll find out.

This is what they say:

Oil will be applied gently all over the body and head. Then the medicated Kizhi will be heated and fomentation given after checking the heat of the Kizhi.

It will be done all over the body. The kizhi will be done until the liquid used for heating the kizhi finishes completely. Pressure should not be applied on the body during treatment (even if you have pain) as your body will be very tender during the treatment.

Do's & Don't's:

  1. Just lie down and relax for about 30 minutes after the treatment.
  2. After the treatment do not expose yourself to hot sun or cool breeze.
  3. You are not allowed to go outside or exert yourself as your body is tender after Pizhichil.
  4. You are not allowed to sleep during the daytime.
  5. You are allowed to have normal light food.
  6. Avoid working in the computer/watch TV for long hours.
  7. Internal medicines will be given as usual.

I'm going to do as I'm told, follow doctors' orders, but I sure hope I find some short hours to work in my computer, do email, skype my grandson, & write about my treatment. I also like to catch some TV. It's a long day when they get you up a 6 AM to drink the first bitter medicine….

But oh how good it is at mealtime to eat that normal light food!


Wednesday, November 07, 2007

A Day in an Authentic Ayurvedic Clinic

The Arya Vaidya Chikitsalayam and Research Institute in Coimbatore, India

If food is medicine than I will surely be cured of all that ails me now. Ayurvedic cuisine (South Indian vegetarian style) is pure, simple and delicious. Everything is prepared fresh, with herbs and seasonings (very little spice), a wide variety of vegetables, lentils and grains. Meals are served in my room where I can eat at my table or on the terrace outside my room, overlooking the garden.

For breakfast I had milk tea, fresh papaya and idli, fluffy rice cakes with two sauces—onion and coconut. Mid-morning I got a glass of real buttermilk, a powerful Ayurvedic medicine, and sometime later, a small cup of fresh vegetable soup.

Lunch was Kichadi, a flavored rice stew served with five little bowls of fresh vegetables: a mixed vegetable stew in coconut sauce, carrots, okra, squash, lentil stew, a vegetable soup, and a little sweet rice pudding for dessert.

Check out the picture of dinner below. If I could get such food in West Hollywood I’d become vegetarian.

At 3 o’clock Vimala showed up dressed in a bright magenta sari; she brought me to a special room with a wooden table and massaged me for one hour with warm medicinal oil. Afterward, she washed me, as though I couldn’t do it myself. She made a thin paste with graham wheat powder and water to scrub my skin and remove the oil. Then she rinsed me with warm herbal water and dried me. I felt like a baby.

I found a thermos of milk tea and a plain cookie waiting for me in my room. I’m supposed to lie down and rest after the treatment.

Three doctors have come to my room today to examine me and ask me about my ailments. They look at my eyes and nails, listen to my pulses and frown at the sight of my tongue. I tell them I want to be young and beautiful; they say they’ll do their best.

They confer about my treatment, give prescriptions to the pharmacy for various herbal medicines and potions which are prepared specially for me and brought to my room throughout the day: a small paper cup of hot, black, nasty liquid at 6 AM, then another not-so-nasty after breakfast medicine, a not-too-bad before lunch medicine, and a vicious one after lunch.

At 6 PM I get a small potion that is so foul tasting the pharmacist stays to watch me drink it to be sure it doesn’t get dumped. Then there’s the after dinner drink that tastes like cough medicine and at bedtime a few spoonfuls of some herbal remedy that with little stretch of the imagination could be chocolate mousse. I got thick black jam to nibble every 30 minutes to combat the nefarious effects of Delhi on my lungs and throat.

Soon my oil treatments will intensify, with four to six ladies massaging me at the same time, pouring gallons of warm medicinal oil over my body, pushing out toxins, renewing muscles, softening bones, restoring imbalances, strengthening, rejuvenating—not doing me any harm.

I respect the wisdom and knowledge of my doctors who devote their lives to study and practice the ancient Ayurvedic system of holistic and natural healing; I submit to their treatments, take the medicines, and let them do their best to help me.

In the morning, after intense drum banging, symbol clashing, horn blowing, bell ringing and ecstatic chanting, the bare-chested, bare-foot priest from the Hindu temple on the grounds of the clinic came to bring me a leaf covered with flowers and some yellow paste as a blessing. The racket from the temple goes on throughout the day and has the potential of driving me insane, but I’ve decided to give in, relax and enjoy it.

At dusk, Krishnamurti walks around the grounds with a smoldering smudge pot; he carries it into my room filling it with smoke, blowing it into corners, to ward off mosquitoes. A million birds outside go crazy around this time, like in a Hitchcock movie they shriek and cackle like maniacs. I don’t know why.

I notice a Western man who sits all day on the terrace outside his room. He’s French, my neighbor tells me, has some terrible nerve disease, was carried into the clinic on a stretcher three weeks ago and is now able to walk. I love stories like this.

The daily two-hour rainstorm has abated, the electricity has just gone out; here comes dinner, and there go the drums, bells, horns and symbols. I can’t imagine how insane this place will be in a few days when Deepavali, the Hindu equivalent of Chanukah, begins. They’re already exploding fire-crackers non-stop in the town at night; the streets are lit up like Christmas.

There’s never a dull moment in India.


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