My time here is drawing to an end. My replacement is an American from Pittsburg and is accompanied by his wife based in the same office but as a communications expert. We spend my last four days here together providing enough time for me to hand over my work and ease them into what initially is an alien environment. I have worked in various places, countries and worked in small and giant corporations. Never before have I had the opportunity to conduct a handover. Normally, I leave, the new person starts sometime later and for a few months they can bask in the glory of blaming it all onto me.
The downside is that they are taking over my flat which means I have to at least make a token effort of cleaning the slum up. Sorry, did I say slum, I really meant lower floor penthouse with all mod cons except hot water, roaches the size of large cats, dogs howling day and night, cows doing their business right where you step outside Fort Knox (good job the flip flops are plastic and scrub up really well after a night soaking in acid) and all the other comforts of modern day living. Reminder to self, really must find a good nail brush to remove the cow stuff from my toenails. On the other hand the dogs will miss a meal so don’t bother, they will lick it off.
I depart Koraput for Delhi on Saturday, starting with a four hour taxi ride to the nearest railway station where I can catch a train that will guarantee me reaching Bubanashwar in time for my connecting train to Delhi. Eight hours to Bubanashwar, a seven and a half hour wait for the Delhi train and then a minimum 36 hour ride to Delhi, assuming no time is lost on the 1500 mile journey. Dump my bags in the Delhi office and immediately set off for Faridabad, on the outskirts of the city, where I attend a two day conference, just to fill in my unexciting days before I catch the flight on Saturday to London. Unfortunately I still have two days to fill before that flight so I am considering paying a flying visit to Agra to look at the Taj Mahal. By then my ancient bones will be protesting loudly I feel, but the upside is that it will guarantee being able to sleep on the red eye to London. Hopefully three generations will be there to pick up my creaking shell of a human being. Nearest and dearest, our youngest daughter and her son. Being Sunday morning there shouldn’t be much traffic and the final leg under two hours to home. A brief stay over Christmas and then off to Aussie and New Zealand for a few months to visit family and friends. By the time we return I will officially be an OLD AGE PENSIONER. So anyone out there thinking they are too old to do something, consider the above paragraph. For companies that are looking for crafty ways to get rid that old dodderer think again. There is life in the old dog yet. Or in this one anyway.
As always, I have met, socialised, and worked with, some good people. Most are sincere in their wish to do whatever it is that they do to the best of their abilities. Also, as always, there are the hangers on who are on a personal ego trip. I first visited India in the mid sixties. Nuclear power was restricted to a few nations, mobile phones existed in the form of bricks that required handcarts to make them mobile and my first computer occupied the space a family of six could comfortable live in, complete with double garage and swimming pool. India today has more mobiles than any other country in the world and is on the verge of being able to put a man in space. But, power fails depressingly often, women still pump and carry water by hand, children die from malnutrition, it is home to some of the world’s richest men. Nothing has changed since the 60’s. Priorities!
Before I wrap up I must mention the banana lady. You know who you are. Thanks for all the free meals during my short stay (the beer was also very welcome) but being in the centre of a small civil war whilst the street vendors fought over your banana custom is to be regretted. Thanks, good luck and enjoy the rest of your penance in Koraput. I’m sure that whatever your sins are that placed you here are long since forgiven. (Not sure about the banana sellers, one of then looked daggers at you the last time you bought some).
Three years ago I started this series of unimportant and often pointless ramblings. I think I have maintained my original policy statement of no opinions (see above), no rude words (**** to that), no rants (see above). I sign off, have no intention of repeating myself (on pain of nasty things happening to me as my nearest and dearest will tell you) so goodbye, good luck, and be careful out there. It is a dangerous world. Or so they tell me.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Friday, 20 November 2009
Culture gap
Talking on the phone in my place is like being inside a Faraday cage and I tend to say yes and no in what I think are the right places as attempting to explain the line is breaking up only makes matters worse. I live under 3 high tension power cables, the house seems to have more steel than concrete so any phone call is fraught with problems. This assumes of course that the phone system is working, that the network is not busy, the line is not engaged and the phone battery is not about to die. With all these potential traps, any call seems like a minor miracle.
