Turtles!

We sit huddled on an isolated beach under the stars. Close to midnight, the waves seem to lap noisily in the moonlight. They seem all the more noisier, given how quiet we attempt to be.

Our motley crew of four - a homestay owner, his 10-year old daughter, a guide and I whisper very very softly in the dark, our cellphones turned off to keep away light. Our eyes adjust to the only light from the stars, the glow of the breaking waves nearby and the occasional glisten of sand.

About fifty feet away is a large sea turtle. She is laying eggs. We sit in the sand and speak in hushed tones to not disturb or spook her. It feels intimate, it feels important, and we must do our part to be quiet and protect her, her eggs, her unborn babies, and her entire  endangered species.  Not quite sure why we remain so close by? Oh well, I’m too excited to ask.

In a homestay on the Konkan coast in Maharashtra, a couple of months ago, my guide and friend - the owner’s 10-year old daughter, tells me all about the turtles. She shows me the pits from egg-laying spots from the night before, another abandoned spot, when the turtle started to dig, only to decide it wasn’t good enough and found another, and a protected area further out on the isolated beach where the turtle conservancy folks bury the eggs. The area is cordoned off to protect it from animal (and human) predators and they monitor it carefully, before and once the eggs begin to hatch.

Our homestay owner is a volunteer for the turtle conservation, and I am only too excited to walk up and down the beach after dinner, looking for turtles. As I trail along with them, they fill me in on the ins and outs of the Olive Ridley turtles, their laying of eggs, the hatching of their babies, and the entire process, including the conservation intervention and effort to keep as many as possible alive. 

On the first night, we walk a few miles on the beach in the dark and don’t spot any trails or turtles. He calls the conservationist to inform him of the areas he has combed. The next day is windy, and he tells me that there will be turtles arriving for sure that night to lay eggs. I cross my fingers.

Sometime after 10 pm that night, my 10-year-old friend calls to tell me they are ready to go look for turtles. I join in. We amble along the beach with a flashlight, looking for turtle trails from the ocean. He spots a trail. Quickly, he uses a smaller flashlight, to prevent too much light in case the turtle is close by or laying eggs.  He notices another set of trails. “Looks like we missed her. She’s gone back into the ocean”.

The second set of trails are from the beach back to the ocean. He closely examines the area where the trails converge. “Hmmm… she hasn’t laid any eggs”. He knows what to look for, how the sand will seem and how loose, even if she has carefully buried the eggs.

Perhaps she will come back or find another spot. We walk further along and find another set of track. All lights are turned off, except a small flashlight and we quietly follow the trail. Sure enough, at the end of the trail is a large shadowy form, it could be a rock, it is a turtle, covered with sand and kelp. She is laying eggs. We leave her in the shadows and move away.

Someone notices movement a little further. We move towards it, to see another turtle wet and glistening in sand. She is searching for a spot to lay eggs. We stop in our path, to not disturb her, and go back to the other turtle. The homestay owner texts and calls the conservationist who will arrive soon. We wait in the dark, near the turtle, keeping her company. Even if I am a mere passer-by in this conservancy process and project, it feels special to remain quiet for this turtle, knowing her eggs will be taken to safety and that many of her babies will hatch. Fingers crossed. After that, it is the cycle of nature, again.

The turtle is done. We hear thumping. She covers the area with sand and with loud thumps, and buries the eggs in sand. I marvel at nature and for the opportunity to witness this in the dark of the night. My 10-year-old friend is excited. “We can touch her shell before she goes back. Sometimes their shell will glow when touched”. Apparently, there is bioluminescence in these waters. And the weeds/kelp/algae on the turtle’s back will light up when touched. More marveling at nature.

It is said the female Olive Ridley turtle will come back to the same beach where she was born to lay her first eggs once she is twelve years old.  As we sit in the dark, I wonder how old this grand lady may be. Or her friend, the other turtle who we quietly followed and then let her be, once she started looking for a spot to lay eggs.

