Monday, November 26th
I'm leaving Ooty, but not before a last scoot around. I walk the road leading away from the town, round a huge patch of scrubland. It's actually a racecourse which you can tell from the bits round the edge that don't have weeds and bushes. Or anybody farming on it. Bang in the middle I can clearly see a tractor with a few people harvesting something or other. You can't really imagine the Grand National including ploughs and pickaxes as obstacles can you? I say goodbye and thank you to each of my many staff (!) and dole out tips like the Rupee Fairy I so love to be. Notes here go down as small as 5Rs (6p!) so I like to keep a wad of 10s & 20s to dish out to any kindly soul that helps me out, I feel like JD Rockefeller sometimes. "Here you are my good man! And something for you too, young boy!"
Anyway, today's journey is this: Toy train from Ooty down the mountain to Mettalpayalam. Another train to Coimbatore. Overnight train Coimbatore to Cochin.
Ooty's toy train is quite famous, and 25p gets you a ticket on a sweet little train for a 3 hour trip through the luscious Niligiri Hills. My Jeeves has purchased the tickets on my behalf, and I am in one of two 'reserved seats' carriages, the other two being unreserved. Train classes here are beyond complicated, there are at least seven I can decipher and I suppose it mirrors the real-life caste system as to who sits where and WOE betide anyone not in the right seat. The 'Ticket Examiner' will come along with his clipboard containing names of every passenger, including their age and gender. It's terribly (and uncharacteristically) organised. Despite most tickets being numbers, the scrum to embark borders on the dangerous. I hang back, quietly confident that I can wait for the hubub to pass, then take my seat. It doesn't so I get on anyway and spot some elderly European tourists in my way. The very modicum of Englishness, I politely suggest that they are in my seat, and would they mind awfully letting me sit there isntead. With a wave of his hand, the German man says "oh, look, you can just zit anywayerrr" and doesn't budge. No, that is MY seat and I would like it. Again, sit where you like Fraulein. There's further argument at the back and it transpires that the Germans don't even have reserved seats, which isn't very German of them. He is adament that they should remain, but this is India, where sitting in the wrong seat is akin to burglary and not only are they forced to change seats, they are thrown off the carriage altogether, into the 'non-reserved' area which has people already poking out of the window it's so full. Ha ha, and a smattering of ho!!!
Nobody helps them with their stuff, and I am so pleased to be rid of them, I don't even feel guilty that the guy in my place only has one arm. Be off with you!
I unravel my imaginary Union Jack onto my new sunlounger and observe the rest of the carriage. A large number of Rajasthani women - identifiable by their more chiffony saris, draped over their heads - some older guys and a youngish, modern family in jeans and T-shirts. It transpires that these are all actually members of the same family - 35 in all - on their way back to Chennai from a wedding. The view is beautiful and we pass nothing except beautiful scenery and the occasional rural family waving like mad at the train.
Even though the journey is only three hours, half way in, the younger male of the group pulls out a gignantic cardboard box from under a seat. I already know what's inside - the food. Inside the box are further large bundles, some in plastic, others in newpaper. Large paper plates with silver foil backing are whipped out and each is given a smattering of chutney, four pooris (deep fried puffed bread, so nice) and two vegetable accompniaments before being passed round to most of the party. The food is duly scoffed, and then, sadly, I also know what else is about to happen. Yep, everything out of the window. Here we are on one of India's major, unspoiled beauty spots, with a very middle class family who think nothing of chucking every bit of their litter straight out of the window. The crisp packets follow, along with some drinks cartons. The Polish couple to my right and I exchange horrified European winces at each other. No wonder this country is such a tip.
It's getting dark as we pull into our final stop, and as with all railway stations, the outskirts are grimly lined with small huts cobbled from various materials; iron, wood, plastic and matting. Most people are still outside, children all waving madly, but inside I can see each hut is lit by a single candle and/or the flame from under the cooking pot. I have passed all too many of these dwellings during a number of journeys, yet never in the dark so it just hadn't occured to me that there would be no electricity but I suppose, why would there be?
Another short train to Coimbatore, a non-descript town in Tamil Nadu used only for train connections by travellers. A bit like Crewe.
The Overnighter
It's a long wait til the overnighter but thankfully, I meet two nice Swiss girls in the Ladies Waiting Room, and we take up the challenge of trying to kill 4 hours in Coimbatore. It's not easy that's for sure but we make it back for 11.45, an hour before our quarter to one train and just in time to step over the appalling number of people who sleep permanetly in train stations up and down the country. Up two flights of stairs is a quietish waiting room with several bodies asleep in the corridor. I'm tired and a little grubby but at least there is somewhere to wash and change before the train. I part company with the Swisses as they are in a completely different carriage class from me, miles away.
As such a major mode of transport, Indian trains are absolutely enormous, usually 18 carriages which gives an entire train length of getting on for half a kilometre. If you're not in the right place when the train arrives, it's a loooooooong walk, especially when - as was the case here -they are re-doing the platform so you have piles of paving stones and wet cement to negotiate. The train is bizarrely on time and I only have to walk about 4 carriages to get to my place. Somebody is in my bunk bed but rather than disturb them, I gesture to the profoundly deaf train boy that I'm happy to hop into the next one after shoving my bag very tightly under the neighbouring seat to fend off any would-be burglars. I'm just helping myself to sheets and pillows when the officious Ticket Examiner pops up to check I'm the right person in the right bed. I'm not. This is the wrong train. What??!! He checks my ticket and tells me that this is not the Cochin train, but the one bound for Kanchipuram, wherever that may be. Shit! I've got to get off! NOW!!!! My bag is so tightly wedged that there's no shifting it and as just as I realise there's no point screaming 'help me!!!' at a deaf person, there's a clunk and the train begins to move. Uh-oh. I'm white with fear, where am I going??! The bag comes free and the train is still moving slowly enough for me to risk jumping off. The deaf boy signals for me to jump, which I do whilst he pushes my bag off. I don't know if you've ever jumped from a moving train before, but it's mighty scary, especially when after landing on an uneven platform, somebody throws a suitcase at you.
What the fuck just happened? I go and sit back down exactly where I was before so at least I'd be in the right place if my train ever did show up. I'm panting, sweating and generally all over the shop. I check my map - Kanchipuram is near Chennai, about 500 miles away. A shadow comes over me. It's one in the morning but the terrifying security guard is still on duty. He towers over me, his twirly moustache silhoutted against the platform lights.
"Whyyyyyyyyy........you take this tren?" I wasn't particularly in the mood for the Spanish Inquisition, but had to admit, that was a really good question. Why did I take that train? I had no real answer. Had I been reasonably compus mentis, I could have said something smart arse like "well, if you actually bothered to improve your passenger information system, perhaps I wouldn't be in this mess". But all I could manage after a long pause for thought was "Err.....because I am stupid". It was the truth and also exactly what he wanted to hear. "This noooo your tren". Well thanks, I know that now. "Next tren, half an hour". Thanks, I can't wait.
Suddenly, I remembered: this Swiss girls? Where were they? With half an hour to kill I walked the full length of the platform but saw nothing bar a few people settling down for the night. They were gone, and not where they wanted to go either.
The right train did indeed show up half an hour later but hell, blast, goddamit and general 'not again!', the carriage configuration was the other way round, so I was a good dozen cars away from where I wanted to be. Cue more running, sweating and general palpitations until I finally hopped on. I'm afraid there was no plonking myself down as that's very hard to do with a middle bunk. So shattered was I that I couldn't be bothered to make my bed up properly so then followed 5 hours of my sweat-drenched clothes sticking to a plastic bunk bed. So unpleasant, so not me.
As I piled off at Cochin, dreading ever looking in the mirror again it was still only 6.30 am, time to relax and take tea. You can at least buy chai 24-hours a day here. Lurching into the cafe barely awake, I was greeted by two grins - the Swiss girls! They had actually stayed on an entire stop which thankfully picked up our train. They had yet another journey to make but mine ended here. We not actually ended, as there was still another rickshaw and boat to the Fort Cochin peninsular but to be honest, I can hardly remember it and all I know is that I am finally - thankfully - here!!
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
The Indian Studley
I often get asked whether I meet many other tourists. European tourists, not many. Indian tourists, thousands and thousands. I love the fact that they love to travel their own country and make full - sometimes too much - use of all the attractions that India has to offer. Practically every place of interest I have visited has been besieged by Indian tourists, and as far as I can see, they fall neatly into 2 categories: NRIs and Studleys.
NRI stands for Non-Resident Indian. Talk about feeling like a foreigner in your own country. It seems as soon as you leave your town, you're granted NRI status. Go into a bank and it will have a separate 'NRI Services' counter. Tourist attractions might even have separate NRI rates, as they do with we 'foreigners'. NRI is different from PIO - Person of Indian Origin. So now you know.
What is a Studley? Well thank you Emma Cawkwell for coming up with the perfect moniker for this very distinct, and highly visible Indian Male.
A Studley is a young, single man probably between 18-25 years old. They have left school but are not yet married and as girls and boys don't seem to mix socially pre-wedlock, they're out in the big, bad world on their own, but probably still living with their mothers.
So, like any other manly youths, they hunt in packs but unlike our own young men, are not trying particularly hard to prove their masculinity. If only. Studleys are extremely affectionate towards each other, thinking nothing of holding hands in the street, or perhaps a friendly arm-over-the-shoulder swagger. Being gay in India is illegal with up to 10 years imprisonment (!) but I do wonder how you're supposed to spot the difference when you see them merrily strolling through an park, swinging their conjoined hands, ne'er a lady friend in sight.
Appearance-wise, they are very, very thin with extremely tight, but wide-legged trousers, usually fashioned from the kind of denim you didn't even know existed. I'm talking all the different washes in one garment; dark leading into heavy stone-wash, with perhaps a large front pocket with some bold embroidering. The trouser is worn high - really high - and belted tightly enough for said belt to wrap around the waist almost twice.
Their shirts tend to be louder than the standard male-issue of the yellow/brown paletted checked number, often with trendy slogans and always horrendously trouser-clashing.
Not yet ready for an arranged marriage, they hang round together in large groups, and go and do stuff, taking endless pictures of each other in the process. The photo-processing houses of India could exist on Studley pictures alone as they can go through a whole film in one afternoon - reclining on the lawn, perhaps with one knee up; thumbs up next to a statue, or my favourite, posing in trees together. It's all very Kay's catalogue and utterly hilarious.
Almost every day, I am in up to 20 of these pictures. The words I dread most "excuses me Mem, one photo?" will haunt me forever, as it never is just one. Each will want to pose with you separately, perhaps to show their mother that they are capable of making female friends. "See me here Mamaji, I have my arm touching her shoulder!" I wouldn't mind so much if their waists weren't two thirds the size of mine.
How I would love to see the UK's hoodie population taking to leisurely strolls in the park, perhaps a wildlife sanctuary, or a Thread Garden....