S had phoned the previous evening to invite me to visit his home and have lunch. Next morning I waited for him to arrive. Unusually he turned up 20 minutes early instead of hours late. Is H coming to my home as well he asked. Consternation as I had just left H and not invited her. Somewhere in the previous nights call that piece of information/invitation had gone missing. Doubting that H had actually gone anywhere in the 5 minutes since I had left her, I called. Faraday had gone AWOL and all 2009 telephonic systems were go. She would be pleased to have lunch and would be there in a few minutes.
Now assembled I asked S how we were to get to his place. I had been there once before on a fleeting visit and knew it was not far but lunch would be cold if we walked there. I will take you both on my bike he replied. H and I looked at each other. Locals often travel five in line on motorbikes (Indian fashion) but somehow we doubted that our sponsor would be very happy with that arrangement. One at a time he quickly explained having insight to our expressions. H goes first as I had to lock up and locking up my place is no quick and easy task. As I completed Fort Knoxing, S returned and the final piece of the plan fell into place.
S lives on the outskirts of Koraput, just off the main highway through Orissa and up a dirt and stone track. At the end of the dirt track are loose and very sharp stones and the odd, inevitable, cow. The choice is clear, hit the cow or leave the track and venture onto the track verge. Fortunately it has not rained here for a few weeks so mud was not on offer so leaving and re-entering the main track presented no difficulties. The house is on three floors and owned by a member of the judiciary who only lives there during the weekend. He works 120km distant. In India, that is too far for a daily commute.
We are introduced to S’s father (a title of respect rather than fact, his biological father had expired 17 years earlier), his brother and, later, the house owner. Brother cooks the meal and we eat, sitting around the bed. H is brave and determined to obey local customs and eats, messily, with her hand. I, on the other hand am a declared prol and request a spoon. Not taking offence, or at least I observe none, S brings a spoon. Adjourning after a fine meal of chicken curry and vegetables to the balcony we sit and exchange pleasantries about our respective cultures.
The topic of formal greetings comes up. It is common practice that locals greet with two hands in a prayer position towards the face and a slight bow. Handshakes you already know about. Thus, when the two cultures meet, each attempts to respect the others culture by using the greeting of the other. This of course leads to confusion. One attempts to shake hands whilst the other has both hands raised towards their face. I suggest a compromise. Each raises a single hand to the face and the other hand extends to the handshake position. This, the owner finds highly amusing.
As the afternoon wears on we make moves to leave as it grows dark very quickly, also chilly, and we do not want to walk back with giant trucks missing us by millimetres as they drive by, minus any lights. We had agreed earlier with S that we would walk back and so see more of the area. We put our footwear on (shoes would a step too far and flip flops would insult the excellent local equivalent). We start to take our leave with the formal greeting/leaving gestures. The owner offers one hand whilst raising the other in a one handed prayer. We laugh, he has adopted my idea and I think the culture gap has been closed.
S had phoned the previous evening to invite me to visit his home and have lunch. Next morning I waited for him to arrive. Unusually he turned up 20 minutes early instead of hours late. Is H coming to my home as well he asked. Consternation as I had just left H and not invited her. Somewhere in the previous nights call that piece of information/invitation had gone missing. Doubting that H had actually gone anywhere in the 5 minutes since I had left her, I called. Faraday had gone AWOL and all 2009 telephonic systems were go. She would be pleased to have lunch and would be there in a few minutes.
Now assembled I asked S how we were to get to his place. I had been there once before on a fleeting visit and knew it was not far but lunch would be cold if we walked there. I will take you both on my bike he replied. H and I looked at each other. Locals often travel five in line on motorbikes (Indian fashion) but somehow we doubted that our sponsor would be very happy with that arrangement. One at a time he quickly explained having insight to our expressions. H goes first as I had to lock up and locking up my place is no quick and easy task. As I completed Fort Knoxing, S returned and the final piece of the plan fell into place.
