First days of travelling in the beautiful south…
Before that, though, an episode I need to recount from the time in Goa.
For any of you who ever wondered what the swinging sixties were really like (this does not include Dad, Uncle Neil or Fari, who were there hooting and waving their shirts in the air), I think I found the closest modern equivalent at a beach party in Arambol. We took a taxi (a very un-cool think, I know) from south Goa to north, Paul, Gaz and I, along with some English girls we’d met. We arrived about four in the afternoon, and having quaffed a bottle of wine en route I was already waning. We sat and groaned in a café for half an hour, trying to remember the kind of energy that young people are supposed to have. Then we made towards the sea.
Halfway down the beach, we could see a muddy, undulating mass. Everybody we could pick out seemed to be moving to some internal rhythm (i.e. one that nobody else shared). We drew nearer, fascinated, aghast. There on the sand, accompanied by bongos, was the bizarrest fancy-dress parade I had ever seen. Bunny-girls went alongside people dressed as cats, one guy was dressed as a sumo with a papier mache dumbell marked ‘Very Heavy’. Several people were dressed as trees, while one guy sported trousers so tight they must have genuinely come from the seventies, and been through a few hot washes since. Yes, we had found it, ‘the scene’, and it was utterly hilarious.
As sunset drew on, we subsided onto the sand, utterly speechless. It seemed that every cliché in the book was there, every ageing hippy and failed seeker we had ever been promised by a hundred smug guidebooks. They had come out of the woodwork, reeling, a woodwork which itself was laced with LSD. What could we do but follow?
(Sweat, by the way, was the scent a la mode. Is this how the sixties smelled?)
The parade staggered to a halt at one end of the beach. Here, speakers and rough walls had been set up, masquerading optimistically as a venue. The drums continued, and the dancing grew more ridiculous, and, the more we consumed, logical. Leaving behind our cynicism, we joined in the fray. At about ten thirty, when the curfew for loud music is observed in all Goa, we were curled on the sand, happily chatting rubbish, and around 3, we heaved ourselves back to the town to commence the long haul home.
So there it is, then, I think I found it, what Goa is all about. Part of the joy of the place, for those who enjoy it, is that parties are often random, spontaneous. We ourselves received a tip-off from a British chap we met, and were quite prepared to hire a car and make a road trip of it, before we realized that none of we five were willing or able to take on the Indian highways. So taxi it was. A small cheat in a genuine night, and good fun to curl up in as we rocked home at 5.
It wasn’t long after that I left my friends, contemplating a 15 hour train ride to Kerala. I myself headed directly east, to another traveller’s ‘enclave’ (a word I have grown to dread) called Hampi. Hampi town modern is set among the ruins of a Hindu kingdom, dating from 1500, though parts of the place are much older. I would like to dedicate the majority of this blog, indeed, to the 24 hours I spent in Hampi, and everything I did there.
First, the night bus. I was itching to get back to traveling proper, after Goa and all its indulgences (a bit of an easy place, where not much happened). Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed once more, I had shiny visions of real conversations with small-town Indian people, of drinking chai while sitting on floors, of falling back on all my resources of Hindi and anything I could pick up of the local languages. And it came, in due course, but first, the night bus. Awash with optimism, I reached the bus-stop, and India responded with a flick of its tail. 1) The bus was 2 hours late, and 2) I couldn’t hold down the steak I had eaten as a farewell to beef-eating Goa, and had to stagger behind a local house to be sick. I couldn’t help exchanging a chuckle with myself/the night at large, but wouldn’t be put off so easily.
When it arrived, there were complications. The bus company (which had charged an exhorbitant 600/- Rs. for the ticket) kept trying to thrust us alongside random strangers in the sleeper compartments. I was almost top-and-toe with an American girl, before I kicked up a fuss, threw my bag at the guy and turned over to go to sleep. He was trying to make space for extra passengers, so he could make a little bit of pocket along the way – but somebody had deep enough pockets for everyone on board, and this particular westerner wouldn’t be cowed.
Besides a few cracks on the head from particularly lively bumps, which dented my sleep but did not destroy it, I reached Hampi with fairly few complaints after that. Found a guy at the bus stand with a 90/- Rs. room – I’d made it a personal vow not to go above 100 for the rest of the trip (you’ll see how long that lasted). Nandi Guesthouse, it was called, named after the cow ‘vehicle’ of Shiva, the Destroyer god, an apt name in that it resembled a both a bombsite and a farmyard. Jagdish, named after another god, was the typically wriggly owner.
Commence probably the best day of my solo travels so far. I’m still chuffed with what I accomplished. After breakfast, I meandered towards the temple in the Main Bazaar – parts of it surviving from 1000 years ago. An astonishing figure, sometimes you have to stop and think what that means. The British dark ages. (Or Middle-Ages. Or something) What makes the fact all the more impressive is that the Virupaksha temple is still living – that is, it still attracts worshippers and has its Brahmin and workers, it still has a freshly-dressed Shiva lingam every day, just as it has done for many hundreds of years. With a rupee in my hand, I stepped forward to be blessed by Lakshmi, the temple elephant (basically a smack on the head with her snout). After falling into conversation with Guru (an unusual name meaning ‘teacher’, usually conferred upon the elderly and wise, but this lad was 21), I was given a brief tour of the shrines and curios of the temple. The real experience began, however, when the temple closed for the afternoon. Lakshmi, exhausted after all that holy violence, lay down for a nap. The people departed. And I was led up a ladder at the back of the place (which Guru drew up after us) to venture where, apparently, few foreigners ever do.