NRI stands for Non-Resident Indian. Talk about feeling like a foreigner in your own country. It seems as soon as you leave your town, you're granted NRI status. Go into a bank and it will have a separate 'NRI Services' counter. Tourist attractions might even have separate NRI rates, as they do with we 'foreigners'. NRI is different from PIO - Person of Indian Origin. So now you know.
What is a Studley? Well thank you Emma Cawkwell for coming up with the perfect moniker for this very distinct, and highly visible Indian Male.
A Studley is a young, single man probably between 18-25 years old. They have left school but are not yet married and as girls and boys don't seem to mix socially pre-wedlock, they're out in the big, bad world on their own, but probably still living with their mothers.
So, like any other manly youths, they hunt in packs but unlike our own young men, are not trying particularly hard to prove their masculinity. If only. Studleys are extremely affectionate towards each other, thinking nothing of holding hands in the street, or perhaps a friendly arm-over-the-shoulder swagger. Being gay in India is illegal with up to 10 years imprisonment (!) but I do wonder how you're supposed to spot the difference when you see them merrily strolling through an park, swinging their conjoined hands, ne'er a lady friend in sight.
Appearance-wise, they are very, very thin with extremely tight, but wide-legged trousers, usually fashioned from the kind of denim you didn't even know existed. I'm talking all the different washes in one garment; dark leading into heavy stone-wash, with perhaps a large front pocket with some bold embroidering. The trouser is worn high - really high - and belted tightly enough for said belt to wrap around the waist almost twice.
Their shirts tend to be louder than the standard male-issue of the yellow/brown paletted checked number, often with trendy slogans and always horrendously trouser-clashing.
Not yet ready for an arranged marriage, they hang round together in large groups, and go and do stuff, taking endless pictures of each other in the process. The photo-processing houses of India could exist on Studley pictures alone as they can go through a whole film in one afternoon - reclining on the lawn, perhaps with one knee up; thumbs up next to a statue, or my favourite, posing in trees together. It's all very Kay's catalogue and utterly hilarious.
Almost every day, I am in up to 20 of these pictures. The words I dread most "excuses me Mem, one photo?" will haunt me forever, as it never is just one. Each will want to pose with you separately, perhaps to show their mother that they are capable of making female friends. "See me here Mamaji, I have my arm touching her shoulder!" I wouldn't mind so much if their waists weren't two thirds the size of mine.
How I would love to see the UK's hoodie population taking to leisurely strolls in the park, perhaps a wildlife sanctuary, or a Thread Garden....
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The beautiful hills of Ooty
Saturday / Sunday 24-25 November
I feel like I should be arriving in Sedan chair, this place is so 'Raj'. It's the guesthouse of the Maharajah of Mysore's summer abode, Fernhills Palace and for the first time, there is total peace. No horns, no hawkers, nothing.
I enter down a long corridor, lined with antique photographs of the Mysore Royal family and past a vast sitting room. There are staff everywhere, each dressed in a different colour according to their remit. A man in brown greets me and barks at a boy in red to take my bag in. The sitting room turns out to be a bedroom - my room. I've never seen anything like it. About 20 feet square with 2 beds, a dining area, writing desk, dressing table and sitting area, that'll be 6 tables and 10 chairs in total. Not to mention a drinks cabinet! The bathroom isn't a lot smaller, but suitably Indian with a strong whiff of mold and pre-historic plumbing. The fittings look Victorian and the ridiculously long loo-handle feels like I'm ringing a church bell.
Another man in green invites me to take lunch in the garden outside. He looks an awful lot like Freddie Mercury; the Freddie look is quite popular here, thanks to the prevelence of taches and gappy teeth. "I am Villiam"he tells me with a welcoming wobble of the head.
I've noticed the wobbling in the South is a different motion from that of the North. It's quicker and much more side-to-side, especially during moments of intense agreement, excitement or approval. A simple "this paratha is excellent" will elicit a painful-looking see-saw action which would give you or I a jippy neck.
Villiam's colleage, Jankin takes me up the driveway to the palace proper, a bright red affair built early 19th Century and now a heritage hotel. They are currently doing it up so I am treated to a full tour, including many of its 19 bedrooms, which, despite being 6 times the price, are not that much different from my own. They've wisely done away with the old bathrooms and installed new ones which sadly look like a job-lot from MFI and don't go with the building at all. To protect their well-paying guests from the nightime cold, they are installing special heating machines, magically powered by steam. I turn to look. It's an everyday radiator. Well why would he have seen one before?
The rest of the place is wonderfully British Raj. A huge ballroom dominates the entrance and is lined with photos of celebrations from the early 20th Century, featuring many Edwardian ladies in all their finery, escorted by various Colonels and Captains. A lot of the pictures are depicting a hunt. Yes, a fox hunt, way up in the hills of Tamil Nadu. Complete with, horses dogs, horns and important old buffers in the full gear. Now getting my one suitcase up here was an ordeal, how the hell did they get all those petticoats and britches up there before buses?!
The boy showing me round apologises that some of the furniture is missing (I hadn't noticed). "It is because of the shooting Mem". Shooting?!! Yes, there was shooting which took three days to film". Phew.
In the gallery upstairs is the world's biggest billard table, complete with original baise. Round the corner is the Fox Hunt Bar complete with mounted fox heads and whisky. In the grounds, they are turning a large, equally red outbuilding into a games area. It's the size of a barn and I ask if they used to keep horses in it. "Elephants". Cool!
Back at my new home (I wish), I ask directions for walking down the hill to town. "Simple Mem, take a left at the bottom and then walk along the railway line" Errr....OK. I do just that, and it's a lovely stroll. The weather is perfect, clear skies, fresh air and soothing, not sweltering sun.
As is typical of the hill stations, sunset is followed by very cool air and the woollen shawls are immediately whipped out to form a personal blanket. Central heating is yet to come to my little palace, so a boy offers to light a fire and when I agree, he re-appears carrying his own bodyweight in firewood. At least I think it's him beneath all those branches....
Yesterday I was scrubbing the sweat and city grime from my poor pasty skin. Today I am playing with my own little bonfire, which I'd forgotten what fun it can be.
The next day is spent exploring my new back garden. Down the one side of the hill are perfectly kept tea plantations, neighboured by Ooty's biggest crop - carrots. Today's walk along the railway line is a little more dangerous in that as I approach the only section where you have to walk along, rather than alongside the track, along comes the train. A quick sprint over the sleepers and I can stand alongside, waving back to excited passengers who have no doubt enjoyed watching me almost be killed.
The track ends near the lake, where it's only a quick shimmy down some lose bricks and over the barbed wire to Jollyworld, Ooty's shimmering amusement park. It's certainly a whole world of jolliness, the focal point being the boating lake, which is surprisingly well equipped, thanks in no small to the large 'Vodafone' awnings at each jetty. You can hire a pedalo or take a ride in the larger motorboats, whose safety levels are apparent from the skippers seat being a plastic patio chair, tethered to the post supporting the overhead canopy.....
I could fill this entire blog with Indian toilet stories - but shall refrain for fear of 'oversharing'. This one was particularly special however, not for its cleanliness (or lack there of) but for its unusual instruction, painted in large, red letters on the outside:
Pay & Use
No Free
(Urine Only)
I get laughed at pretty much on an hourly basis here, but the hysterics from the ladies outside as I photographed this gem made me hope they hadn't peed too soon....
Next Jollyworld stop.."First Time In World! Thread Garden!". It does what it says on the tin, a garden, made of thread. Imagine if you will, a large, murky greenhouse with no natural light, containing hundreds of ornaamental pot plants, each flower, leaf and petal made entirely of tightly wound silk. It has taken 50 people 12 years to make. Why??!! Who on earth thought that one up? The viewing path goes up only one side of the shed, so most of the exhibits are a good 15 feet away and the poor strip lighting means you really can't tell what they're made of, hence it just looks like a garden centre with a powercut. The clearest exhibits are the inevitable 'Do Not Touch' sign, writ large in red. Touch? I'm not even close enough to see them!!!
Ooty's pride and joy is without doubt its spectacular Botanical Garden. Easily the most impressive thing I have seen in India, with beautiful plants and landscapes, all lovingly tended and NO LITTER!! Not even any little piles of rotting plastic bags. Being a major exhibit, it is a Studley's paradise - they're getting their own separate thread.
I feel like I should be arriving in Sedan chair, this place is so 'Raj'. It's the guesthouse of the Maharajah of Mysore's summer abode, Fernhills Palace and for the first time, there is total peace. No horns, no hawkers, nothing.
I enter down a long corridor, lined with antique photographs of the Mysore Royal family and past a vast sitting room. There are staff everywhere, each dressed in a different colour according to their remit. A man in brown greets me and barks at a boy in red to take my bag in. The sitting room turns out to be a bedroom - my room. I've never seen anything like it. About 20 feet square with 2 beds, a dining area, writing desk, dressing table and sitting area, that'll be 6 tables and 10 chairs in total. Not to mention a drinks cabinet! The bathroom isn't a lot smaller, but suitably Indian with a strong whiff of mold and pre-historic plumbing. The fittings look Victorian and the ridiculously long loo-handle feels like I'm ringing a church bell.
Another man in green invites me to take lunch in the garden outside. He looks an awful lot like Freddie Mercury; the Freddie look is quite popular here, thanks to the prevelence of taches and gappy teeth. "I am Villiam"he tells me with a welcoming wobble of the head.
I've noticed the wobbling in the South is a different motion from that of the North. It's quicker and much more side-to-side, especially during moments of intense agreement, excitement or approval. A simple "this paratha is excellent" will elicit a painful-looking see-saw action which would give you or I a jippy neck.
Villiam's colleage, Jankin takes me up the driveway to the palace proper, a bright red affair built early 19th Century and now a heritage hotel. They are currently doing it up so I am treated to a full tour, including many of its 19 bedrooms, which, despite being 6 times the price, are not that much different from my own. They've wisely done away with the old bathrooms and installed new ones which sadly look like a job-lot from MFI and don't go with the building at all. To protect their well-paying guests from the nightime cold, they are installing special heating machines, magically powered by steam. I turn to look. It's an everyday radiator. Well why would he have seen one before?
The rest of the place is wonderfully British Raj. A huge ballroom dominates the entrance and is lined with photos of celebrations from the early 20th Century, featuring many Edwardian ladies in all their finery, escorted by various Colonels and Captains. A lot of the pictures are depicting a hunt. Yes, a fox hunt, way up in the hills of Tamil Nadu. Complete with, horses dogs, horns and important old buffers in the full gear. Now getting my one suitcase up here was an ordeal, how the hell did they get all those petticoats and britches up there before buses?!
The boy showing me round apologises that some of the furniture is missing (I hadn't noticed). "It is because of the shooting Mem". Shooting?!! Yes, there was shooting which took three days to film". Phew.