S lives on the outskirts of Koraput, just off the main highway through Orissa and up a dirt and stone track. At the end of the dirt track are loose and very sharp stones and the odd, inevitable, cow. The choice is clear, hit the cow or leave the track and venture onto the track verge. Fortunately it has not rained here for a few weeks so mud was not on offer so leaving and re-entering the main track presented no difficulties. The house is on three floors and owned by a member of the judiciary who only lives there during the weekend. He works 120km distant. In India, that is too far for a daily commute.
We are introduced to S’s father (a title of respect rather than fact, his biological father had expired 17 years earlier), his brother and, later, the house owner. Brother cooks the meal and we eat, sitting around the bed. H is brave and determined to obey local customs and eats, messily, with her hand. I, on the other hand am a declared prol and request a spoon. Not taking offence, or at least I observe none, S brings a spoon. Adjourning after a fine meal of chicken curry and vegetables to the balcony we sit and exchange pleasantries about our respective cultures.
The topic of formal greetings comes up. It is common practice that locals greet with two hands in a prayer position towards the face and a slight bow. Handshakes you already know about. Thus, when the two cultures meet, each attempts to respect the others culture by using the greeting of the other. This of course leads to confusion. One attempts to shake hands whilst the other has both hands raised towards their face. I suggest a compromise. Each raises a single hand to the face and the other hand extends to the handshake position. This, the owner finds highly amusing.
As the afternoon wears on we make moves to leave as it grows dark very quickly, also chilly, and we do not want to walk back with giant trucks missing us by millimetres as they drive by, minus any lights. We had agreed earlier with S that we would walk back and so see more of the area. We put our footwear on (shoes would a step too far and flip flops would insult the excellent local equivalent). We start to take our leave with the formal greeting/leaving gestures. The owner offers one hand whilst raising the other in a one handed prayer. We laugh, he has adopted my idea and I think the culture gap has been closed.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Vulcanoes and wheels
Guy Fawkes was never like this. Some weeks ago we watched Diwali being celebrated, and spectacular, it was. Not wishing be to outdone we collectively decided it would be a good idea to have our own show on November 5th. But someone reminded us A was not due to return to Koraput until the 8th and not wishing him to miss the fun we delayed until this weekend the great event. M took the catering role, A brought his torch to help J, the chief lighter see his way to the inflammables, I took responsibility of finding them and H, being transported back from a field trip and unsure as to her arrival time, was to be chief spectator, if she arrived in time. That was the meticulous plan.
Ha, India, like the UK, sells fireworks to the great unwashed just once a year. I didn’t realise this until I started to look for them in town. Looks of disbelief on the local traders faces when I asked for fireworks. Diwali finished, no more till next year was the standard reply and I also suspected one or two of them thought I was some sort or terrorist in the making. Panic, M,A,J and H are reliable and will perform as expected. I, on the other hand will be denied beer for the remaining time I am here if I fail them. But, I have a cunning plan. Ask the staff at work. Maybe one of them has some leftovers from Diwali. I’m in luck, someone does have a few left over and will bring them in. Our fabulously impressive display will happen on the appointed night.
The day (evening) arrives and we assembly at H and J’s house. Food and beer are consumed and we move up to the roof for the GREAT EVENT. First problem, how do will we fix the Catherine wheels. We all scrabble around and agree that a nail driven into the end of a cane fluffy duster will serve as an excellent pivot and if we pass the cane through a wicker chair seat the problem is solved. Another problem looms as we then realise the wheel will be rotating horizontally and apart from a possible mishap when J lights it, we won’t get the full effect. A huddle later we stick the cane in the chair back. Now we have a vertical pivot. Are we innovative or what? Professionals we are, no doubt of that.
Having arranged the order of display the celebrations begin. First off, a wheel. Carefully hammering in the nail, narrowly missing his thumb with a large rock, J sets it off. We have lift off. For an eternity of five seconds, Ooos and arhs by the appreciative crowd. The night looks set be a great success. Now the first of the fountains or volcanoes goes up. More Ooos and arhs are emitted by the admiring crowd (OK, five may not be a crowd but at the time it seemed a lot). Another wheel is carefully arranged. It is a flop. Not in any way discouraged, another fountain is set up and admired for its conflagrational beauty. Now for the magnificent finale. The last of the wheels is examined under a microscope for flaws, unanimously declared fit for purpose, and arranged on our pole and ignited by J. It flares and J receives a slight burn that will only take about a month or so before he gets the use of his hand back so he tries again with his remaining hand. A drops the torch and J says something not to be repeated in these hallowed pages. But J is no wimp, he ignites the wheel in darkness. It fizzles and dies, forever.