As we stepped smartly around the temple roof (in the midday sun the stones had grown very hot), I asked Guru why he kept to the edges. He said it was because there were shrines underneath – we were literally walking on top of the gods. He led me around to the southern tower where we climbed some long-since-rotten stairs to sit among the bats and monkeys, and gaze out over the temple forecourt, and the landscape of Hampi beyond. It was heartening, exhilarating, to think that I was sitting where only a number of tourists had been, where, more importantly, generations of temple lads had been coming to sit and contemplate. How many arranged marriages had been bemoaned in that place? How many games of cricket discussed?
I left Guru with a promise to return the next morning, to see Lakshmi bathed in the river, and went out into the town. Actually, I had to tiptoe around the temple to the main gate to collect my shoes - ‘went’ is probably too heroic a word.
Phase two of my day in Hampi – investigating the rock formations. Again I’d like to call on our friend Google, because the rock formations around the village are so bizarre they almost beggar description. Almost. They’re…big. Weird-y. Big-on-top-of-small-y. Round. There, I hope I’ve given you a good idea of what they're like.
The horizon, in the first instance, is punctuated by a series of mountains which look like piles of boulders. It’s only when you look closer that you realize these boulders are piled in a very strange way. Huge stones, huge, are propped upon mere pebbles (comparatively), in such an apparently precarious way that any attempt to scale a hill will contain a fair few flinches, as you gain the crest of a great, smooth boulder, only to look up and see another louring ahead of you, apparently about to fall. Wishing for solitude (Hampi has a lot of tourists), I edged along a thin ledge, and sat looking out across the river. On the way back, I spotted some footholes carved into the rock face, and couldn’t resist these age-old attempts at providing a route. At the top, another staggering hunk of stone, perched on two others, made for a cave and a lovely bit of shade. Images of Vishnu, Shiva and other deities had been diligently printed inside, by a chisel and pair of hands long since fallen into disuse.
It was hot. I staggered along to the famous Vittala temple but baulked at the entrance fee, and wandering around the back discovered it was possible to climb over the wall. I’m glad I didn’t pay, no great shakes. I felt good about that, though I probably didn’t go far enough into the compound to indicate fearlessness.
It was time for some proper daring. All around Goa I’d been pestering my friends to hire mopeds, but in the end we didn’t get time. Hampi seemed like the next best bet – quiet country roads, relaxed feel. The guys at the shop chortled when I told them I’d never ridden before, and made me solemnly swear responsibility for any accidents of bike malfunctions. A cursory turn around the Main Bazaar seemed to convince them of something or other. They went inside to drink chai. An expert, then, I pootled out of town, pausing only at the gate which was closed for no apparent reason, and to swear at some laughing Indians.
Three things concerned me at my point of embarkation on the long, winding, shitty, potholed Indian road. One was that I didn’t have a helmet. More chortling when I asked for that. I suppose you might find it difficult to wiggle your head in any kind of expressive way while wearing one. Two, the fact that my scooter was crap. I’m not an expert, but I’m guessing that an inability to conquer your average speedbump is not the sign of a good engine. Three, the beep. Ah, the beep. I knew I would have to perfect the use of the horn in order to be respected on the Indian road.
Beeping the horn, I surmised, is in fact very much like the Indian head-wiggle. The protocol roughly goes: one for yes, one for no, one for stop/go, one for thankyou, one for two sugars please, one for sorrow, two for joy. At the completely unnecessary gate, I practiced asserting my authority by beeping the horn. After hammering it three or four times, an apathetic guard sauntered out, scratching his arse. Success, maybe.
Still, I tried to keep my wits about me, and not to overdo it. I had a particular mental image I did not want to live out: that is, of myself conscientiously beeping the horn as I sailed off the road into the nearest bush/river/living room. So the other problem, admittedly, was my driving, but with nary a petrol pump in sight to reverse into, I thought I was home free.
The less I talk about the first few minutes, the fewer nightmares I’ll have. Suffice to say that, by the time I reached the heart of the southern complex of ruins (entirely by accident), I was posing wholeheartedly. Parked my bike smack in the middle of the sunshine, because I liked its green glint in the light, and was halfway to the old barracks before I remembered something about overheating. I hurried back. All the other vehicles were huddled in the shade at the opposite end of the car park. Tit, it screamed, my bike.
By the end of the ride to the underground Shiva temple (which was half underwater too), I was suitably gung-ho and dangerous, taking on buses in games of chicken. When in Rome… On the way to Anegonda village, I met something that could match my new found arrogance: a herd of cows, who didn’t flinch at all when I hurtled into their midst doing a good thirty. This close to peteburger, and I decided to take the back roads home…only to meet a herd of goats on a narrow lane between paddy fields. You wouldn’t believe it. I’ve got the video.
(A big thankyou please to the lovely Indian bloke who walked past my bike when, key in ignition, bag containing camera and passport on the seat, I’d parked it on a country lane to follow the sound of drums. I winced from a shocking distance, perhaps 50 yards or more, but he didn’t even look at the pot of gold. What a guy.)
So my scooter and I managed to cough and fart our way back to Hampi Main Bazaar, back along the backroads. Evening now. I can describe neither the bizarreness of the rock formations across the paddy-fields, nor the beauty of that half-lit half-hour. 5 miles though fields of thick-leaved x-plants, and always with a magnificent vista just around the bend. The swamps steamed. I was driving through a prehistoric land.
And had I mastered it? The guard levered himself up to open the gate once again, and it seemed there was a hint of deference in the way he scratched his arse this time. Peter Beech, moped-rider extraordinaire. I thought I saw a guy on an Enfield nodding in brotherly recognition. It was only when I got back to the shop that I realized I’d had my indicator on for more or less the entire journey, since I’d misfingered the horn going into that herd of cows.