In the gallery upstairs is the world's biggest billard table, complete with original baise. Round the corner is the Fox Hunt Bar complete with mounted fox heads and whisky. In the grounds, they are turning a large, equally red outbuilding into a games area. It's the size of a barn and I ask if they used to keep horses in it. "Elephants". Cool!
Back at my new home (I wish), I ask directions for walking down the hill to town. "Simple Mem, take a left at the bottom and then walk along the railway line" Errr....OK. I do just that, and it's a lovely stroll. The weather is perfect, clear skies, fresh air and soothing, not sweltering sun.
As is typical of the hill stations, sunset is followed by very cool air and the woollen shawls are immediately whipped out to form a personal blanket. Central heating is yet to come to my little palace, so a boy offers to light a fire and when I agree, he re-appears carrying his own bodyweight in firewood. At least I think it's him beneath all those branches....
Yesterday I was scrubbing the sweat and city grime from my poor pasty skin. Today I am playing with my own little bonfire, which I'd forgotten what fun it can be.
The next day is spent exploring my new back garden. Down the one side of the hill are perfectly kept tea plantations, neighboured by Ooty's biggest crop - carrots. Today's walk along the railway line is a little more dangerous in that as I approach the only section where you have to walk along, rather than alongside the track, along comes the train. A quick sprint over the sleepers and I can stand alongside, waving back to excited passengers who have no doubt enjoyed watching me almost be killed.
The track ends near the lake, where it's only a quick shimmy down some lose bricks and over the barbed wire to Jollyworld, Ooty's shimmering amusement park. It's certainly a whole world of jolliness, the focal point being the boating lake, which is surprisingly well equipped, thanks in no small to the large 'Vodafone' awnings at each jetty. You can hire a pedalo or take a ride in the larger motorboats, whose safety levels are apparent from the skippers seat being a plastic patio chair, tethered to the post supporting the overhead canopy.....
I could fill this entire blog with Indian toilet stories - but shall refrain for fear of 'oversharing'. This one was particularly special however, not for its cleanliness (or lack there of) but for its unusual instruction, painted in large, red letters on the outside:
Pay & Use
No Free
(Urine Only)
I get laughed at pretty much on an hourly basis here, but the hysterics from the ladies outside as I photographed this gem made me hope they hadn't peed too soon....
Next Jollyworld stop.."First Time In World! Thread Garden!". It does what it says on the tin, a garden, made of thread. Imagine if you will, a large, murky greenhouse with no natural light, containing hundreds of ornaamental pot plants, each flower, leaf and petal made entirely of tightly wound silk. It has taken 50 people 12 years to make. Why??!! Who on earth thought that one up? The viewing path goes up only one side of the shed, so most of the exhibits are a good 15 feet away and the poor strip lighting means you really can't tell what they're made of, hence it just looks like a garden centre with a powercut. The clearest exhibits are the inevitable 'Do Not Touch' sign, writ large in red. Touch? I'm not even close enough to see them!!!
Ooty's pride and joy is without doubt its spectacular Botanical Garden. Easily the most impressive thing I have seen in India, with beautiful plants and landscapes, all lovingly tended and NO LITTER!! Not even any little piles of rotting plastic bags. Being a major exhibit, it is a Studley's paradise - they're getting their own separate thread.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Mysore to Ooty
Saturday November 24th
A painfully early start still not early enough to beat the builders outside to it. The construction going on under my window is of the typical kind - barefooted, cotton-shirted workers, bamboo & string scaffolding, very little machinery and absolutely no protection for the workers or general public having to climb over all the mess. Hard-hat area be blowed! They were still hard at work went I went to bed before midnight, trying to chop up 10 metre steel supporting rods. By hand. In the middle of the road. One guy to hold the chisel straight, another to bring down the wooden hammer. No wonder they were there all night....
I am off to the famous hill station, Ooty, in the Nilgiri Hills of Tamil Nadu. My 23-seater air-conditioned mini bus rocks up on time but with only 13 very dirty seats. This'll be fun.
We head off to collect the rest of the passengers in quite a nice neighbourhood. There are a lot of them - allfrom the same family - and even more of their bags. The grandmother gets on first with 2 bags. She is very ugly and somewhat cross that she is unable to wedge her stuff under the very low seats. Cue shouting and hand-waving at the driver. An equally scary man signals to the rest of the party to board. Three littlle boys get on, then some younger, more attractive women a young man, a baby, several more bags, then another man, oh, and one more kid. It's a squash alright. Grandma almost has the driver pinned up against the wall, such is her rage that there is no more room. The kids are throwing empty water bottles into the street and being generally awful. The baby coughs like she has TB and I am seriously concerned that I've got 5 hours of this to comotion to follow, not to mention the risk of a nasty infection at the end of it. It's just gone 8am.
There is no more room anywhere and I'm pleased to see the driver is now on the phone, presumably calling for a bigger bus. If I were him I'd be calling in sick. So as not to look anybody in the face and thus convey my anguish, I look away, directly behind me. In the gateway to the same house are as many people again, with as many bags. Mother of God!!! I'm almost crying. It's been over 20 minutes now and I'm beginning to wish I'd picked another travel company.
But I should know by now, that with every Indian catastrophe-in-waiting, comes sudden respite. Without any evident signal, everybody gets off, taking their bags with them and we just drive off. I'm numb with relief - and disbelief. What luck! We drive almost to where we started, to another hotel, where another crowd and their bags are ready and waiting. Every seat is filled and off we go. Now my question is this: just how many tickets had they actually sold for this one journey? And how were there exactly the right amount of people waiting to fill the unexpectedly empty seats at a moment's notice? Somebody help me!!!
The new crowd are a much friendlier bunch, mostly one Muslim family with a couple of randoms behind me. I try to strike up conversation with a couple of the younger wives by gesturing that I admired the beautiful henna designs on their hands. Their English was bad so one of the husbands chips in: "They are wearing this because on they are on tour". Cool, is this the rest of the band? Of course, once the ice is broken, they're all off, asking me where I'm from, do I like India etc. The guy behind me is singing to attract my attention, and when I give it, I'm met with the interesting question "So Mem, which do you prefer, Mysore or Birmingham?" Well, let's see....
The journey is actually beautiful, taking in a National Park where we spot a couple of elephants. And, after 36 hairpin bends (!) we arrive in beautiful Ooty...
A painfully early start still not early enough to beat the builders outside to it. The construction going on under my window is of the typical kind - barefooted, cotton-shirted workers, bamboo & string scaffolding, very little machinery and absolutely no protection for the workers or general public having to climb over all the mess. Hard-hat area be blowed! They were still hard at work went I went to bed before midnight, trying to chop up 10 metre steel supporting rods. By hand. In the middle of the road. One guy to hold the chisel straight, another to bring down the wooden hammer. No wonder they were there all night....
I am off to the famous hill station, Ooty, in the Nilgiri Hills of Tamil Nadu. My 23-seater air-conditioned mini bus rocks up on time but with only 13 very dirty seats. This'll be fun.
We head off to collect the rest of the passengers in quite a nice neighbourhood. There are a lot of them - allfrom the same family - and even more of their bags. The grandmother gets on first with 2 bags. She is very ugly and somewhat cross that she is unable to wedge her stuff under the very low seats. Cue shouting and hand-waving at the driver. An equally scary man signals to the rest of the party to board. Three littlle boys get on, then some younger, more attractive women a young man, a baby, several more bags, then another man, oh, and one more kid. It's a squash alright. Grandma almost has the driver pinned up against the wall, such is her rage that there is no more room. The kids are throwing empty water bottles into the street and being generally awful. The baby coughs like she has TB and I am seriously concerned that I've got 5 hours of this to comotion to follow, not to mention the risk of a nasty infection at the end of it. It's just gone 8am.
There is no more room anywhere and I'm pleased to see the driver is now on the phone, presumably calling for a bigger bus. If I were him I'd be calling in sick. So as not to look anybody in the face and thus convey my anguish, I look away, directly behind me. In the gateway to the same house are as many people again, with as many bags. Mother of God!!! I'm almost crying. It's been over 20 minutes now and I'm beginning to wish I'd picked another travel company.
But I should know by now, that with every Indian catastrophe-in-waiting, comes sudden respite. Without any evident signal, everybody gets off, taking their bags with them and we just drive off. I'm numb with relief - and disbelief. What luck! We drive almost to where we started, to another hotel, where another crowd and their bags are ready and waiting. Every seat is filled and off we go. Now my question is this: just how many tickets had they actually sold for this one journey? And how were there exactly the right amount of people waiting to fill the unexpectedly empty seats at a moment's notice? Somebody help me!!!
The new crowd are a much friendlier bunch, mostly one Muslim family with a couple of randoms behind me. I try to strike up conversation with a couple of the younger wives by gesturing that I admired the beautiful henna designs on their hands. Their English was bad so one of the husbands chips in: "They are wearing this because on they are on tour". Cool, is this the rest of the band? Of course, once the ice is broken, they're all off, asking me where I'm from, do I like India etc. The guy behind me is singing to attract my attention, and when I give it, I'm met with the interesting question "So Mem, which do you prefer, Mysore or Birmingham?" Well, let's see....
The journey is actually beautiful, taking in a National Park where we spot a couple of elephants. And, after 36 hairpin bends (!) we arrive in beautiful Ooty...
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Mysore
Thursday November 22nd: Mysore
At last! A proper night’s sleep, what a difference it makes. Today is all about the sight-seeing, most notably, Mysore’s beautiful royal palace. I can sort of see it from my hotel room so it’s only a short distance away. I approach ready to fight off trinket sellers and ‘guides’. The guides drive me insane. I do not need somebody waffling in my ear, gurning in my general direction then sticking his hand out for cash at the end of it. I will happily pay for say, a map, descriptions of what I’m actaully looking at but noooooooo. You really after left to your own devices. Occasionally, if you’re lucky, there might be a very badly printed souvenir book to buy after you’ve left. Let me have it before I go in so I know where I’m going goddamit!!! I pay my entry fee, 10- for locals, 100- for foreigners (welcome to India!), then pay to put my camera in, and then pay again to leave my shoes behind……It’s worth it though as the palace is a-mazing. Beautiful. The whole of the front is one big open terrace, like a Grandstand where you can just imagine all the Indian and British dignitaries watching some sumptuous parade out the front. The forecourt is guarded by 4 extremely angry looking bronze tigers on plinths painted with even angrier red letters saying “Don’t Touch Me!” Inside is stunning and surprisingly well kept, save a huge pile of rubble in one of the courtyards. The upper terrace leading down to the viewing stalls is astonishing – tuquoise and gold arches almost to a vanishing point, with pink & gold striped pillars supporting. I am almost moved to tears, not by that but by the HUGE, plastic, yellow protective barrier running twice the length of the room, totally ruining the view. It’s waist-height and, I repeat, huge, plastic and yellow. It’s the sort of thing you might put up for night-time roadworks, who the hell thought that was a good idea for a palace? What about a good old piece of unobtrusive rope?! It looks brand new too, so has probably been quite an investment. I want to slap somebody but the high count of musketed guards keeps me quiet. Outside is amusingly Indian, ‘well, they’ve seen the palace so let’s not worry about the rest of it’. Round the back is a sort of mini shanty town. Three rather pissed-off looking camels are tethered next to a sign advertising ‘Camel Joy Rides’ and the misery extends as far as a collection of tacky drinks stalls, right in the doorway of the toilet. You wouldn’t get that at Balmoral.