Five unwashed, five fireworks, three displays equates to a 60% success rate (among my many doubtful talents is an ability to do sums). In our book we have had a successful evening, regardless of how others might view it. The beer didn’t harm the night either.
Ha, India, like the UK, sells fireworks to the great unwashed just once a year. I didn’t realise this until I started to look for them in town. Looks of disbelief on the local traders faces when I asked for fireworks. Diwali finished, no more till next year was the standard reply and I also suspected one or two of them thought I was some sort or terrorist in the making. Panic, M,A,J and H are reliable and will perform as expected. I, on the other hand will be denied beer for the remaining time I am here if I fail them. But, I have a cunning plan. Ask the staff at work. Maybe one of them has some leftovers from Diwali. I’m in luck, someone does have a few left over and will bring them in. Our fabulously impressive display will happen on the appointed night.
The day (evening) arrives and we assembly at H and J’s house. Food and beer are consumed and we move up to the roof for the GREAT EVENT. First problem, how do will we fix the Catherine wheels. We all scrabble around and agree that a nail driven into the end of a cane fluffy duster will serve as an excellent pivot and if we pass the cane through a wicker chair seat the problem is solved. Another problem looms as we then realise the wheel will be rotating horizontally and apart from a possible mishap when J lights it, we won’t get the full effect. A huddle later we stick the cane in the chair back. Now we have a vertical pivot. Are we innovative or what? Professionals we are, no doubt of that.
Having arranged the order of display the celebrations begin. First off, a wheel. Carefully hammering in the nail, narrowly missing his thumb with a large rock, J sets it off. We have lift off. For an eternity of five seconds, Ooos and arhs by the appreciative crowd. The night looks set be a great success. Now the first of the fountains or volcanoes goes up. More Ooos and arhs are emitted by the admiring crowd (OK, five may not be a crowd but at the time it seemed a lot). Another wheel is carefully arranged. It is a flop. Not in any way discouraged, another fountain is set up and admired for its conflagrational beauty. Now for the magnificent finale. The last of the wheels is examined under a microscope for flaws, unanimously declared fit for purpose, and arranged on our pole and ignited by J. It flares and J receives a slight burn that will only take about a month or so before he gets the use of his hand back so he tries again with his remaining hand. A drops the torch and J says something not to be repeated in these hallowed pages. But J is no wimp, he ignites the wheel in darkness. It fizzles and dies, forever.
Five unwashed, five fireworks, three displays equates to a 60% success rate (among my many doubtful talents is an ability to do sums). In our book we have had a successful evening, regardless of how others might view it. The beer didn’t harm the night either.
Monday, 2 November 2009
Stop that bus!
“You can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time” - Abraham Lincoln (1809 –1865) from "You can please some of the people all of the time, you can please all of the people some of the time, but you can't please all of the people all of the time" from words of poet John Lydgate. (c.1370-c.1451). Thanks,H, for the idea.
This came from a conversation about the truth or otherwise of my blog that I had with H. Truth as any philosopher will tell you can, and will be, debated until the end of time (time for a diversion into Einstein, no, lets keep this simple). Let me be clear about this. I write for entertainment purposes, mainly for my own rather than yours as it helps pass the time and if the truth is occasionally blended with fiction, so what. The problem of course is where fiction ends and truth begins. That is where your problems begin and my entertainment really kicks in.