The conservationist arrives and quickly digs up the eggs. He scoops sand with it, deftly and quickly, for they must be kept warm and buried again quickly. The eggs are round, like golf balls, and seem a little squishy, not hard like chicken eggs (I do not touch or photograph them). He seems to keep finding more. He pulls out a whopping 101 eggs!

Since the second turtle seemed to be taking her time laying the eggs, the conservationist tells us he will come back to get those eggs after midnight. I am filled with awe at the magic of the night as I walk back. 101 eggs. That will be a lot of turtles. I am told that of the 101, about 80 to 90 will likely hatch and of that, about four or five will survive. I sober at the numbers. Which means conservation efforts will have to continue. Last year the turtle conservancy in the area released almost five thousand babies in the ocean. 

Nature is captivating. It has its own wise and time-tested inbuilt rhythm. We need that rhythm and beat, even if our modern lifestyle seems to want to do everything to break it. We need each and every creature out there, the dullest and the brightest, for each has a role to play in Nature’s design. And as we become smarter every day, I hope we remain smart (and humane) enough to remember how much we need them. And how important they are to us and our bigger picture, and to keep our bigger picture whole.

A few pictures and video as the turtle scurried back to the ocean 

 

Travel is not for the faint hearted (or weak muscled)

In my opinion this is just too long a post. But my friend in India who had been tracking my whereabouts says that she wanted to read it all and that I should share it…. So here it is. 

I run across Munich airport like my life depends on it. Fed on a staple of Hollywood blockbusters, you know what that run looks like. Move over Jason Bourne, this middle-aged superstar is here to upstage you. Not only because of her speed or alacrity, but because she’s doing so with a carry-on wheelie whirling noisily (and sometimes non-cooperatively) alongside, a pink unwieldy bag on the shoulder, a bottle (that rolled out during security) under the armpit, whilst making sure she doesn’t  drop her phone or any travel documents. Yes, take that Jason Bourne - go ahead and look like you do accessorized like she is. 

No - I’m Not trying to catch any bad guys, or running away from any either, all my papers are legit and in order, (I’m boring like that) - I run only to catch my flight. 

And as in any aforementioned action movie, we must move to a day earlier. 

17 hours ago. Mumbai airport. I arrive to be told my flight is cancelled. I can wait a day in Mumbai and take the same flight in exactly 24 hours. But wait, this flight that I paid extra extra for so I would have only one connection and complete immigration etc. in my final destination operates only three days a week. Tomorrow is not one of those days. Aah… says the agent, “You’ll go via Salt Lake City” With a very tight layover, I notice as I squint at the itinerary. 

“The cockpit crew is sick, and they have no other crew here in Mumbai,” he tells me in confidence. 

“And they will all be better by tomorrow?” I ask cynically. 

“Most certainly” he assures me with his bright smile and 20-something optimism. 

Hmm… also a certified physician, I note sardonically. Did I mention cancelled flights, bring out the best, (and clearly the kindest) in me? Sigh… I decide not to grill the poor fellow about the nature of the cockpit crew’s ailment. I need to make a decision. Quick. 

He looks again at his screen. His face lights up. He has a solution. Mine does too - till I hear his plan. A domestic transfer to Bangalore or Delhi, a flight to Singapore, an 18-hour layover, then a flight to SFO and then my final destination. “How long will I be traveling?” My ears stop listening when his math crosses 45 hours. 

The key he says, taking me into confidence, is to get out of Mumbai. For all flights leaving Mumbai are heavily booked (and also overbooked, he hesitantly whispers). Move over again, Jason Bourne, my intelligence gathering skills are at an all-time high - my sources really seem to be spilling it all. 

Flights from Europe or other Asian hubs to the US are not very full. It’s the Mumbai segment that’s the problem, he shares. His face lights up again. 

“I can put you on your scheduled flight from Amsterdam to Portland.” He announces triumphantly. 