Joking apart, it really is a lovely place but as I wander the grounds, yet again I am pestered for photos. This time a man asks me to “put over my shoulder your hand” Absolutely not!!
Next stop is the Art Gallery, a short walk away. I say art gallery in that it contained art but was yet another case of bugger-all description as to who anything was by, when it was made/painted, the artistic significance…… I’m no Brian Sewell, but I do at least want a bit of detail. The odd thing will have a sticker next to it, most notably in a cabinet full of fairly horrendous ‘back of the Sunday supplement’ glass objects. Very insightful labels such as “red fan made of glass”. Yes, I can see that. Tell me what the bloody hell it’s for and when it was made will you! I can’t bear it any longer so give the final floor of musical instruments a miss, fearing more of the same; “Drum” etc.
Following ‘Uncle’s advice, I take a bus up to Chamundi Hill from where panoramic views of Mysore are possible. It’s only 20 minutes and I am slightly hearted to see signs on the way advertising a ‘plastic bag free zone’. This is quite common in hill-top places; plastic bags really are the scourge of India as they obviously don’t decompose so are literally everywhere, most notably in any kind of waterway. Sadly, ‘plastic-free’ is only ever a well-meaning gesture and is rarely born out in reality. Chamundi is riddled with litter like anywhere else, thanks in part to the hillside method of sweeping. Sweep, sweep, sweep…..chuck all sweepings down the side of the hill so you can’t see it from where you’re standing.
A path of 1,000 steps (!) leading down the hill gives lovely views over Mysore but as I turn back, I hit the school rush hour and am bombarded by requests for ‘schoolpen?’. It’s almost dark by the time I get back to my hotel and should have remembered that going anywhere on foot after dark is a no-no. Not at all because I’m likely to meet with any personal danger, just that you try crossing a busy, un-lit road with vehicles coming at you from every directions, minus lights and you’re lucky to make it to the other side alive!
Friday November 23rd: Mysore
I’m already sad this is my last day here as is one of my favourite places so far out of all my trips. Today is all about the shopping. There’s not much here jewelery-wise that I’d buy which is a shame as there is an entire road given over to jewelers here. This is very common in India to sort your merchandise by road so that you have all the jewelers in one street, all the silk shops in another etc. At least it makes shopping around easy! There is a lovely bookshop in the centre of town where I buy something called ‘Jesus Lived In India’, which suggests that Jesus actually survived the crucifixion and went back-packing of sorts through Central and South Asia. That would explain why so many travellers dress like him! I can’t wait to read it.
As I potter the main drag, there is a commotion at the far end and traffic has been blocked off. Huge crowds are nothing out of the ordinary here, but this crowd is very interested in whatever they are looking at. A large, very shiny JCB is digging a huge hole in the road, casually dumping all the earth into one of the side streets, yet traffic still manages to find a way around it. The earth is getting nearer and nearer a little old lady sat by the side of the road selling, er, cricket bats. There is absolutely nothing to protect the public from the machine so they are literally teetering on the edge of the hole it is digging. I am nervous to walk behind it to carry on my way, just in case the confused-looking operator pulls the wrong level and runs me over.
I take a rickshaw to the Government Sandalwood Factory as it may be interesting to see how it’s all done. As we approach the entrance, I have to check with the guard that this is actually the right place as there is absolutely no sign of activity whatsoever. I sign a book (again) and am led on a tour round a factory a) covered in soot and general debris b) with absolutely nothing happening bar 2 young guys in an corner splitting rather small bits of wood by hand. This is the epicentre of this indsutry?! All the rusty-looking machines lay dormant and the guide explains that they haven’t had enough wood from the forest in over a month, hence nothing is happening. I am in and out in half an hour, wondering how much money they are losing by the day…….
Back in town, I polish up my bargaining skills to come away with a lot of raw silk that I probably won’t use. Back on the street, the JCB has made huge progress and the main road is now completely blocked with water pouring everywhere. There is only one construction worker in sight – the digger himself who is having lots of fun. I am yet to see a hard hat and high-viz jacket here – most builders work in bare feet! – but you’d think there’d be some incentive to clear the earth from the busiest shopping street in town!
At the other end, the street is less busy with a very sorry area with badly injured beggars and street families camped by a very beautiful classical-style building, many of their possessions stuffed into its railings. The building has a badly-hung banner which as I get closer reads….. “Casuality Department”. Oh God, it’s the hospital. I just hope it’s cleaner inside…
I pay one more visit to Uncle and Aziz at the market before leaving; they are very busy today and shifting a lot of incense sticks. I ask how many they sell during festivals – up to 25,000 per day during Diwali! They bid me farewell and hope to see me next year. Maybe not next year, but definitely some other time. I have loved it here, very friendly people but some strange questions regarding my homeland which gives an idea of who has been staying in the area recently. “England? You from Manchester? How was Glastonbury?” Glastonbury? Hmmmn, let’s see, if I want unspeakable toilets and hoardes of people, I prefer to come here actually. Of course I’d never say that, it’s just easier to say “great, thanks” and move on.
As I clamber home over the JCBs soggy mound of earth, it’s time for some last-minute photos of Mysore beautiful statues and official buildings. I also walk by the Mysore branch of the Communist Party of India, I didn’t know there was one! It shares premises with the local mosque, too. It’s day one of the first test against ‘Pak’ as they call it, and the Indian media are gleeful at Pak’s very average innings. They are also rubbing their hands together over what’s happening with ‘Mush’, bombasting their democracy at every opportunity, of which they are fiercely proud. You’ve got to hand it to them, whatever you or I may think of the place, they bloody love it here! Now if they'd just tidy up a bit.....
At last! A proper night’s sleep, what a difference it makes. Today is all about the sight-seeing, most notably, Mysore’s beautiful royal palace. I can sort of see it from my hotel room so it’s only a short distance away. I approach ready to fight off trinket sellers and ‘guides’. The guides drive me insane. I do not need somebody waffling in my ear, gurning in my general direction then sticking his hand out for cash at the end of it. I will happily pay for say, a map, descriptions of what I’m actaully looking at but noooooooo. You really after left to your own devices. Occasionally, if you’re lucky, there might be a very badly printed souvenir book to buy after you’ve left. Let me have it before I go in so I know where I’m going goddamit!!! I pay my entry fee, 10- for locals, 100- for foreigners (welcome to India!), then pay to put my camera in, and then pay again to leave my shoes behind……It’s worth it though as the palace is a-mazing. Beautiful. The whole of the front is one big open terrace, like a Grandstand where you can just imagine all the Indian and British dignitaries watching some sumptuous parade out the front. The forecourt is guarded by 4 extremely angry looking bronze tigers on plinths painted with even angrier red letters saying “Don’t Touch Me!” Inside is stunning and surprisingly well kept, save a huge pile of rubble in one of the courtyards. The upper terrace leading down to the viewing stalls is astonishing – tuquoise and gold arches almost to a vanishing point, with pink & gold striped pillars supporting. I am almost moved to tears, not by that but by the HUGE, plastic, yellow protective barrier running twice the length of the room, totally ruining the view. It’s waist-height and, I repeat, huge, plastic and yellow. It’s the sort of thing you might put up for night-time roadworks, who the hell thought that was a good idea for a palace? What about a good old piece of unobtrusive rope?! It looks brand new too, so has probably been quite an investment. I want to slap somebody but the high count of musketed guards keeps me quiet. Outside is amusingly Indian, ‘well, they’ve seen the palace so let’s not worry about the rest of it’. Round the back is a sort of mini shanty town. Three rather pissed-off looking camels are tethered next to a sign advertising ‘Camel Joy Rides’ and the misery extends as far as a collection of tacky drinks stalls, right in the doorway of the toilet. You wouldn’t get that at Balmoral.
Joking apart, it really is a lovely place but as I wander the grounds, yet again I am pestered for photos. This time a man asks me to “put over my shoulder your hand” Absolutely not!!
Next stop is the Art Gallery, a short walk away. I say art gallery in that it contained art but was yet another case of bugger-all description as to who anything was by, when it was made/painted, the artistic significance…… I’m no Brian Sewell, but I do at least want a bit of detail. The odd thing will have a sticker next to it, most notably in a cabinet full of fairly horrendous ‘back of the Sunday supplement’ glass objects. Very insightful labels such as “red fan made of glass”. Yes, I can see that. Tell me what the bloody hell it’s for and when it was made will you! I can’t bear it any longer so give the final floor of musical instruments a miss, fearing more of the same; “Drum” etc.
Following ‘Uncle’s advice, I take a bus up to Chamundi Hill from where panoramic views of Mysore are possible. It’s only 20 minutes and I am slightly hearted to see signs on the way advertising a ‘plastic bag free zone’. This is quite common in hill-top places; plastic bags really are the scourge of India as they obviously don’t decompose so are literally everywhere, most notably in any kind of waterway. Sadly, ‘plastic-free’ is only ever a well-meaning gesture and is rarely born out in reality. Chamundi is riddled with litter like anywhere else, thanks in part to the hillside method of sweeping. Sweep, sweep, sweep…..chuck all sweepings down the side of the hill so you can’t see it from where you’re standing.
A path of 1,000 steps (!) leading down the hill gives lovely views over Mysore but as I turn back, I hit the school rush hour and am bombarded by requests for ‘schoolpen?’. It’s almost dark by the time I get back to my hotel and should have remembered that going anywhere on foot after dark is a no-no. Not at all because I’m likely to meet with any personal danger, just that you try crossing a busy, un-lit road with vehicles coming at you from every directions, minus lights and you’re lucky to make it to the other side alive!
Friday November 23rd: Mysore
I’m already sad this is my last day here as is one of my favourite places so far out of all my trips. Today is all about the shopping. There’s not much here jewelery-wise that I’d buy which is a shame as there is an entire road given over to jewelers here. This is very common in India to sort your merchandise by road so that you have all the jewelers in one street, all the silk shops in another etc. At least it makes shopping around easy! There is a lovely bookshop in the centre of town where I buy something called ‘Jesus Lived In India’, which suggests that Jesus actually survived the crucifixion and went back-packing of sorts through Central and South Asia. That would explain why so many travellers dress like him! I can’t wait to read it.
