Smells Like Masala

Breaking free of the culture of perpetual jams, snacks and general laziness, Tristan and I began working in earnest Monday. We devoted an eye-taxing six hours in front of computers cutting up interviews and trying to overcome the notorious 5-D Mark II audio drift which has now become the bane of my existence.

Holed up in our guest house while the first day of monsoon struck Dharamkot outside, we learned a whole new vocabulary while trying to best technology’s shortcomings.

We synchronized audio at a subframe level,  streamclipped and learned all about keyframes. Meanwhile, just under our balcony our hebrew neighbors tried to lure us out to dance in the rain.

It was a tempting offer, but like the (insert manly diligent, probably military metaphor here) before us we strove toward our goal.

The fun stuff being mostly over, we’ve begun the first and most tedious parts of production.

While we toll away in dark rooms over brilliantly captured audio and video, the sounds of Hebrew folk music wafts in through our open windows.

You see, Dharamkot is little Israel here in Dharamshala. Most of our new-found friends are Israeli and I’ve learned far more Hebrew than Hindi.

Had someone told me a year ago I’d be hanging out in the Indian Himalayas with a bunch of Israelis, I would have been forced to question their sanity.

Life certainly is happily and wonderfuly bizarre.