“How?” I ask incredulously. “You’ll have to hurry,” he tells me, “get on a flight to Munich and another from Munich to Amsterdam. And then catch the original second (now third) flight”. 

My brain tries to do the math. Will there be enough time to do flight transfers? “Oh yes,” assures my ever-optimistic friend. You won’t have to change terminals in Amsterdam or Munich. It’s all going to be close by. 

He sends me to a Lufthansa agent who gives me a boarding pass - but only till Munich. “Wait, what about the other boarding passes? There won’t be time…” 

“Sorry I can’t issue those here - those are KLM flights - you’ll get them at the gate” I hesitate, trying to weigh in this situation, when he hurries me, saying the flight will leave soon and that I should rush. You’re sure I’ll get them at the gate and that it will be quick? “Definitely” another smile and more optimism.

Hmmm… All those smiles and assurances from the 20-something Mumbai airline agents is probably how and why I am now running like a frenzied woman ah no, superstar, at the Munich airport. 

Munich 

The flight is late by a few minutes and I ask the flight attendants if they have information for connecting flights and gates. I am also eager to get out of my seat, as I sit smooshed between two heavy guys (thinking wistfully of my chosen perfect seats on the flight that never took off). Of course, one is coughing. As I put on my mask he tells me his father in law’s cat gave him allergies. Sigh... scratch everything they say about the journey being more important than the destination! 

The flight attendant looks at my printed itinerary “Aah you will have to change terminals; KLM flights are on terminal 1.”  Argh… never again trust a smiling flight agent. 

Not only is the next flight not easy to get to, but getting to the other terminal and my gate involves a security check, a train ride, a bus ride (which of course operates only every 20 minutes since it is too early in the am.) and running, lots of running. The bus arrives, I get on, I ask the driver if we can leave - there isn’t a soul around. He gives me a disapproving and firm, “no”. So much for trying to break the German discipline. Jason Bourne would have driven it himself. I try no such stunt. Getting imprisoned in Munich would require me to write a book, not a blogpost. 

He tells me where to go - I run like crazy trying to reach the gate  - only to arrive at a passport control. Nooooo. I wonder if I should take the flight back to Mumbai to have a chat with the agents who put me on this flight. No boarding pass, no proceeding to gate. I’m told to go downstairs - more running. 

And then finally I stop running, it’s too late. I wonder why I kept running, why I didn’t give up earlier, this tenacity is exhausting. But again, back to matters on hand and the counter in question. 

“You missed the flight” he informs me. I brace myself to not react, or weep, or call him Sherlock; instead I ask, “Is there another flight you can out me on?” 

“Oh no, I don’t do that. Call this number. After 8 am.” It is 7 am. I look at him in disbelief. He is right there. He had a computer in front of him. I ask if there is anyone else who can help me. He tells me it’s just him here and that this is a small airport. I want to scream. I don’t. 

I can’t believe it. There’s got to be another agent who can help put me on a flight. I search for information and talk to a few other people who direct me to another place that may have KLM agents even if it is only for baggage. I go to the deserted area and call out. An unhappy looking agent emerges and shoos me away from there saying that Lufthansa will be responsible for booking my next flight since their flight got delayed. “So should I call this KLM number?” I ask waving the piece of paper.

“Call if you want to,” I stare at him open-jawed, as he walks away.

Just great, I am at an airport on a continent midway from my travel origin and destination, without a boarding pass, or a plan, unsure of which airline is supposed to assist me and who and where to find any assistance. 

I look for some place to charge my dying phone and place a phone call that will probably cost me a fortune. Of course, I’m on hold. 

And did I mention, as I navigate the different counters, I hear an airport strike is going to begin in Munich the next day!! Which means all flights will be cancelled. Which means I need to get out of there pronto!!!

While still on hold, I decide to find the Lufthansa agents (back on the other terminal, of course). I need to leave that airport before the strike begins, even if it means I just buy a new ticket, I decide.