As I potter the main drag, there is a commotion at the far end and traffic has been blocked off. Huge crowds are nothing out of the ordinary here, but this crowd is very interested in whatever they are looking at. A large, very shiny JCB is digging a huge hole in the road, casually dumping all the earth into one of the side streets, yet traffic still manages to find a way around it. The earth is getting nearer and nearer a little old lady sat by the side of the road selling, er, cricket bats. There is absolutely nothing to protect the public from the machine so they are literally teetering on the edge of the hole it is digging. I am nervous to walk behind it to carry on my way, just in case the confused-looking operator pulls the wrong level and runs me over.
I take a rickshaw to the Government Sandalwood Factory as it may be interesting to see how it’s all done. As we approach the entrance, I have to check with the guard that this is actually the right place as there is absolutely no sign of activity whatsoever. I sign a book (again) and am led on a tour round a factory a) covered in soot and general debris b) with absolutely nothing happening bar 2 young guys in an corner splitting rather small bits of wood by hand. This is the epicentre of this indsutry?! All the rusty-looking machines lay dormant and the guide explains that they haven’t had enough wood from the forest in over a month, hence nothing is happening. I am in and out in half an hour, wondering how much money they are losing by the day…….
Back in town, I polish up my bargaining skills to come away with a lot of raw silk that I probably won’t use. Back on the street, the JCB has made huge progress and the main road is now completely blocked with water pouring everywhere. There is only one construction worker in sight – the digger himself who is having lots of fun. I am yet to see a hard hat and high-viz jacket here – most builders work in bare feet! – but you’d think there’d be some incentive to clear the earth from the busiest shopping street in town!
At the other end, the street is less busy with a very sorry area with badly injured beggars and street families camped by a very beautiful classical-style building, many of their possessions stuffed into its railings. The building has a badly-hung banner which as I get closer reads….. “Casuality Department”. Oh God, it’s the hospital. I just hope it’s cleaner inside…
I pay one more visit to Uncle and Aziz at the market before leaving; they are very busy today and shifting a lot of incense sticks. I ask how many they sell during festivals – up to 25,000 per day during Diwali! They bid me farewell and hope to see me next year. Maybe not next year, but definitely some other time. I have loved it here, very friendly people but some strange questions regarding my homeland which gives an idea of who has been staying in the area recently. “England? You from Manchester? How was Glastonbury?” Glastonbury? Hmmmn, let’s see, if I want unspeakable toilets and hoardes of people, I prefer to come here actually. Of course I’d never say that, it’s just easier to say “great, thanks” and move on.
As I clamber home over the JCBs soggy mound of earth, it’s time for some last-minute photos of Mysore beautiful statues and official buildings. I also walk by the Mysore branch of the Communist Party of India, I didn’t know there was one! It shares premises with the local mosque, too. It’s day one of the first test against ‘Pak’ as they call it, and the Indian media are gleeful at Pak’s very average innings. They are also rubbing their hands together over what’s happening with ‘Mush’, bombasting their democracy at every opportunity, of which they are fiercely proud. You’ve got to hand it to them, whatever you or I may think of the place, they bloody love it here! Now if they'd just tidy up a bit.....
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Hassan to Mysore
Wednesday November 21: Hassan to Mysore
After another cold bucket shower and sleepless night, I cannot wait to leave Hassan. A faint sense that there might be a God after all is realised by my arriving at a bus station with no signs in English, to be greeted by a bus going to Mysore – which is totally empty. Of course it doesn’t stay that way for long, but I should be grateful to be leaving at all.
My relatively early starts means the journey coincides with school rush hour. Indian school children are impossibly sweet, moreso thanks to their delightful uniforms, all pristine and all of interesting colour combinations. More often than not, the predominant colour is white, which, you’d imagine on the average 6-year-old in a country full of stain opportunities, is a test for any Mum’s packet of Daz. However, I’ve yet to see a child with so much as an untucked shirt; they are all immaculate. On this occasion, they are either walking unaccompanied by adults alongside extremely harzardous traffic, or squeezed into a tiny auto-rickshaw, their excited little faces poking out of the side.
Arriving in Mysore is a real breath of fresh air – quite literally. There are properly paved roads, trees and even some nice-looking houses with 2 storeys and no chunks of plaster missing. My hotel is a palace compared with Hassan; the only problem with posh hotels over here is that their restaurants are completely souless and overpriced so I head out for something a bit more Indian at one of the chepaer places down the road. It’s delightfully gloomy with a cronky fan doing a pointless job. The thali (buffet style plate) here is 50Rs (65p!) for all you can eat, including refills. I am the only Westerner in there until another blonde girl about my age enters wearing some kind ‘I got these when I was in India’ robes, accompanied by 3 Buddhist Monks. I am steadfast in my M&S cottons, insisting that ethnic garb is only really only acceptable if you’re doing a year off and never had a job, not if you’re 33 and working in the unendingly glamourous world of advertising…..
Mysore is famous for its palaces, silks and sandalwood, a lot of which goes into incense. My first wander round the town takes in the huge Devaraja Market; it’s like Waitrose compared to the one in Bangalore. It’s the standard set-up of immaculately run stalls of colourful produce – fruit & veg, pulses, spices, flowers and the local speciality, Sandalwood soap – at eye level. Then on the floor, ankle-deep refuse and teeny weeny, wrinkly old ladies sitting next to a pile of about 4 potatoes which you really think they should eat, rather than try to sell in case they snap in half any minute. A little boy approaches me asking if I want to come and see some incense being made. It’s a sad truth that many shops use young children as touts to attract tourists to their stall. I’ve had this countless times so am quite adept at shooing them away. This one is particularly insistent that he show me how it’s done, and is very sweet so I go with him to his perfume stall, run by his uncle. “Uncle” shows me countless photos of tourists who have visited his stall over the last 40 years (!). He is so friendly that I sit down. Little Aziz, who is 12, then puts a spoonful of sandalwood powder, and a spoonful of ‘gum’ powder, onto a board, which he mixes to for a paste. He then takes a reed-thin piece of bamboo, and rolls the past over it, until just a thin layer remains. An incense stick! Uncle then gets me a cup of tea, and takes the stoppers out of some of the large glass bottles of oils on the stand. Each one is wafted in my direction and given the equivalent designer name. Rosewood oil is ‘Chanel’ – it does smell like no5 – Watermelon is Kenzo, and Green Lotus oil is apparently what they use in the perfume of French designer ‘Janpal Gotey’. I take 3 bottles, not quite making the minimum limited of 10 to qualify for a free wooden box. Uncle then gives me a potted guide to Mysore, what to see, how to get there and most importantly, what not to see. It is meeting people like this that makes these trips, and I am invited to return before I leave, which I most certainly will.
After another cold bucket shower and sleepless night, I cannot wait to leave Hassan. A faint sense that there might be a God after all is realised by my arriving at a bus station with no signs in English, to be greeted by a bus going to Mysore – which is totally empty. Of course it doesn’t stay that way for long, but I should be grateful to be leaving at all.
My relatively early starts means the journey coincides with school rush hour. Indian school children are impossibly sweet, moreso thanks to their delightful uniforms, all pristine and all of interesting colour combinations. More often than not, the predominant colour is white, which, you’d imagine on the average 6-year-old in a country full of stain opportunities, is a test for any Mum’s packet of Daz. However, I’ve yet to see a child with so much as an untucked shirt; they are all immaculate. On this occasion, they are either walking unaccompanied by adults alongside extremely harzardous traffic, or squeezed into a tiny auto-rickshaw, their excited little faces poking out of the side.
Arriving in Mysore is a real breath of fresh air – quite literally. There are properly paved roads, trees and even some nice-looking houses with 2 storeys and no chunks of plaster missing. My hotel is a palace compared with Hassan; the only problem with posh hotels over here is that their restaurants are completely souless and overpriced so I head out for something a bit more Indian at one of the chepaer places down the road. It’s delightfully gloomy with a cronky fan doing a pointless job. The thali (buffet style plate) here is 50Rs (65p!) for all you can eat, including refills. I am the only Westerner in there until another blonde girl about my age enters wearing some kind ‘I got these when I was in India’ robes, accompanied by 3 Buddhist Monks. I am steadfast in my M&S cottons, insisting that ethnic garb is only really only acceptable if you’re doing a year off and never had a job, not if you’re 33 and working in the unendingly glamourous world of advertising…..
Mysore is famous for its palaces, silks and sandalwood, a lot of which goes into incense. My first wander round the town takes in the huge Devaraja Market; it’s like Waitrose compared to the one in Bangalore. It’s the standard set-up of immaculately run stalls of colourful produce – fruit & veg, pulses, spices, flowers and the local speciality, Sandalwood soap – at eye level. Then on the floor, ankle-deep refuse and teeny weeny, wrinkly old ladies sitting next to a pile of about 4 potatoes which you really think they should eat, rather than try to sell in case they snap in half any minute. A little boy approaches me asking if I want to come and see some incense being made. It’s a sad truth that many shops use young children as touts to attract tourists to their stall. I’ve had this countless times so am quite adept at shooing them away. This one is particularly insistent that he show me how it’s done, and is very sweet so I go with him to his perfume stall, run by his uncle. “Uncle” shows me countless photos of tourists who have visited his stall over the last 40 years (!). He is so friendly that I sit down. Little Aziz, who is 12, then puts a spoonful of sandalwood powder, and a spoonful of ‘gum’ powder, onto a board, which he mixes to for a paste. He then takes a reed-thin piece of bamboo, and rolls the past over it, until just a thin layer remains. An incense stick! Uncle then gets me a cup of tea, and takes the stoppers out of some of the large glass bottles of oils on the stand. Each one is wafted in my direction and given the equivalent designer name. Rosewood oil is ‘Chanel’ – it does smell like no5 – Watermelon is Kenzo, and Green Lotus oil is apparently what they use in the perfume of French designer ‘Janpal Gotey’. I take 3 bottles, not quite making the minimum limited of 10 to qualify for a free wooden box. Uncle then gives me a potted guide to Mysore, what to see, how to get there and most importantly, what not to see. It is meeting people like this that makes these trips, and I am invited to return before I leave, which I most certainly will.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Bangalore & Hassan
Well, here I am again. I arrived in a thankfully temperate Bangalore at 6am local time after 10 hours of being wedged at the back of a jumbo. Flights to Bangalore won’t be that busy I thought, I might get a double window seat where I can stretch out a bit. What a fool, I should have remembered that any Indian mode of transport will always be packed to the gills! At least it was only one person per seat.
I wouldn’t advise anyone to arrive here half asleep as you need your wits about you immediately. Confusing rituals – scanning your bags AFTER you arrive?! – and hoards of people aren’t the most relaxing welcome. But I was slightly heartened by the fact that so many of the things I had curiously grown accustomed to were back with me immediately. So it’s a big “welcome back” to sweeping lady, a beautiful sari flowing from her nylon cleaning overalls; a “nice to see you” to the 8 year old boy touting for the taxi company, and a “not you again!” to the fervent porter trying to rip my bag from my hand and charge me for taking it 10 yards to the taxi queue, where I fill in the first of many forms on this trip, and am ushered by a very young boy to the predictably unroadworthy vehicle. This one actually had seatbelts though – a rarity – but sadly nothing to plug them into. What they give with one hand…..
