Re-Digitized

Last weekend, we had exactly 20 hours in Delhi between arriving from Dharamsala and departing for Leh. In that time, we had only a sliver of hope that we might get our digital camera fixed. We had assumed that the only realistic option would be to ship it off to a Panasonic service centre for a couple of weeks, which would do us no good as we had a flight to catch at 5am the next morning. But, as we were headed to one of the most photogenic places in the world, we figured it was worth a shot.

We started our day by checking out a camera shop in Connaught Place, an upscale shopping district in New Delhi. They took one look at our camera and insisted that one day was not enough time for the necessary repairs. We begged for any advice they may have and they half-heartedly suggested we check out Chandhi Chowk market in Old Delhi.

Old Delhi is filled with markets that offer specific goods and services. For example, on the way to Chandhi Chowk we drove through a market comprised of only wedding invitation shops. Next to that was a market of over two dozen stores all selling various forms of chains - new ones, old ones, dirty ones, etc.

In Chandhi Chowk, our autorickshaw driver pulled up to one of the many camera repair stands and suggested we give them a try. The guy behind the counter turned our camera on and off a couple of times with his ear pressed against it. After a couple of seconds of consideration he said he could have it fixed in two hours for 2500 Rupees (about $60). We must have looked a little skeptical, because he brought out a box from under the counter and proclaimed: "Look, this man send me his camera all the way from the Netherlands. He knows I am the best repairman."

Nothing in India is too broken to be fixed. Around every corner you can find someone to glue your flip flops back together, or rewire your alarm clock. In Canada, when I have tried to have various items repaired - shoes, cell phones, ipods, printers, even a paper shredder - I have been given the same response every time: "Even if we can fix it, it will cost you more than just buying a new one." So the old one gets thrown out and sent to some wasteland, most likely in India or China.

We headed back to Chandhi Chowk after a couple hours of sight-seeing and, true to his word, the camera was running perfectly. When we asked for a detailed receipt so that we might claim the repairs on our insurance the guy just laughed. After we insisted, he took out one of his business cards and wrote "Panasonic, 2500 Rupees" on the back. He passed it to me and muttered, "Insurance... must be nice."

"The best repairman"

Side Project

Sorry we have been neglectful bloggers.

We've settled in a little tourist enclave, Bhagsu, 2km from the Dalai Lama's home and the Tibetan government in exile. Bhagsu is packed with Israeli backpackers and, as a result, its many restaurants offer some of the best hummus east of the Middle East.

There is an amazing Tibetan organization that we have fallen in love with here. It's called Rogpa, and you will soon know all about it as we are going to plan a big fundraiser for them in Toronto. In the mean time, we have been keeping ourselves very busy editing and designing their upcoming newsletter. Also, we sometimes get to hold adorable babies at their daycare centre.

Many more posts to come when we get our films developed and scanned in Delhi. Life was so much easier when it was digital.

Back to Analog

Both our digital cameras have broken. This makes presenting compelling visual content on The Linen Club difficult, but not impossible. We have two film cameras left (A Kyocera T4 and a Holga), so we can get our photos developed and scanned. This will delay things somewhat, but we will forge onward.

Here are some photos in the meantime.

Shoe Shopping

I'm no trendsetter, but I'm banking on Rajasthani footwear being the next big thing on Queen West West West. So I bought two pair- one casual, one a little more fancy.

Hot Springs

In the town of Vashisht, 3km from Manali, there is a natural hot spring that feeds several public baths. For locals, the baths are part of their daily washing of bodies, clothes, linens, and pots and dishes. For the many Indian domestic tourists, the baths and the adjacent temple are an attraction, in front of which you pose stiffly for family photographs. 

At first, Andrew and I saved our own cleaning routines for the privacy of our bathroom. This was a big mistake. Once we eventually joined in the hot springs fun, there was no turning back.

My first attempt at a group bath was a minor failure. Seeing as Indian women swim in the ocean fully clothed in saris, I figured I should cover up so as not to offend anyone. That first morning, I entered the ladies' bath and quickly stripped down to bikini, with tank top and shorts over top. While submerging myself in the shockingly hot water, straining to avert my eyes, I quickly realized that for the first time in three months, I was the most overdressed woman in the room.