Wow. This saga is getting longer than I imagined. But I’m jetlagged and have nothing better to do at 4 am and how can I leave you hanging in suspense, right? So, continuing on…

Miraculously as my number for the Lufthansa agent is called, I reach the KLM agent as well. The Lufthansa agent chides me for contacting two airlines. But...but… I start… no one told me who would help. Reluctantly, I hang up on the KLM agent (that expensive phone call, remember?) when he mentions Tampa, Florida.

The Lufthansa agent scolds me some more and tells me she should be able to help me. Then her more matronly self emerges as she hears my saga. She scowls at the screen - they’ve booked you on a flight -  Munich to Newark then Tampa Florida and then Portland (two days later!). 

“Why do you want this flight”? She asks. 

“I most certainly don’t”, I reply. KLM has somehow auto booked me. Clearly their AI minions aren’t thinking clearly. 

She finds me another flight and sends me off to the United airlines counters and asks me to say hello to her cousin in Portland! “Come visit,” I tell her “I’ll show you around. I’ll give you my number”. Clearly she is my most favorite person in that moment. She tells me she hates to travel. I burst out laughing and say, “for sure, you see everything that goes wrong!”

And then of course, there is the matter with luggage. She tells me they do not load luggage till the passenger is on the flight. I have only one checked bag and brilliantly enough, it has an airtag in it. I can see it is still in Munich. Now whether it will get handed to the new airline in time for the flight is a matter for some suspense, but I have no bandwidth to worry about that.  

As I chat with the United airlines agent who prepares my tickets, I tell her this is my second unscheduled flight to Munich. The first was when our flight from London to Berlin got cancelled and flew via Munich and spent hours at this airport. She asked if I have ever been to Munich. I tell her I haven’t, and she laughs and says that’s why this was all happening. Sigh… now I know what I need to do to break that jinx!

And while my legs and shoulders are sore from the strange running with luggage, I’m glad to have found a flight out of there. For in the hours spent at many counters, I learn of a two-day airport strike in Munich that is to start the next day.  The odd thing is I laugh. A laugh that was accepting of the craziness and of everything that could go wrong and the realization that even when things were out of my control, that I would eventually get home. 

And just when I let go of all the trying, that’s when things start to work for me. 

Jet lag and the batata chivda

They say you regress into your young self when you go back to your place of origin. 

Okay fine, but seriously, do I really want to regress that far? I ask myself, at 3 am as I think of stealthily sneaking into my mom’s kitchen to get some batata chivda (a savory and sweet potato fritter snack filled with raisins and nuts). 

Jet lag makes you hungry - at odd times. And while grabbing a banana may be a more sensible (and easier, not to mention healthier) alternative, I carefully evaluate my kitchen raid. 

I text my kid on a different continent and time zone. 

Her response makes me laugh. Game on, I decide. 

All the stealth and sneaking is so I don’t wake up my parents. But the process goes way way back into my childhood as I try to sneak a besan ladoo from my grandmom’s kitchen when she goes down for her afternoon siesta.

As your childhood miscreant days will remind you, it’s mostly about noise and timing so you don’t get caught with your hand in the proverbial cookie jar. 

Hmmm… how much noise will I make?

My walk is soft and sneaky. No noise there. Check. 

Opening the jar could involve some loud displaced sounds in the dark. Hmm…

My mind wanders again to my grandmother’s steel dabba ( container) - now that was trickier and far noisier. Opening it involved some force for my tiny fingers and God forbid, if the lid fell and clanged away on the tile floor, it meant certain doom. Not only did I have to contain the lid from falling, but my tiny palms had to quickly muffle the resonance and echo of the metal sound as it opened. Yes, this is how a tiny restless kid sometimes found ways to entertain herself as the house fell quiet in the afternoon. 

 I think of my grandmother’s stainless steel dabba (container) of ladoo (sweet sticky balls of ghee, sugar and roasted-to-perfection chickpea flour, seasoned with cardamom, and masterfully coaxed into the softest, most delicious creations. Lined symmetrically in perfect concentric circles, my grandfather ate one at around 4 pm each afternoon. 