It’s 7am by the time we hit the road but of course, everyone’s awake and honking their horn. Bangalore is India’s second most modern city after Bombay, its fast-growing wealth coming from the burgeoning IT and service industries, plus of course, it is home to most of our beloved call centres. If only I could track down the Talktalk ‘customer service’ centre, my trip will be complete already. The money shows -roads are all fully paved and every main route is plastered with billboards, most of them bearing the cheesy grin of Shah Rukh Khan, Bollywood’s premier actor and a face you cannot escape here. More on him later.
My hotel is nice in a sort of 70s sitcom way and I am greeted by a man blowing a whistle for no apparent reason, India is rife with them. All uniformed and ready for battle, all devoutly blowing whistles at no one in particular and pointing a lot. “You! Yes, you! Stop it!” Stop what? I'm not doing anything? “Do not question me!” Trrriiiiiiii!!!!!!!
I manage a couple of hours of very poor quality sleep, made so because my ‘mini-bar’ seems to be powered by an old locomotive engine, which kicks in every 10 minutes or so. Its unhappiness may have something to do with the fact that it is tilted at quite an angle, thanks to its resting on a lurching plastic step which is built to support something a tenth the weight. My bathroom is text-book standard; not quite as nice as the room, a mild stench of mold and a semi open-drain which gurgles after the use of any facility. Unfolding the first of 2 towels reveals it may have spent a previous life as a decorators dust sheet as it is festooned with odd blue stains. The unwritten Indian motto, “if it works, it stays” means there’s absolutely no use in pointing this out, as they’d only look at me as if “silly woman, you can still dry yourself with it can’t you?”. I take the other one which looks cleaner.
Then, of course, there’s my bucket. Every single hotel room in India, whatever your budget will furnish you with a plastic bucket and a little measuring jug hooked over the side. This is just in case the traditional receptacles of sink and bath do not meet your water-holding needs. You can only imagine the furore if your room didn’t have one. “Reception! This is not good enough! My bed is comfortable and the mini-bar adequately stocked but I do not have a bucket! Bring one immediately, I shall not survive otherwise!”
I do not stray far on the first day, taking in the ‘glitzy’ Brigade Road and its very shiny shops. By shiny I mean with actual doors and glass in the windows. I can’t believe it! Weirdly, it seems to be more of a temple to Men’s fashion with macho shops called such manly things as Excalibur and Woodland. There are also a lot of bars, something you really don’t see outside the very big cities. The Bangaloreans are quite the party kids, always looking to spend their hard earned rupees in one of many ‘pubs’ or ‘lounges’. Very un-Indian to me.
The main drag, MG Road is often photographed as India’s answer to Piccadilly Circus thanks to its brightly lit signs. I’m not sure from which vantage point this photo is taken, but they did well to give the impression that the whole road glitters with neon as there are actually several blocks where there seems to be no electricity at all! There you are walking along and suddenly the pavement disappears, it’s pitch black and you feel like you’re in Baghdad. The road is one sided, the opposite side home to a huge Parade Ground. From the looks of it, the last time they had a parade there was when MG was still alive as it’s a total wasteland.
There are so many cars too, most of them very new. You don’t tend to see that many as most traffic is of the 2 wheeled or four-legged variety. 99% are miniscule little hatchbacks – still able to cram in up to 8 passengers - and you can have anything you like so long as it’s a Hyundai Getz, a Suzuki Swift or the local lad, the Tata Indica. Tata are India’s largest Multinational company and it shows, they seem to make everything - cars, steel, electricity, satellite telly, they even own Tetley Tea. Indian! Despite their status symbol, cars are actually quite low down the pecking order on the roads, having neither the imposing size of the buses or lorries nor the ability to undercut anything at great speed as enjoyed (at great length) by the vast quantity of auto-rickshaws and motorbikes. Traffic here is reasonably civilised; there are traffic lights and even an attempt to keep the honking down with signs saying “Do Not Horn Unnecessarily”. The road signs never fail to amuse me, always advising drivers to be cautious, which of course they never are: “Sefty First; Speed Second”. Yeah, right.
To get back into the swing of things, I try to catch up with Indian news via the many TV channels, the majority of which are given over to Bollywood or cricket. At any given time, you can see coverage of at least 3 matches – most of them not even involving India – interviews with players (favourite being Aussie fast bowler ‘Bretley’) and news stories covering any scandals or controversies. The slightest issue is whipped up into a national crisis and given the same kind of airtime as a General Election. The BCCI (Board of Control for Cricket in India) are generally unpopular but apparently are the richest cricket board in the world *taps nose*.
The forthcoming Test Series between old enemies India and Pakistan is causing much pant-wetting. To maximize airtime opportunity, generous coverage on shows such as their equivalent of Soccer AM, ‘Cricket Crazy’ is also given to the opposing side so I tuned in the other day to ‘Meet The Shoaibs’, where Akhtar and Malik sat looking slightly confused at such burning issues as “when are you getting married?”. Anil Kumble’s recent appointment as captain has seen the poor love with a mic shoved in his piehole every other minute.
Sunday, November 18th - Bangalore
When replying to the common courtesy “did you sleep well?”, it’s not often you can say “not really, the fridge kept me awake half the night”. A fridge!! We’re all accustomed to the nice pretty whir of a fridge, it’s really quite soothing. This is like a thundering steam train and coupled with jetlag, I awoke not knowing what day it was. Over a nice Indian breakfast of sugary and spicy things I scanned the local paper for anything interesting. Headline news was ‘Pig Menace still troubles Belgaum’. Apparently out of control swines are causing havoc in nearby Belgaum, where they apparently ‘hang around in packs after dark’ causing ‘nuisance’. No mention of swearing or smoking but the solution had been found in that they were rounded up and shipped off to Goa to be made into local cuisine. You have to love it!!
saw me on my way to Cubbon Park, the ‘Central Park’ of Bangalore. It was really rather nice, welcoming you in with an impressive statue of Queen Victoria. Teeming with people (obviously) but moreso today as there is a Children’s Drawing Competition happening. I enter and follow the smell of what at first seems like a nice Tandoor oven, perhaps cooking up some treats for the little darlings? No, it’s a totally random man, tending a largish fire within spitting distance of Bangalore’s youth. His fuel? Plastic bags. Cough!
The competition is extremely well organised and brimming with very excitable little boys and girls. You can choose from a number of topics for your drawing; Wonders of the World (cue lots of Taj Mahals); My Family, Traditional Indian Dance and er, Freedom Fighters. And the finalists are: Taj Mahal in watercolour, somebody’s Mum in chalk and this lovely scene of the Tamil Tigers kidnapping somebody in Colombo. Inevitably, where there are children, there are little Katie stalkers. They fall into 2 camps: Confident approach with a firm shake of the hand, a ‘hello Mem, how are you?’ and a quick scarper. Or the ‘Creepers’ – usually girls - who can follow you for several yards then shrink away sheepishly when you turn round to look. This can happen over several yards, so eventually, you approach them to say hello. Dying of embarassment, they are speechless for a bit then after the usual icebreaker of ‘which country Mem?’ you can’t get rid of them. Two such girls stalked me round the park until they plucked up enough courage to ask me for what they were after. “Drawing sheet?” They hadn’t brought any paper with them and therefore couldn’t enter the competition. Bless them, but I was clean out of A4 drawing paper that day. I ripped out 2 pages from my small notebook which were greeted with the sort of look that said “I won’t fit the Taj on that love” and we parted company.
Across the road was the genuinely stunning Parliament building, grandiose and pristine, bearing the inscription, ‘Government Work is God’s Work’ above the door. It didn’t say which God though so the fact that there are over 3,000 Hindu deities might go some way to explaining why there is SO much bureaucracy here…..
I thought I was being good by heading off to the bus station to buy tomorrow’s ticket to Hassan in advance. On the other side of town, I soon realised that modern Bangalore only stretched a little way beyond the main centre and I was back in proper India again. It was hell on earth, the full-on India I wasn’t ready for just yet. It was vast, easily 200 buses parked and thousands of people. Thousands. Every overhead walkway was crammed with people going somewhere, a bit like a stadium just after a match. I had no idea where to start. This is when you feel like a total foreigner as everybody seems to know where they are going except you. After finally finding the right queue, I am pushed out of the way by lots of anxious men who I’m really hoping won’t be on my bus tomorrow…
Markets here are always worth a visit; so colourful, so energetic and generally brilliant photo ops. The produce usually first class and beautifully presented in decorative arrangements. I was therefore excited at the prospect of visiting the ‘bustling’ City Market, just outside the centre. It was like Medieval England; wading through the rocks and compost I headed towards the only covered area, a funny brick building with half its windows missing. Pitch dark inside, it was the usually death trap of potholes and other things to trip over; jutting pieces of rusting metal and toothless old men selling random bits of veg. You could see right through to the basement, which was thronging with people sifting through the day’s refuse. I try to get out but most paths are blocked with people carrying large bags of onions on their heads. Time to go!! The place I want to get to next looks like it should be a walkable distance, but sadly isn’t a walkable path as involves going round a large flyover which has a mini shanty town nestled below. Time for a sharp exit; thank God for the auto-rickshaws which I seem to spend most of my day in. I love them.
Most places you visit will have a temple of interest but Jeez, some of them don’t half look the same. I make an extremely long – and ultimately pointless – trip to Bangalore’s Bull Temple containing an admittedly impressive granite bull, but what it doesn’t tell you is that the state is overrun but granite bulls, so seen one….On the way back I stop at some apparently famous Tiffin Rooms; there’s a huge queue which becomes restless so people just start to let themselves in through the back door, leading you in via the kitchen. This is never a good idea, especially not in India. Seeing all the crockery and cutlery washed in murky water next to a very unsavoury looking chef chopping up onions doesn’t really whip up your appetite, but you’ve got to ignore it. I put my name down for a seat and am ushered a waiting room (!), full of very patient people staring into an empty restaurant! The tables are all deserted, but still we have to wait. Bloody India, no logic whatsoever and absolutely no point in trying to question it.
Strangely, I have seen more churches than temples so far, the nearest being St Patricks where I stopped for a wander. There was the obligatory guard to navigate first, but like most of them, he had no idea why he was there, as peole were totally free to come and go. The church looked like any European one, its only token to India being a statue of the Virgin Mary atop a map of the country, painted in the colours of the flag – green, white and orange. In large letter below, simply the signage ‘Behold Your Mother’. Victim to usual standard of Indian upkeep, the H had slipped down, to reveal the new instruction ‘Be Old Your Mother’. My mother turns 60 in a couple of months, will that do?