And the day wasn’t over. Scampered up to the nearest hill for one of the most magnificent sunsets I’ve ever seen. The earth itself was panting smoke, from fires in the distance. Families of boulders perched in silhouette. Actually I went up the wrong side of the hill first, and had to scramble through the temple to meet the sun full-on just as it dropped behind the distant crags. It was a strange moment, as otherworldly as the terrain.
In the morning, I hauled myself out of bed as promised. I think I’m starting to become a day-person. Tripped to the river where all had gone to wash: rickshaw-wallahs, shopowners, respectable men, all screaming like teenage girls as they dived into the current, then crawled out to dry on the warm, flat rocks.
The whole village was there. Classes full of kids, brought by their teachers, were given a perfunctory splashing, and at 8:05, Lakshmi ambled down from the temple grounds. Being a lady, of course, she went right into the middle of the women washing, and fell over. This is the way they do it. The keeper sighed and began to spoon water over her back with his hands.
And then, unable to top that, I left Hampi behind. Took a local bus to Hospet, and a local bus to Chitadurga. I’m now in Mysore, and I haven’t really seen many westerners since. But anyway, I think that’s enough to be going on with, I’ll try and blog again soon.
Tuesday, 27 February 2007
Sunday, 18 February 2007
Goan' native
Ok, let's make this quick. I've managed to crawl from out the lap of luxury and I estimate that I have about an hour before I start suffering serious withdrawal. Twenty yards away down a tarmac strip (perhaps the only one in town) a glittering sea beckons, shuttling playfully between golden sands and the fishing boats beyond...
There is one reason why this startling act of bravery and self-denial on my part is necessary - namely, to wrest this blog of mine back from a certain hijacker we all know and occasionally talk to and perhaps sometimes borrow money from: my father! It's my opinion that he got perhaps a little too comfortable in the driver's seat and so, first and foremost, I'd like to stamp my personality on things once again. Here, then, are a list of my favourite things: marmite, arguing, grumpy old people, wishy-washy theoretical debates, doing as little as possible on a beach in western India...
That's right, blog 17 or 18 or whichever number we're on finds this particular intrepid traveller fearlessly paddling his feet under a clear blue sky, clinging for dear life to an immensely dangerous bottle of beer. I'm in Goa, known variously as the Ibiza of India, the Mediterranean of the East, the Big Beach and the Which Part of England Are You From? Let me say this right out: Goa is utterly unlike the rest of India. For a start, it's Portuguese. While the rest of the nation was wading to freedom in Gandhi's salt march, this little enclave was fighting separately to rid itself of seventeenth-century conquerors, though probably in a much more easy-going way involving lilos and marijuana. Divided from British India by a range of forest-covered mountains called the Sahyadri (though only twelve hours by train today from British Bombay), Goa essentially houses a different culture, with an entirely different set of influences. Take, for instance, the local fascination with football. While the average Indian might, if pushed, meekly eject "Manchester United" or even "David Beckham", the Goans live and breathe football. I've given up explaining that, though I'm from near Manchester, I don't support man United, because it's quite obvious that the concept of anybody at all not supporting Man United is completely alien to them. Another thing: the place is full of churches. The majority of the Goan population proper, indeed, is Christian, but what with the influx of traders from all over India keen to work the tourists Christians now only number one third or so of all living in this tiny state.
So I've gone from one beach full of ageing hippies to another. Puri, where, as Dad can testify, the oddballs roamed free, to Goa, to where they run the bars and restaurants. En route I went to see another, prettier oddball named Dixie, where I had the chance to sample some lovely cuisine and even take a ten mile hike around the housing development estates of Raipur! Sadly, Goa isn't the kind of place that you get the glimpses into village life we got while walking home from the Hotel Babylon, where kids offered us a bitter fruit and the adults stared with obvious fascination on their faces. Your average Goan is jaded and underappreciative of your attempts to speak Hindi - and this, more than anything, is why I'm not in favour of the place. The rickshaws and taxis charge silly prices, because they're used to receiving silly money from silly people, here for their two weeks' worth of boozing. Although occasionally the natural Indian propensity for immediate, intimate conversation shines through - take Raj, for instance, cleaner at out group of huts, who is obsessed with any kind of woman and takes every opportunity to make inappropriate and highly personal remarks.
In general, with the exception of Raj, the Indians who work in the resorts are less childish in their attitudes to sex than others I have encountered elsewhere. Innured, maybe. Because that's right, Goa is of course a place where the bikini is king - a far cry from Puri, in British India, where the poor Indian women had to bathe in saris while their menfolk cavorted around in comfortable swimshorts. The Indian men from outside Goa stand out a bit more here. In fact, this is just another place where western and British-Indian attitudes towards the female body clash uncomfortably - the number of rape cases is reportedly rising in commercialised Goa. Hilariously, disgustingly, I've discovered that travel agents actually run coach tours from other parts of India for male Indians to see the western women on the beach. You see them everywhere, parties of men in suit trousers tottering along, sheepishly agog. It's certainly one of the sadder sides of cultural interchange.
In terms of monuments and landmarks, I hoped that Goa, being so different, might offer a fascinating glimpse of a civilisation to rival the British-built cities of Kolkata and Mumbai. It was a disappointment to discover that this isn't the case. Believe me, I entered Goa with every intention of gorging myself on cathedrals and old, cobbled towns, but our one day trip to Old Goa (the former capital) ended in disappointment with only a few half-hearted town halls and semi-dilapidated churches to add to our picture collections. It seems that conservation has been poor, and most of the religious finery is long since stolen.