Now that makes me almost certain that my grandmother knew exactly when one went missing and who was responsible for it. But she never once breathed a word to me. Sheer love. I notice it now, even if I didn’t notice it then. 

I suppose, a part of our childhood is spent imagining ways in which we dupe adults. Only to understand later that they always saw right through us and all our silliness. 

As I regress into the scrawny barefooted kid quietly opening my grandmother’s glass cabinet to get the heavy (for me then) dabba, I remember all the excitement this activity entailed. 

True. All evidence of a childhood filled with antics - mostly unnecessary. Mostly creating a LOT of excitement over teeny tiny insignificant things. 

Is that really why I want to break into my mom’s kitchen? Is it really for the batata chivda? Or for an attempt to create the laughter and excitement from the silliest insignificant things from childhood. 

Even if I may never feel that level of excitement over small things anymore,  maybe just maybe,  a part of me feels that I may detect the slightest trace. 

When all fails… sing!

It’s January. A time of renewed hope - for ourselves, our intentions, our lives. A time to take stock, a time to chart directions, an imaginary map of our life, steered by the best-serving intentions.

Do you sense mockery in my tone? Maybe. For this year, I draw a blank. Boredom? Inertia? A sense of futility? Been there done that? Been there, failed at that?  

Perhaps it is time to try something new. How about looking at something we already do – something that saves us? I close my eyes and search for the first thing to pop into my head.

When things get rough, sometimes, I simply sing.

Really? Is that all you got? I ask myself. Just great. So here, let me continue on my series of unsound advice.

But first let me tell you how I think it all began. I may have my sister to thank. I was probably nine years old and she was nineteen. We went to a very crowded temple fair and the two of us got on the Ferris wheel. It was great, you could see the lights and the city below. Till suddenly, it wasn’t so great. Something was wrong with the Ferris wheel. It was rickety and shaky. Maybe it was just our pod that was shaking like crazy, or maybe it was all of them.  Our fingers clenched the rail. I held my breath. Clearly, we were doomed.

And just when things couldn’t get worse, they did. The Ferris wheel stopped moving. And yes, we were on the top. Because it would all be too easy and simple if we were in the gondola right at the bottom, where escape would seem easy or possible, right?

Right. At that point in my life, I turned to my sister, who was ten years older than me, and had all the answers. Always. And to everything. 

“Let’s sing!” she said. That was her solution. And since she had all the answers. Always. And to everything, I figured that was our only choice. “Sing what?” I probably asked terrified. As if our song choice were the most important thing in that moment. Well, I’m almost certain I asked that.

I am certain we sang “Top of the world”. Not sure if that was her choice or mine, in any case, at least today, it seems like a terrible one. While our exact playlist may be a fuzzy memory, I am certain of the panic-stricken volume in which we sang or screeched in.  

Convinced that the sheer volume of our voices could drown out all our fears, we sang like our lives depended on it. In that moment we probably believed it. It was our only solution.

And maybe it was. And maybe it continues to be. For sometimes, when nothing makes sense, I sing.

There have been many times I have done so. In the car, returning from a doctor’s appointment, feeling helpless, or frustrated. And volume be damned - I sing so loudly, that passing cars with their windows rolled up can hear me. At times, in writhing pain, or unable to make sense of new diagnoses, or simply overwhelm, when nothing makes sense, I sing.

And sometimes I sing in my head – in the middle of strange, unnerving, or unpleasant situations. In a crowd, or in public, when I can't sing aloud, I sing in my head. Yeah yeah, I know how crazy all this sounds. To add to this, I often sing to incorrect lyrics. Yes, I often make up lyrics as I go, at times even convinced mine are better than the original.

Not sure if all this will make you want to attempt this, but try it. It works. And it is time tested. For my sister has all the answers. Always. And to everything. 

Happy New Year!

Love,

Ruta