Monday 19th November – Bangalore to Hassan
My first long bus journey of the trip, but it’s an ‘executive’ coach, which means one person per seat but sadly doesn’t omit the random stops – you can literally hop on or hop off any bus at any time providing you can squeeze on. The posh buses also give you a loo stop, these vary in length according to the driver’s mood – this one was short enough for them to just leave without me, I only just made it back on…..The journey is seamless, bar one roadblock. A lorry is being winched out of a ditch, not as the result of any accident, but because its front wheel base has folded in half, thanks to its cargo of bricks, most of which are now in the ditch as well. As there is no sign of anybody dead or injured, so nobody seems even remotely bothered. The lorry and bricks will no doubt stay there until somebody comes to nick bits of it for spares.
I’m off to Hassan as it’s nearish and recommended for some temples nearby. They’d better be bloody good as the town is a total hole. No tarmac-ed road so you are covered in soot and dust the minute you step out. My hotel room is huge and spotless but so noisy from the traffic horns I just know it’s going to be my third night in a row of bad sleep. I gingerly wander about; it seems the town’s only focal point is the local Picture House, which is so decrepit it’s hard to tell whether it’s being renovated or pulled down. There is also a confusingly high count of Bakeries, all selling nice-looking sweets and nasty plastic white loaves. Sliced bread has come to India, their slicing machine in the form of a 12-year-old with a rusty bread knife. He’s pretty quick though; I’m impressed. I am so grubby by the time I get back that I need a shower immediately. It is only when in a smaller town with limited water-heating skills that you realise the true worth or your bathroom bucket – it’s the easiest way to wash in cold water without freezing your arse off.
Tuesday November 20th: Hassan & Belur / Halebid temples
Christ Almighty, this country is so bleedin’ noisy. As if the traffic outside weren’t enough, the lift outside my room – the old kind where you have to manually pull 2 doors to get in and out – started up a half past sodding five and didn’t stop. The temples I need are a 1-hour bus ride away and the Bus Stand is thankfully close. Sadly, despite about 40 buses coming and going, none are for where I want and all he signs above each platform are in the local dialect, Kannad. No English at all. On top of which, every person I ask points me in a different direction. Another bus shows up, creating a stampede. I bet that’s mine. It is. I run towards it along with several others. The front door is wedged shut so everybody is getting on at the side. I am stuck in the crush, made harder by the fact that the lady in front of me has several rolls of glass bangles slung over her shoulder which are weighing her down. I lose a shoe in the process which I only just manage to get back. It’s standing room only so I hang on at the front whilst the hateful guard digs me in the back every time he wants to get past.
I’ve figured that buses here are always full because they’re often the only mode of transport for casual farm labourers, hence the random piling on & off in seemingly the middle of nowhere. I eventually get a seat half way and enjoy the miles of cornfields, dotted with little shacks housing workers to shell the husks…….and leave all the debris by the side of the road.
The huge, square temple at Halebid is impressive and thankfully charge free. There is the odd guide ‘tout’ which is common – a man with a dubious ‘official’ badge to show you round for a fee. I walk round the temple which has a crowd gathered at one side. Nothing new here, I’ve given up trying to fathom why the Indians love crowding places so much. On this occasion however, it’s proper exciting: they’re making a film!! Proper Bollywood action right in front of me. And NO security whatsoever. The rig is all set up and surrrounded by guards, but none of them are keen to keep away the large crowd of mostly schoolkids. The ‘star’ is wearing combats and a very inadvisable plunging orange V-neck. His shoulder-length hair is being tended to carefully, whilst his stunning co-star stands around in her more traditional sari, I certainly don’t see any trailers for them to lord about in. They are shooting one tiny shot, involving him standing in a manly legs-apart pose, while she runs behind him in a diagonal line, waving her hands about. No more than 10 seconds max, yet it takes several goes – and a appointment with the hair & make-up team in between each one – for HIM!! Whilst he is being coiffed, a flunky hands the woman her mobile, and then another. She checks both whilst macho man is checking his parting and they do the scene again. And again. Etc. All the while the crowd is totally silent, just happy to watch.
A quick bus hop to the next temple attracts a similar sized crowd – for me. It’s not unusual to be asked to have your picture taken with other tourists but this was ridiculous. As I agreed to have a photo with one lot, a guy gestures over to other, and soon there are young boys literally running to be in the picture. Then each one produces a camera so they can record it on their own film. So annoying. I literally have to walk off shouting “NO!!” lest I am there all day. I can’t wait to get out, so walk back to the bus station via a very manky looking building with a cattle grid outside. It’s the local hospital. An effortless journey back is marred only by the sneaking conductor charging me for an extra fare for a child. That’s 9p I’ll never get back….
I am actually dreading another night here but as ever, am cheered by the news programmes. They've hit gold tonight, the 2 most popoular topics combined into ONE STORY!! Tonight's scandalous headline is on constant loop: Shah Rukh Khan has been accused of attending cricket matches to get publicity for his new film! Just imagine: famous person attends public event to promote latest venture, you couldn't make it up! The BCCI have suggested that perhaps he is not there to enjoy the fine pacework of the Indian team. SRK is said to be 'hurt', and is vowing never to attend another match again.
I wouldn’t advise anyone to arrive here half asleep as you need your wits about you immediately. Confusing rituals – scanning your bags AFTER you arrive?! – and hoards of people aren’t the most relaxing welcome. But I was slightly heartened by the fact that so many of the things I had curiously grown accustomed to were back with me immediately. So it’s a big “welcome back” to sweeping lady, a beautiful sari flowing from her nylon cleaning overalls; a “nice to see you” to the 8 year old boy touting for the taxi company, and a “not you again!” to the fervent porter trying to rip my bag from my hand and charge me for taking it 10 yards to the taxi queue, where I fill in the first of many forms on this trip, and am ushered by a very young boy to the predictably unroadworthy vehicle. This one actually had seatbelts though – a rarity – but sadly nothing to plug them into. What they give with one hand…..
It’s 7am by the time we hit the road but of course, everyone’s awake and honking their horn. Bangalore is India’s second most modern city after Bombay, its fast-growing wealth coming from the burgeoning IT and service industries, plus of course, it is home to most of our beloved call centres. If only I could track down the Talktalk ‘customer service’ centre, my trip will be complete already. The money shows -roads are all fully paved and every main route is plastered with billboards, most of them bearing the cheesy grin of Shah Rukh Khan, Bollywood’s premier actor and a face you cannot escape here. More on him later.
My hotel is nice in a sort of 70s sitcom way and I am greeted by a man blowing a whistle for no apparent reason, India is rife with them. All uniformed and ready for battle, all devoutly blowing whistles at no one in particular and pointing a lot. “You! Yes, you! Stop it!” Stop what? I'm not doing anything? “Do not question me!” Trrriiiiiiii!!!!!!!
I manage a couple of hours of very poor quality sleep, made so because my ‘mini-bar’ seems to be powered by an old locomotive engine, which kicks in every 10 minutes or so. Its unhappiness may have something to do with the fact that it is tilted at quite an angle, thanks to its resting on a lurching plastic step which is built to support something a tenth the weight. My bathroom is text-book standard; not quite as nice as the room, a mild stench of mold and a semi open-drain which gurgles after the use of any facility. Unfolding the first of 2 towels reveals it may have spent a previous life as a decorators dust sheet as it is festooned with odd blue stains. The unwritten Indian motto, “if it works, it stays” means there’s absolutely no use in pointing this out, as they’d only look at me as if “silly woman, you can still dry yourself with it can’t you?”. I take the other one which looks cleaner.
Then, of course, there’s my bucket. Every single hotel room in India, whatever your budget will furnish you with a plastic bucket and a little measuring jug hooked over the side. This is just in case the traditional receptacles of sink and bath do not meet your water-holding needs. You can only imagine the furore if your room didn’t have one. “Reception! This is not good enough! My bed is comfortable and the mini-bar adequately stocked but I do not have a bucket! Bring one immediately, I shall not survive otherwise!”
I do not stray far on the first day, taking in the ‘glitzy’ Brigade Road and its very shiny shops. By shiny I mean with actual doors and glass in the windows. I can’t believe it! Weirdly, it seems to be more of a temple to Men’s fashion with macho shops called such manly things as Excalibur and Woodland. There are also a lot of bars, something you really don’t see outside the very big cities. The Bangaloreans are quite the party kids, always looking to spend their hard earned rupees in one of many ‘pubs’ or ‘lounges’. Very un-Indian to me.
The main drag, MG Road is often photographed as India’s answer to Piccadilly Circus thanks to its brightly lit signs. I’m not sure from which vantage point this photo is taken, but they did well to give the impression that the whole road glitters with neon as there are actually several blocks where there seems to be no electricity at all! There you are walking along and suddenly the pavement disappears, it’s pitch black and you feel like you’re in Baghdad. The road is one sided, the opposite side home to a huge Parade Ground. From the looks of it, the last time they had a parade there was when MG was still alive as it’s a total wasteland.
There are so many cars too, most of them very new. You don’t tend to see that many as most traffic is of the 2 wheeled or four-legged variety. 99% are miniscule little hatchbacks – still able to cram in up to 8 passengers - and you can have anything you like so long as it’s a Hyundai Getz, a Suzuki Swift or the local lad, the Tata Indica. Tata are India’s largest Multinational company and it shows, they seem to make everything - cars, steel, electricity, satellite telly, they even own Tetley Tea. Indian! Despite their status symbol, cars are actually quite low down the pecking order on the roads, having neither the imposing size of the buses or lorries nor the ability to undercut anything at great speed as enjoyed (at great length) by the vast quantity of auto-rickshaws and motorbikes. Traffic here is reasonably civilised; there are traffic lights and even an attempt to keep the honking down with signs saying “Do Not Horn Unnecessarily”. The road signs never fail to amuse me, always advising drivers to be cautious, which of course they never are: “Sefty First; Speed Second”. Yeah, right.
To get back into the swing of things, I try to catch up with Indian news via the many TV channels, the majority of which are given over to Bollywood or cricket. At any given time, you can see coverage of at least 3 matches – most of them not even involving India – interviews with players (favourite being Aussie fast bowler ‘Bretley’) and news stories covering any scandals or controversies. The slightest issue is whipped up into a national crisis and given the same kind of airtime as a General Election. The BCCI (Board of Control for Cricket in India) are generally unpopular but apparently are the richest cricket board in the world *taps nose*.
The forthcoming Test Series between old enemies India and Pakistan is causing much pant-wetting. To maximize airtime opportunity, generous coverage on shows such as their equivalent of Soccer AM, ‘Cricket Crazy’ is also given to the opposing side so I tuned in the other day to ‘Meet The Shoaibs’, where Akhtar and Malik sat looking slightly confused at such burning issues as “when are you getting married?”. Anil Kumble’s recent appointment as captain has seen the poor love with a mic shoved in his piehole every other minute.