Little left to do, then, but worship the sun instead. I met up with my uni buddies Gaz and Paul in Vagator, North Goa, a name synonymous with all-night parties. We found little to justify this reputation. Granted, there were a few fat white people with names like 'Kevin', but I'm sure that their ideas of a scene were different to ours. In fact, this brings me to the major downside of Goa - there are just too many bloody Brits. I'm all for meeting English abroad, indeed it can make for some quite pleasant conversations as you wryly compare notes on the culture gap. But when you've heard the fortieth barked request for 'three more beers', I'm telling you, you could quite easily go for the rest of your life without ever going home.
Vagator and surrounds, then, weren't really to our taste, but a few days ago we hopped down the coast to Palolem. If anything, this place is busier, but it lacks the loud bars and those clubs which look so depressing half-empty. The advantage of this place is that everything - literally, everything - is on the beach. Hotels, cafes, restaurants, shops, internet cafes. The three of us are staying in a hut about 100 yards from the sea - every morning/afternoon we wake up, stretch and walk out onto our little bamboo terrace, trying (not) to kick in the head whichever of us is sleeping on the floor. We go for breakfast, and gaze out to the where the surf tickles the shoreline. Days are spent on the beach, playing football or cricket. Yesterday, we caught a motorboat out to a tiny, deserted bay called Butterfly Beach. Nobody really around (except a chancer selling overpriced beer...India!) and for three hours we sported and sizzled. Been eating plenty of freshly-caught fish. All along the beach, at the better establishments, the catch is displayed and individually-priced. A suave waiter runs his hands over the fish, or picks them up and hefts them...300, 350 rupees.... Having selected, you choose your preferred method of preparation. The other day, i had a beautiful grilled silver mullet (must have been two feet long), while Paul plumped for tiger prawns from the tandoor. Tiger prawns large enough to choke a whale, that is.
Tomorrow, I think, we'll hire mopeds. As little as I trust myself on any road, anywhere, i've been observing these Indian drivers for three months now and I think I could just about hold my own (this is one thing that doesn't change as you cross the Sahyadri mountains - the driving!). At 300 ruperts a day it's a pretty expensive way of killing yourself, but by Goan prices this is probably quite reasonable and anyway, as I keep telling myself, it's a holiday. As in, it's a holiday-within-a-holiday. I've had a week now and I'm starting to itch a little for another of those chaotic Indian metropoles. Next, we're planning to head south to Kerala, the region of jungles and elephants and boat-rides into the heart of darkness, and then, who knows? I have the whole of southern India to explore. Better get my strength up first.
There is one reason why this startling act of bravery and self-denial on my part is necessary - namely, to wrest this blog of mine back from a certain hijacker we all know and occasionally talk to and perhaps sometimes borrow money from: my father! It's my opinion that he got perhaps a little too comfortable in the driver's seat and so, first and foremost, I'd like to stamp my personality on things once again. Here, then, are a list of my favourite things: marmite, arguing, grumpy old people, wishy-washy theoretical debates, doing as little as possible on a beach in western India...
That's right, blog 17 or 18 or whichever number we're on finds this particular intrepid traveller fearlessly paddling his feet under a clear blue sky, clinging for dear life to an immensely dangerous bottle of beer. I'm in Goa, known variously as the Ibiza of India, the Mediterranean of the East, the Big Beach and the Which Part of England Are You From? Let me say this right out: Goa is utterly unlike the rest of India. For a start, it's Portuguese. While the rest of the nation was wading to freedom in Gandhi's salt march, this little enclave was fighting separately to rid itself of seventeenth-century conquerors, though probably in a much more easy-going way involving lilos and marijuana. Divided from British India by a range of forest-covered mountains called the Sahyadri (though only twelve hours by train today from British Bombay), Goa essentially houses a different culture, with an entirely different set of influences. Take, for instance, the local fascination with football. While the average Indian might, if pushed, meekly eject "Manchester United" or even "David Beckham", the Goans live and breathe football. I've given up explaining that, though I'm from near Manchester, I don't support man United, because it's quite obvious that the concept of anybody at all not supporting Man United is completely alien to them. Another thing: the place is full of churches. The majority of the Goan population proper, indeed, is Christian, but what with the influx of traders from all over India keen to work the tourists Christians now only number one third or so of all living in this tiny state.
So I've gone from one beach full of ageing hippies to another. Puri, where, as Dad can testify, the oddballs roamed free, to Goa, to where they run the bars and restaurants. En route I went to see another, prettier oddball named Dixie, where I had the chance to sample some lovely cuisine and even take a ten mile hike around the housing development estates of Raipur! Sadly, Goa isn't the kind of place that you get the glimpses into village life we got while walking home from the Hotel Babylon, where kids offered us a bitter fruit and the adults stared with obvious fascination on their faces. Your average Goan is jaded and underappreciative of your attempts to speak Hindi - and this, more than anything, is why I'm not in favour of the place. The rickshaws and taxis charge silly prices, because they're used to receiving silly money from silly people, here for their two weeks' worth of boozing. Although occasionally the natural Indian propensity for immediate, intimate conversation shines through - take Raj, for instance, cleaner at out group of huts, who is obsessed with any kind of woman and takes every opportunity to make inappropriate and highly personal remarks.
In general, with the exception of Raj, the Indians who work in the resorts are less childish in their attitudes to sex than others I have encountered elsewhere. Innured, maybe. Because that's right, Goa is of course a place where the bikini is king - a far cry from Puri, in British India, where the poor Indian women had to bathe in saris while their menfolk cavorted around in comfortable swimshorts. The Indian men from outside Goa stand out a bit more here. In fact, this is just another place where western and British-Indian attitudes towards the female body clash uncomfortably - the number of rape cases is reportedly rising in commercialised Goa. Hilariously, disgustingly, I've discovered that travel agents actually run coach tours from other parts of India for male Indians to see the western women on the beach. You see them everywhere, parties of men in suit trousers tottering along, sheepishly agog. It's certainly one of the sadder sides of cultural interchange.