With H I went on another hair raising trip (stop giggling at the back, I do have some hair left although the barber always asks if I’ve brought the magnifying glass) to Jeypore recently. Fact. An interesting day in so far as the shops were shut and the Indian we had planned to see whilst there had his TV up too loud to hear the bell we rang so we didn’t get to see him after all. Fact. As we approached the bus station for our return trip we bumped into the Indian and some friends we had chummed up with during our first visit a month ago. How are yous are exchanged and niceties discussed. So engaged in conversing we failed to see our bus depart. Fact. But our locals, by some reason generally put down to the mysterious Asian osmotic process only they are privy to, knew it was our bus and reacted accordingly. One leapt in front of an overtaking truck and stopped its progress. A second hurled himself almost under a tuk tuk coming the other way and brought it to a halt. The third stood in front of the bus itself, arms akimbo, inviting him either to stop or be done for manslaughter. Fact? Our Indian, satisfied that it was now safe for us to cross took us by the hand and led us to the bus door. We alighted or embarked, whichever word you are more comfortable with is fine by me, and set off back to Koraput. This bus was the RR of the bus company. Doors that actually looked like doors, seats with real padding and a roof that definitely showed signs of a professional design. Obviously we arrived back safely otherwise this is being written by a ghost writer. Bad pun intended.
Once, many years ago, I had to return from Stavanger (it is in Norway for the geographically challenged) in rather a hurry. So much so that Scandinavia Air Service (SAS, are they still in business I wonder) held their plane up until I arrived. I recall the engines were running at the time and as I entered the fuselage the door closed, engines revved and we were off to the loud approval and clapping of the amused or was it irritated other passengers. This is fact. I leave it to you dear readers to decide how much fact is present in the affair of the bus stoppage. I have provided some clues but come on folks, get those brain cells working.
This came from a conversation about the truth or otherwise of my blog that I had with H. Truth as any philosopher will tell you can, and will be, debated until the end of time (time for a diversion into Einstein, no, lets keep this simple). Let me be clear about this. I write for entertainment purposes, mainly for my own rather than yours as it helps pass the time and if the truth is occasionally blended with fiction, so what. The problem of course is where fiction ends and truth begins. That is where your problems begin and my entertainment really kicks in.
With H I went on another hair raising trip (stop giggling at the back, I do have some hair left although the barber always asks if I’ve brought the magnifying glass) to Jeypore recently. Fact. An interesting day in so far as the shops were shut and the Indian we had planned to see whilst there had his TV up too loud to hear the bell we rang so we didn’t get to see him after all. Fact. As we approached the bus station for our return trip we bumped into the Indian and some friends we had chummed up with during our first visit a month ago. How are yous are exchanged and niceties discussed. So engaged in conversing we failed to see our bus depart. Fact. But our locals, by some reason generally put down to the mysterious Asian osmotic process only they are privy to, knew it was our bus and reacted accordingly. One leapt in front of an overtaking truck and stopped its progress. A second hurled himself almost under a tuk tuk coming the other way and brought it to a halt. The third stood in front of the bus itself, arms akimbo, inviting him either to stop or be done for manslaughter. Fact? Our Indian, satisfied that it was now safe for us to cross took us by the hand and led us to the bus door. We alighted or embarked, whichever word you are more comfortable with is fine by me, and set off back to Koraput. This bus was the RR of the bus company. Doors that actually looked like doors, seats with real padding and a roof that definitely showed signs of a professional design. Obviously we arrived back safely otherwise this is being written by a ghost writer. Bad pun intended.
Once, many years ago, I had to return from Stavanger (it is in Norway for the geographically challenged) in rather a hurry. So much so that Scandinavia Air Service (SAS, are they still in business I wonder) held their plane up until I arrived. I recall the engines were running at the time and as I entered the fuselage the door closed, engines revved and we were off to the loud approval and clapping of the amused or was it irritated other passengers. This is fact. I leave it to you dear readers to decide how much fact is present in the affair of the bus stoppage. I have provided some clues but come on folks, get those brain cells working.