Sunday, November 18th - Bangalore
When replying to the common courtesy “did you sleep well?”, it’s not often you can say “not really, the fridge kept me awake half the night”. A fridge!! We’re all accustomed to the nice pretty whir of a fridge, it’s really quite soothing. This is like a thundering steam train and coupled with jetlag, I awoke not knowing what day it was. Over a nice Indian breakfast of sugary and spicy things I scanned the local paper for anything interesting. Headline news was ‘Pig Menace still troubles Belgaum’. Apparently out of control swines are causing havoc in nearby Belgaum, where they apparently ‘hang around in packs after dark’ causing ‘nuisance’. No mention of swearing or smoking but the solution had been found in that they were rounded up and shipped off to Goa to be made into local cuisine. You have to love it!!
saw me on my way to Cubbon Park, the ‘Central Park’ of Bangalore. It was really rather nice, welcoming you in with an impressive statue of Queen Victoria. Teeming with people (obviously) but moreso today as there is a Children’s Drawing Competition happening. I enter and follow the smell of what at first seems like a nice Tandoor oven, perhaps cooking up some treats for the little darlings? No, it’s a totally random man, tending a largish fire within spitting distance of Bangalore’s youth. His fuel? Plastic bags. Cough!
The competition is extremely well organised and brimming with very excitable little boys and girls. You can choose from a number of topics for your drawing; Wonders of the World (cue lots of Taj Mahals); My Family, Traditional Indian Dance and er, Freedom Fighters. And the finalists are: Taj Mahal in watercolour, somebody’s Mum in chalk and this lovely scene of the Tamil Tigers kidnapping somebody in Colombo. Inevitably, where there are children, there are little Katie stalkers. They fall into 2 camps: Confident approach with a firm shake of the hand, a ‘hello Mem, how are you?’ and a quick scarper. Or the ‘Creepers’ – usually girls - who can follow you for several yards then shrink away sheepishly when you turn round to look. This can happen over several yards, so eventually, you approach them to say hello. Dying of embarassment, they are speechless for a bit then after the usual icebreaker of ‘which country Mem?’ you can’t get rid of them. Two such girls stalked me round the park until they plucked up enough courage to ask me for what they were after. “Drawing sheet?” They hadn’t brought any paper with them and therefore couldn’t enter the competition. Bless them, but I was clean out of A4 drawing paper that day. I ripped out 2 pages from my small notebook which were greeted with the sort of look that said “I won’t fit the Taj on that love” and we parted company.
Across the road was the genuinely stunning Parliament building, grandiose and pristine, bearing the inscription, ‘Government Work is God’s Work’ above the door. It didn’t say which God though so the fact that there are over 3,000 Hindu deities might go some way to explaining why there is SO much bureaucracy here…..
I thought I was being good by heading off to the bus station to buy tomorrow’s ticket to Hassan in advance. On the other side of town, I soon realised that modern Bangalore only stretched a little way beyond the main centre and I was back in proper India again. It was hell on earth, the full-on India I wasn’t ready for just yet. It was vast, easily 200 buses parked and thousands of people. Thousands. Every overhead walkway was crammed with people going somewhere, a bit like a stadium just after a match. I had no idea where to start. This is when you feel like a total foreigner as everybody seems to know where they are going except you. After finally finding the right queue, I am pushed out of the way by lots of anxious men who I’m really hoping won’t be on my bus tomorrow…
Markets here are always worth a visit; so colourful, so energetic and generally brilliant photo ops. The produce usually first class and beautifully presented in decorative arrangements. I was therefore excited at the prospect of visiting the ‘bustling’ City Market, just outside the centre. It was like Medieval England; wading through the rocks and compost I headed towards the only covered area, a funny brick building with half its windows missing. Pitch dark inside, it was the usually death trap of potholes and other things to trip over; jutting pieces of rusting metal and toothless old men selling random bits of veg. You could see right through to the basement, which was thronging with people sifting through the day’s refuse. I try to get out but most paths are blocked with people carrying large bags of onions on their heads. Time to go!! The place I want to get to next looks like it should be a walkable distance, but sadly isn’t a walkable path as involves going round a large flyover which has a mini shanty town nestled below. Time for a sharp exit; thank God for the auto-rickshaws which I seem to spend most of my day in. I love them.
Most places you visit will have a temple of interest but Jeez, some of them don’t half look the same. I make an extremely long – and ultimately pointless – trip to Bangalore’s Bull Temple containing an admittedly impressive granite bull, but what it doesn’t tell you is that the state is overrun but granite bulls, so seen one….On the way back I stop at some apparently famous Tiffin Rooms; there’s a huge queue which becomes restless so people just start to let themselves in through the back door, leading you in via the kitchen. This is never a good idea, especially not in India. Seeing all the crockery and cutlery washed in murky water next to a very unsavoury looking chef chopping up onions doesn’t really whip up your appetite, but you’ve got to ignore it. I put my name down for a seat and am ushered a waiting room (!), full of very patient people staring into an empty restaurant! The tables are all deserted, but still we have to wait. Bloody India, no logic whatsoever and absolutely no point in trying to question it.
Strangely, I have seen more churches than temples so far, the nearest being St Patricks where I stopped for a wander. There was the obligatory guard to navigate first, but like most of them, he had no idea why he was there, as peole were totally free to come and go. The church looked like any European one, its only token to India being a statue of the Virgin Mary atop a map of the country, painted in the colours of the flag – green, white and orange. In large letter below, simply the signage ‘Behold Your Mother’. Victim to usual standard of Indian upkeep, the H had slipped down, to reveal the new instruction ‘Be Old Your Mother’. My mother turns 60 in a couple of months, will that do?
Monday 19th November – Bangalore to Hassan
My first long bus journey of the trip, but it’s an ‘executive’ coach, which means one person per seat but sadly doesn’t omit the random stops – you can literally hop on or hop off any bus at any time providing you can squeeze on. The posh buses also give you a loo stop, these vary in length according to the driver’s mood – this one was short enough for them to just leave without me, I only just made it back on…..The journey is seamless, bar one roadblock. A lorry is being winched out of a ditch, not as the result of any accident, but because its front wheel base has folded in half, thanks to its cargo of bricks, most of which are now in the ditch as well. As there is no sign of anybody dead or injured, so nobody seems even remotely bothered. The lorry and bricks will no doubt stay there until somebody comes to nick bits of it for spares.
I’m off to Hassan as it’s nearish and recommended for some temples nearby. They’d better be bloody good as the town is a total hole. No tarmac-ed road so you are covered in soot and dust the minute you step out. My hotel room is huge and spotless but so noisy from the traffic horns I just know it’s going to be my third night in a row of bad sleep. I gingerly wander about; it seems the town’s only focal point is the local Picture House, which is so decrepit it’s hard to tell whether it’s being renovated or pulled down. There is also a confusingly high count of Bakeries, all selling nice-looking sweets and nasty plastic white loaves. Sliced bread has come to India, their slicing machine in the form of a 12-year-old with a rusty bread knife. He’s pretty quick though; I’m impressed. I am so grubby by the time I get back that I need a shower immediately. It is only when in a smaller town with limited water-heating skills that you realise the true worth or your bathroom bucket – it’s the easiest way to wash in cold water without freezing your arse off.
Tuesday November 20th: Hassan & Belur / Halebid temples
Christ Almighty, this country is so bleedin’ noisy. As if the traffic outside weren’t enough, the lift outside my room – the old kind where you have to manually pull 2 doors to get in and out – started up a half past sodding five and didn’t stop. The temples I need are a 1-hour bus ride away and the Bus Stand is thankfully close. Sadly, despite about 40 buses coming and going, none are for where I want and all he signs above each platform are in the local dialect, Kannad. No English at all. On top of which, every person I ask points me in a different direction. Another bus shows up, creating a stampede. I bet that’s mine. It is. I run towards it along with several others. The front door is wedged shut so everybody is getting on at the side. I am stuck in the crush, made harder by the fact that the lady in front of me has several rolls of glass bangles slung over her shoulder which are weighing her down. I lose a shoe in the process which I only just manage to get back. It’s standing room only so I hang on at the front whilst the hateful guard digs me in the back every time he wants to get past.
I’ve figured that buses here are always full because they’re often the only mode of transport for casual farm labourers, hence the random piling on & off in seemingly the middle of nowhere. I eventually get a seat half way and enjoy the miles of cornfields, dotted with little shacks housing workers to shell the husks…….and leave all the debris by the side of the road.
The huge, square temple at Halebid is impressive and thankfully charge free. There is the odd guide ‘tout’ which is common – a man with a dubious ‘official’ badge to show you round for a fee. I walk round the temple which has a crowd gathered at one side. Nothing new here, I’ve given up trying to fathom why the Indians love crowding places so much. On this occasion however, it’s proper exciting: they’re making a film!! Proper Bollywood action right in front of me. And NO security whatsoever. The rig is all set up and surrrounded by guards, but none of them are keen to keep away the large crowd of mostly schoolkids. The ‘star’ is wearing combats and a very inadvisable plunging orange V-neck. His shoulder-length hair is being tended to carefully, whilst his stunning co-star stands around in her more traditional sari, I certainly don’t see any trailers for them to lord about in. They are shooting one tiny shot, involving him standing in a manly legs-apart pose, while she runs behind him in a diagonal line, waving her hands about. No more than 10 seconds max, yet it takes several goes – and a appointment with the hair & make-up team in between each one – for HIM!! Whilst he is being coiffed, a flunky hands the woman her mobile, and then another. She checks both whilst macho man is checking his parting and they do the scene again. And again. Etc. All the while the crowd is totally silent, just happy to watch.
A quick bus hop to the next temple attracts a similar sized crowd – for me. It’s not unusual to be asked to have your picture taken with other tourists but this was ridiculous. As I agreed to have a photo with one lot, a guy gestures over to other, and soon there are young boys literally running to be in the picture. Then each one produces a camera so they can record it on their own film. So annoying. I literally have to walk off shouting “NO!!” lest I am there all day. I can’t wait to get out, so walk back to the bus station via a very manky looking building with a cattle grid outside. It’s the local hospital. An effortless journey back is marred only by the sneaking conductor charging me for an extra fare for a child. That’s 9p I’ll never get back….
I am actually dreading another night here but as ever, am cheered by the news programmes. They've hit gold tonight, the 2 most popoular topics combined into ONE STORY!! Tonight's scandalous headline is on constant loop: Shah Rukh Khan has been accused of attending cricket matches to get publicity for his new film! Just imagine: famous person attends public event to promote latest venture, you couldn't make it up! The BCCI have suggested that perhaps he is not there to enjoy the fine pacework of the Indian team. SRK is said to be 'hurt', and is vowing never to attend another match again.
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