In terms of monuments and landmarks, I hoped that Goa, being so different, might offer a fascinating glimpse of a civilisation to rival the British-built cities of Kolkata and Mumbai. It was a disappointment to discover that this isn't the case. Believe me, I entered Goa with every intention of gorging myself on cathedrals and old, cobbled towns, but our one day trip to Old Goa (the former capital) ended in disappointment with only a few half-hearted town halls and semi-dilapidated churches to add to our picture collections. It seems that conservation has been poor, and most of the religious finery is long since stolen.
Little left to do, then, but worship the sun instead. I met up with my uni buddies Gaz and Paul in Vagator, North Goa, a name synonymous with all-night parties. We found little to justify this reputation. Granted, there were a few fat white people with names like 'Kevin', but I'm sure that their ideas of a scene were different to ours. In fact, this brings me to the major downside of Goa - there are just too many bloody Brits. I'm all for meeting English abroad, indeed it can make for some quite pleasant conversations as you wryly compare notes on the culture gap. But when you've heard the fortieth barked request for 'three more beers', I'm telling you, you could quite easily go for the rest of your life without ever going home.
Vagator and surrounds, then, weren't really to our taste, but a few days ago we hopped down the coast to Palolem. If anything, this place is busier, but it lacks the loud bars and those clubs which look so depressing half-empty. The advantage of this place is that everything - literally, everything - is on the beach. Hotels, cafes, restaurants, shops, internet cafes. The three of us are staying in a hut about 100 yards from the sea - every morning/afternoon we wake up, stretch and walk out onto our little bamboo terrace, trying (not) to kick in the head whichever of us is sleeping on the floor. We go for breakfast, and gaze out to the where the surf tickles the shoreline. Days are spent on the beach, playing football or cricket. Yesterday, we caught a motorboat out to a tiny, deserted bay called Butterfly Beach. Nobody really around (except a chancer selling overpriced beer...India!) and for three hours we sported and sizzled. Been eating plenty of freshly-caught fish. All along the beach, at the better establishments, the catch is displayed and individually-priced. A suave waiter runs his hands over the fish, or picks them up and hefts them...300, 350 rupees.... Having selected, you choose your preferred method of preparation. The other day, i had a beautiful grilled silver mullet (must have been two feet long), while Paul plumped for tiger prawns from the tandoor. Tiger prawns large enough to choke a whale, that is.
Tomorrow, I think, we'll hire mopeds. As little as I trust myself on any road, anywhere, i've been observing these Indian drivers for three months now and I think I could just about hold my own (this is one thing that doesn't change as you cross the Sahyadri mountains - the driving!). At 300 ruperts a day it's a pretty expensive way of killing yourself, but by Goan prices this is probably quite reasonable and anyway, as I keep telling myself, it's a holiday. As in, it's a holiday-within-a-holiday. I've had a week now and I'm starting to itch a little for another of those chaotic Indian metropoles. Next, we're planning to head south to Kerala, the region of jungles and elephants and boat-rides into the heart of darkness, and then, who knows? I have the whole of southern India to explore. Better get my strength up first.
Saturday, 3 February 2007
And Now For Something Completely Different....
Or should I say 'someone', as it's Beech Senior finally reporting in by kind permission. Put aside, for the moment, the poetic, structured ramblings of Beech Junior on these pages and join (and hopefully stay) with me even though it will soon become obvious that, in the literary stakes (as probably in most other things as well), I have a great future behind me. If you're still with me, read on.....
Don't expect a, 'We went there, did this and saw that', type of reportage or you'll be disappointed (?) (for the moment, you can take it as read that I've seen and visited some tremendous places both in Kalkota and in the countryside). No, I'm saving that for the poor suffering friends back home who will have to sit through the digital photo show being planned (in my head). There will be no escape so get the ProPlus ready. No excuses will be accepted even for those who have already visited India - you know who you are !
Instead, what follows is just a selection of my personal thoughts and observations, hopefully tied together with a thread of logic (however fine). I'll then leave you to draw your own conclusions about this chaotic, crazy, but fascinating place! And what a place. I may have only been here seven days so far, but that's probably longer that some so-called foreign correspondents for the 'lower' order papers and TV channels spend each year. That's my excuse anyway for these outpourings.
It's now just over a week since I arrived: and it's just as Pete said: the inefficiency; the noise; the smells; the filth; the abject poverty; the begging; the hassle; the (seeming) chaos - all experienced during the time it took to get from Kolkata airport at 2 am to my hotel (where Pete was already installed). I really thought during that time that I would either be asphyxiated by diesel fumes on the journey in by taxi (and therefore achieve the dubious honour of probably being the only westerner to visit India and die before the food and sanitation had had a fair crack of the whip), or that I would be sleeping out in the street (fear not, however, I would not have been alone). The latter came about because the hotel was all locked up and it took a good quarter of an hour to make someone hear and let me in.