Within these four concrete walls (just tall enough so you can't peek in from the road), several generations of Indian women were splashing around, completely naked! I hadn't seen so much as bare knee in months, and suddenly it was the full monty. There were definitely a few giggles about my outfit, but otherwise I was able to slip right into the action, throwing a few elbows for a spot under a spout. 

From then on, I look forward to the morning bath, and baring all for my fellow sisters. It is the one place in this conservative country that I really feel that I can connect with the Indian women. Without men and clothes to hide behind, my fellow bathers are comfortable, confident and playful. 

Men's bath - surrounding walls just low enough for a sneaky photo

This afternoon, our tightening budget inspired me to queue up for one of the spouts outside the baths to do some self-laundering. A few ladies took an interest and scolded me for my poor scrubbing technique. It was all good fun until I realized the repercussions of having chosen the last spout downstream. A pile of soapy laundry ended up covered in peanut butter chunks when unbeknownst to me a woman started cleaning out PB containers two spouts above me. 

Elbow grease

Bonus Footage

Here I am landing my first trout on a fly I  tied. A real beauty. My landing technique is still a work in progress, as you can see. Hear Deepak say "Give me" halfway through.    

Tight Lines

My new favorite thing (again) is fly fishing. It was my favourite thing for a time when I was a a young lad, 8 or so. But I didn't ever really go fly fishing, I just collected the equipment and read Field and Stream and took a fly-tying course in a Peterborough strip mall with some old men. 

So actually going fishing for three days on the Tirthan River in Himachal Pradesh was a real thrill. The weather was a little ugly but the valley was beautiful and the fishing was great fun, but also serious. There is something very serious about fly fishing. 

The Tirthan, and other rivers across appropriate terrain in India, contain salmo trutta, Brown Trout. They're not a native species, but they've lived in the mountain streams and rivers for a hundred years or more- they were stocked by the British. "Wherever the British army went, there are trout," our host Christopher told us. (Such an aquacultural feat amazes me - how did they manage to transport the fry, keep them at the appropriate temperature, etc...?)  Over two thousand years earlier, Alexander the Great's army inhabited these valleys as well. 

Day One saw us rent one fly rod, and start off at an easy spot to cast, where I hooked a decent sized fish (10 inches is a keeper) but lost it on behalf of a poor landing effort. As the afternoon progressed, I noticed Mel getting a little frostier. Not cold, but bored. I realized I hadn't been sharing the rod very well. Maybe at all. We decided to rent two rods the next day, and hire a guide, in hopes of more fish. I read Way of the Trout at night, voraciously. 

Losing a fish

The next morning we were still very much "finding our rhythm" with the line which accounted for many lost flies. After we had lost 10 or so, I asked our faithful guide Deepak how much the flies cost. Maybe wondering if the bill would come through to us. He said they were 200 Rs - $5 each. This could get expensive, we thought. I did manage to hook into a keeper male, which we decided to have for dinner, smoked. 

All Thumbs

Handiwork

At lunch I decided to tie a few flies, mostly to save us the expense of losing them. My skills were rusty since my Ptbo days - I broke the vice - but I managed to produce a few passable weighted nymph imitations. In the afternoon, I managed to hook a nice little trout on one of my flies. I can't believe it actually worked. Who knew. It was a handsome feeling. 

Happy

Day three was two rods and no guide. Still going through many flies but I was starting to feel the whole thing out. I only caught a tiny trout, but Mel caught the fish of the day (on another one of my flies) as the sun was going behind the mountains. I was glad for her. 

All Smiles

If you're ever in the neighbourhood, I highly reccomend a stay at the Himalayan Trout House. Great food, atmosphere, and fun in a remote mountain village setting. We were only charged 150 Rs for all the lost flies.

All in all, a magical three days for me and another obscure and expensive hobby, refound. 

Fish On

Nice Spot

Johnny Appleseed, Amen

The Road Home