Neither will I ever forget my first impressions of Kalkota that first day after about four hours' sleep. Walking out through the hotel's noise-insulated doors, I thought I had stepped out onto a Buster Keaton movie set with projectiles of all types: people, animals, vommit, bikes, cycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws, taxis, motorcycles - all appearing to be aimed at me alone. I felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The whole scene was to the accompaniment of a continuous chorus of human voices and motor vehicle horns to give me that much needed adrenalin kick for that first day. [I no longer jump out of my skin to the sound of blaring horns now - I can now walk down the road in darkness with the best of them , confident in the knowledge that all manner of vehicles will avoid me provided I don't make any sudden deviations! That's the situation out here in the country, let's see if I make it back home in one piece after I get back to the city]
I think they could 'smell' the newness of me in India that first morning and I must have looked like fresh Rupee-laden meat (but not beef) just arrived for their delectation. Pete to the rescue: shielding me effortlessly from the circling buzzards , we made reasonable progress to the part of town he had called home for about three weeks. I won't go into details of the area (read Pete's outpourings for those), but suffice to say that it was an area of the city frequented by travellers where it would be very easy to spend the rest of your life there, meeting new people of all nationalities, living on next to nothing, talking over the world's problems, sharing experiences and letting time drift by. Meeting some of Pete's very entertaining and intelligent friends he had become close to it was easy to see that the days and weeks spent there could very easily turn into months (and possibly years). It's a bit of an easy existence. You really can get, and are offered, anything within a relatively small area.
So what are the things I can't get my head around over here ? No real surprises. Well for starters, in Kolkata it was the grinding filth and poverty and the scale of it - even though, I'm sad to say you do get immune very quickly. How can a country that the world, and itself , sees as a burgeoning major economic player - I read yesterday that an India company has now bought out the UK steelmaker Corus which is a first for India- still cannot feed or house the poorest even its major cities where although the numbers are highest, the logistics are easiest? In Kolkata, Pete encouraged me to eat 'on the street' from the start (more about the 'belly' later) and it's possible to get something substantial to eat for about 20p. Clearly there's a lot of people who can't even afford this. Hence the begging. OK there's a lot of organised, well-dressed beggars (with borrowed kids in tow for example) but still the economic 'miracle' thing just doesn't add up. With inflation running around 6% things are only going to get worse for the lower orders. It's also sad to listen to the (many) very bright young Indians who come over to (and sometimes surround) us in order to practise their English, often in front of beaming, proud parents. The number of them who seemingly want to go overseas (for their career) also seems at odds with the new vision. Software engineering and 'business' seem to be the things to do at the moment......where the money is. Where are the doctors ? There is a lot of new money being thrown around and flaunted (happens everywhere I know), but we were particularly surprised to be charged almost two pounds for a bottle of Indian Lager while listening to an Indian rock band not a stone's throw from what I've been describing. That's more than some daily wages. What is going to happen when the gap widens and envy takes over I don't know. But then again, all this new money could filter down so everyone gets the benefit - we'll see. Mobile phones are also seemingly everywhere amongst the young, although Pete has the theory that they can't all afford to run them and use them for imaginary, fun-filled conversations to show their friends what a good time they're having! In terms of how far down the phones have spread, I didn't see anyone below 'auto rickshaw driver' level with one.
I also saw enough maimed and infirm people living and dying in the gutter to believe some of what I've been told about the inaccessibility of their welfare state. We saw some horror stories in the late Mother T's first hospice in Kolkata - people who (only if they want to be) are literally picked up from the gutter and given treatment and some dignity in death. For the fortunate (?) who get better, it's not a long term stay solution so I don't know what happens after. There's no getting away from it over here, the value of life is cheap for the lower orders in this society.
And yet, the strange (and sad) thing to say that it all seems to work in a peverse way. There is an order about the place, probably enforced by the caste system, and an acceptance of their lot. There has to be some order or the place would implode.
Nothing is easy here: life itself, travel, getting things done. In terms of the number of people around, India reminds me of Japan - but that's where the comparison ends. In a lot of other ways the country reminds me of Russia, 30 years ago, which I visited as part of a cultural exchange with the British Council (pre Gorbachev). At times, it's a frustrating over-manned, inefficient, form-filling nightmare of a place where everything has its price - the only trouble is generally finding out what that real price is. We have just had to move hotels from a once magnificent colonial-style former railway hotel because the place is falling apart (literally but mainly in the sense of trying to get things done). Every request, apart from breakfast, was made at least four times and yet whenever we went down to reception the office was full of men filling in forms and chatting. Elsewhere several old staff were dotted around the establishment doing very little. The point is, there were very few guests and it was obvious that the place is going down the pan: even the cycle rickshaw drivers told us (too late) about its inefficient reputation amongst the locals.
The pace of life in Orissa (in Bhubaneshwar and now by the sea in Puri) is a lot slower, the air cleaner, and altogether very pleasant. Whilst foreigners are still seen as very fair game by 99% of the people for the extraction of Rupees (or any currency) at tourist sites, temples etc by whatever means possible, the chase is at a less frenzied pace. Some of the most blatant culprits in hassling for money anywhere are the holy men of the Hindu temples. On the second day in Kalkota, at the famous Kali Temple, the holy man (high Brahmin caste) took me aside away from Pete so that he could get us to donate money individually, forcing the odds up by showing 'pledges' for fictitious amounts. Before I had the chance to say "on your bike" , Pete was around the corner telling the poor man he was an insult to his caste and standing as a holy man. The falsification of pledges is a very common practice. It happens even where, as non- Hindus, we are not allowed to visit the temples but are directed to a viewing platform where they try to get anything up to about Rs1500 (about 18 pounds) out of you. Pete is very good at arguing it out (and we all know about that at home don't we girls!) and they usually end up with about 60p. They always give in. Ruins and monuments which charge admission fees are the most relaxing to visit, where, unhassled, it's a pleasure to meet real Indian people: friendly, inquisitve, openly smiling and always willing to help. Personally, it's also nice to be shown a bit of 'respect' due to my being Pete's father. I could get quite used to this!
Interestingly, I've picked up nothing other than open friendliness from people I've talked to (or who have approached me/us). No 'Big Brother' effect here, although there was a letter today in the local broadsheet for the region of Orissa - one of the country's poorest - population 26 Million. Although it's clearly a fall-out from 'Big Brother', we are seen as "culturally backward, crude and narrow-minded people". So there any of you gloaters !
In a few days, I'll be leaving Peter to taken an internal flight to Delhi where I'll be staying for two days (to visit the Taj etc) before flying home. I think I've picked up enough from Pete to see through the scams which are undoubtedly going to come my way when I'm on my own. From Pete, I know, from experience, the standard price of water to the Rupee so that when they try to overcharge me Rs 2 or Rs 5 (less than 2p) I'll be prepared to argue and walk away as I've seen Pete do many times. It's the principle that counts, not the amount!!! The same goes for taxis rickshaws etc. Let's see how I get on..
Nearly forgot. As an engineer, I must mention one of the things I really love about India: their reluctance to join the throw away society (yet). Everywhere you go there are people, businesses fixing things- specialists for reparing this and that. Shops in Kalkota are devoted to spares and widgets. It warms the heart to see things actually being repaired rather than thrown away. Judging by some of the ages of the bikes, cars and other things, they must be rather good at it too.
Before I sign off for good, yes, I have had the 'belly' . About five days into the trip (not bad for me) I was waylaid and I had a 'lost' day when I was good for absolutely nothing. This was exacerbated by a bad bout of dehydration which did me no favours at all. It really is hot here and it's not even summer yet! I'm fine now and ready to put weight back on!
Many thanks to Peter for his company, for the laughs we've had and also for the benefit of his hard-won travelling experience. And above all for looking after me so well. That's what good sons are for!
India: what a place. Would I come back again ? Like a shot!
Back to you Pete..
Don't expect a, 'We went there, did this and saw that', type of reportage or you'll be disappointed (?) (for the moment, you can take it as read that I've seen and visited some tremendous places both in Kalkota and in the countryside). No, I'm saving that for the poor suffering friends back home who will have to sit through the digital photo show being planned (in my head). There will be no escape so get the ProPlus ready. No excuses will be accepted even for those who have already visited India - you know who you are !
Instead, what follows is just a selection of my personal thoughts and observations, hopefully tied together with a thread of logic (however fine). I'll then leave you to draw your own conclusions about this chaotic, crazy, but fascinating place! And what a place. I may have only been here seven days so far, but that's probably longer that some so-called foreign correspondents for the 'lower' order papers and TV channels spend each year. That's my excuse anyway for these outpourings.
It's now just over a week since I arrived: and it's just as Pete said: the inefficiency; the noise; the smells; the filth; the abject poverty; the begging; the hassle; the (seeming) chaos - all experienced during the time it took to get from Kolkata airport at 2 am to my hotel (where Pete was already installed). I really thought during that time that I would either be asphyxiated by diesel fumes on the journey in by taxi (and therefore achieve the dubious honour of probably being the only westerner to visit India and die before the food and sanitation had had a fair crack of the whip), or that I would be sleeping out in the street (fear not, however, I would not have been alone). The latter came about because the hotel was all locked up and it took a good quarter of an hour to make someone hear and let me in.
Neither will I ever forget my first impressions of Kalkota that first day after about four hours' sleep. Walking out through the hotel's noise-insulated doors, I thought I had stepped out onto a Buster Keaton movie set with projectiles of all types: people, animals, vommit, bikes, cycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws, taxis, motorcycles - all appearing to be aimed at me alone. I felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The whole scene was to the accompaniment of a continuous chorus of human voices and motor vehicle horns to give me that much needed adrenalin kick for that first day. [I no longer jump out of my skin to the sound of blaring horns now - I can now walk down the road in darkness with the best of them , confident in the knowledge that all manner of vehicles will avoid me provided I don't make any sudden deviations! That's the situation out here in the country, let's see if I make it back home in one piece after I get back to the city]
I think they could 'smell' the newness of me in India that first morning and I must have looked like fresh Rupee-laden meat (but not beef) just arrived for their delectation. Pete to the rescue: shielding me effortlessly from the circling buzzards , we made reasonable progress to the part of town he had called home for about three weeks. I won't go into details of the area (read Pete's outpourings for those), but suffice to say that it was an area of the city frequented by travellers where it would be very easy to spend the rest of your life there, meeting new people of all nationalities, living on next to nothing, talking over the world's problems, sharing experiences and letting time drift by. Meeting some of Pete's very entertaining and intelligent friends he had become close to it was easy to see that the days and weeks spent there could very easily turn into months (and possibly years). It's a bit of an easy existence. You really can get, and are offered, anything within a relatively small area.
So what are the things I can't get my head around over here ? No real surprises. Well for starters, in Kolkata it was the grinding filth and poverty and the scale of it - even though, I'm sad to say you do get immune very quickly. How can a country that the world, and itself , sees as a burgeoning major economic player - I read yesterday that an India company has now bought out the UK steelmaker Corus which is a first for India- still cannot feed or house the poorest even its major cities where although the numbers are highest, the logistics are easiest? In Kolkata, Pete encouraged me to eat 'on the street' from the start (more about the 'belly' later) and it's possible to get something substantial to eat for about 20p. Clearly there's a lot of people who can't even afford this. Hence the begging. OK there's a lot of organised, well-dressed beggars (with borrowed kids in tow for example) but still the economic 'miracle' thing just doesn't add up. With inflation running around 6% things are only going to get worse for the lower orders. It's also sad to listen to the (many) very bright young Indians who come over to (and sometimes surround) us in order to practise their English, often in front of beaming, proud parents. The number of them who seemingly want to go overseas (for their career) also seems at odds with the new vision. Software engineering and 'business' seem to be the things to do at the moment......where the money is. Where are the doctors ? There is a lot of new money being thrown around and flaunted (happens everywhere I know), but we were particularly surprised to be charged almost two pounds for a bottle of Indian Lager while listening to an Indian rock band not a stone's throw from what I've been describing. That's more than some daily wages. What is going to happen when the gap widens and envy takes over I don't know. But then again, all this new money could filter down so everyone gets the benefit - we'll see. Mobile phones are also seemingly everywhere amongst the young, although Pete has the theory that they can't all afford to run them and use them for imaginary, fun-filled conversations to show their friends what a good time they're having! In terms of how far down the phones have spread, I didn't see anyone below 'auto rickshaw driver' level with one.
I also saw enough maimed and infirm people living and dying in the gutter to believe some of what I've been told about the inaccessibility of their welfare state. We saw some horror stories in the late Mother T's first hospice in Kolkata - people who (only if they want to be) are literally picked up from the gutter and given treatment and some dignity in death. For the fortunate (?) who get better, it's not a long term stay solution so I don't know what happens after. There's no getting away from it over here, the value of life is cheap for the lower orders in this society.
And yet, the strange (and sad) thing to say that it all seems to work in a peverse way. There is an order about the place, probably enforced by the caste system, and an acceptance of their lot. There has to be some order or the place would implode.
Nothing is easy here: life itself, travel, getting things done. In terms of the number of people around, India reminds me of Japan - but that's where the comparison ends. In a lot of other ways the country reminds me of Russia, 30 years ago, which I visited as part of a cultural exchange with the British Council (pre Gorbachev). At times, it's a frustrating over-manned, inefficient, form-filling nightmare of a place where everything has its price - the only trouble is generally finding out what that real price is. We have just had to move hotels from a once magnificent colonial-style former railway hotel because the place is falling apart (literally but mainly in the sense of trying to get things done). Every request, apart from breakfast, was made at least four times and yet whenever we went down to reception the office was full of men filling in forms and chatting. Elsewhere several old staff were dotted around the establishment doing very little. The point is, there were very few guests and it was obvious that the place is going down the pan: even the cycle rickshaw drivers told us (too late) about its inefficient reputation amongst the locals.
The pace of life in Orissa (in Bhubaneshwar and now by the sea in Puri) is a lot slower, the air cleaner, and altogether very pleasant. Whilst foreigners are still seen as very fair game by 99% of the people for the extraction of Rupees (or any currency) at tourist sites, temples etc by whatever means possible, the chase is at a less frenzied pace. Some of the most blatant culprits in hassling for money anywhere are the holy men of the Hindu temples. On the second day in Kalkota, at the famous Kali Temple, the holy man (high Brahmin caste) took me aside away from Pete so that he could get us to donate money individually, forcing the odds up by showing 'pledges' for fictitious amounts. Before I had the chance to say "on your bike" , Pete was around the corner telling the poor man he was an insult to his caste and standing as a holy man. The falsification of pledges is a very common practice. It happens even where, as non- Hindus, we are not allowed to visit the temples but are directed to a viewing platform where they try to get anything up to about Rs1500 (about 18 pounds) out of you. Pete is very good at arguing it out (and we all know about that at home don't we girls!) and they usually end up with about 60p. They always give in. Ruins and monuments which charge admission fees are the most relaxing to visit, where, unhassled, it's a pleasure to meet real Indian people: friendly, inquisitve, openly smiling and always willing to help. Personally, it's also nice to be shown a bit of 'respect' due to my being Pete's father. I could get quite used to this!
Interestingly, I've picked up nothing other than open friendliness from people I've talked to (or who have approached me/us). No 'Big Brother' effect here, although there was a letter today in the local broadsheet for the region of Orissa - one of the country's poorest - population 26 Million. Although it's clearly a fall-out from 'Big Brother', we are seen as "culturally backward, crude and narrow-minded people". So there any of you gloaters !
In a few days, I'll be leaving Peter to taken an internal flight to Delhi where I'll be staying for two days (to visit the Taj etc) before flying home. I think I've picked up enough from Pete to see through the scams which are undoubtedly going to come my way when I'm on my own. From Pete, I know, from experience, the standard price of water to the Rupee so that when they try to overcharge me Rs 2 or Rs 5 (less than 2p) I'll be prepared to argue and walk away as I've seen Pete do many times. It's the principle that counts, not the amount!!! The same goes for taxis rickshaws etc. Let's see how I get on..
Nearly forgot. As an engineer, I must mention one of the things I really love about India: their reluctance to join the throw away society (yet). Everywhere you go there are people, businesses fixing things- specialists for reparing this and that. Shops in Kalkota are devoted to spares and widgets. It warms the heart to see things actually being repaired rather than thrown away. Judging by some of the ages of the bikes, cars and other things, they must be rather good at it too.
Before I sign off for good, yes, I have had the 'belly' . About five days into the trip (not bad for me) I was waylaid and I had a 'lost' day when I was good for absolutely nothing. This was exacerbated by a bad bout of dehydration which did me no favours at all. It really is hot here and it's not even summer yet! I'm fine now and ready to put weight back on!
Many thanks to Peter for his company, for the laughs we've had and also for the benefit of his hard-won travelling experience. And above all for looking after me so well. That's what good sons are for!
India: what a place. Would I come back again ? Like a shot!
Back to you Pete..
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