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
Foot pegs
Heading towards Semiliguda we stop at Sunabeda for lunch after 3 hours of Church. Those 3 hours are another story which I have no intention of boring you with. M finds a greasy spoon. No problem for me although I say I must have a spoon I’m not eating with my fingers. He negotiates a spoon and we sit. I order, he gets up and says he will return. I hope so, I’ve no idea where we are and India is a big place to be lost in. I eat chilli cheese lumps, dhall, a very oniony and curd salad mix and rice. In the company of a couple of blokes eating very nosily opposite me at the table. Hawking and spitting is going on behind me at the so called wash basin immediately to my rear. M does not return. I eat up and the only problem is that the food is a warm rather than hot. I pay at the counter and stand outside having a fag. Minutes later M turns up. ‘I leave you as I think you may be insulted at the cafe and be angry with me’ he explains. I say ‘no problem I eat where ever there is food’. He goes on to say his friends are ashamed of him for showing me the cafe, white people only eat in big hotels. I reassure him that it really is not a problem but I know he is not comfortable. He then tries to buy a cold drink but the power has been off all day and everything is warm. He decides he doesn’t want a warm drink so leaves it. We get back on the bike and our journey into the unknown continues.
Semiliguda has a huge Sunday Market which stretches for well over a mile on the main road through the town. Giant trucks, thousands of people thronging the road, mobikes, 3 wheel carts, buses, jeeps and other sundry traffic all hooting and everyone playing chicken. Including the inevitable cows who just decide to sit down in the middle of it all. On our way through we followed a couple of trucks. They meet a couple coming the other way with no inches to spare. Despite this M tries to overtake in the non gap at ½ inch an hour, wobbling. We get caught in the middle and a truck actually goes over my rear foot peg. Fortunately he is higher than me so I don’t get caught. We all shout and he stops. M foots it out of the way even though his exit is barred by 2 other bikes also attempting mobile suicide. We all move at the same time and crisis is over. All in a days traffic in India. I’m not looking forward to the return journey.
We visit the mining town, nothing of interest although there are dual carriage ways and roundabouts surrounding the complex and mining housing, but nothing remarkable. We travel back to Semiliguda and the market is still in full swing but M ploughs on as if he is the only bike on the road, pausing, sometimes, when he spots a hump or bump or a pothole. We then divert to a village mid way between Koraput and Semiliguda to visit an orphanage he worked in for 6 months during his social work training in 2006. Sad but at the same time a seemingly good and happy place to be if you are an orphan. Holds nearly 200 kids from 4 to 16, mainly younger. When we arrived there was 100 a side football match going on which only paused for them to say hello to us and to stare self consciously at me. House Mum invited us to tea which I was really grateful for as by now my mouth was dry and my legs aching from the odd pillion position I had been in all day due to a one sided pannier blocking one foot peg. On leaving I put my shoes on and amused them when I sat down on the kerb to do the laces up. Why do trainers have such long laces? Standing up I couldn’t locate the second waist strap of the back pack. Small girl shyly taps me and hands the end to me with a huge beam.
Arriving back in Koraput we pass A’s house and I know in less than 5 minutes I can stretch my legs. No, M spots his best friend J along with a dozen other people coming back from a hill trek. When I express surprise at a 5 km wander being described as a hill trek the guide quickly tells me they didn’t set off until after lunch; so that ’s alright then. They all crowd round very interested in who I am etc. We spend 5 minutes talking plus receive an invite from his friend J to visit him sometime. He calls M his “bloody good friend” which everyone thinks is funny. Arriving back M won’t come in for tea (what a relief) and I rush inside to get the washing in. And don’t laugh, my washing is important. You are up to date on the intrepid adventures of Mister Mike.
Semiliguda has a huge Sunday Market which stretches for well over a mile on the main road through the town. Giant trucks, thousands of people thronging the road, mobikes, 3 wheel carts, buses, jeeps and other sundry traffic all hooting and everyone playing chicken. Including the inevitable cows who just decide to sit down in the middle of it all. On our way through we followed a couple of trucks. They meet a couple coming the other way with no inches to spare. Despite this M tries to overtake in the non gap at ½ inch an hour, wobbling. We get caught in the middle and a truck actually goes over my rear foot peg. Fortunately he is higher than me so I don’t get caught. We all shout and he stops. M foots it out of the way even though his exit is barred by 2 other bikes also attempting mobile suicide. We all move at the same time and crisis is over. All in a days traffic in India. I’m not looking forward to the return journey.
We visit the mining town, nothing of interest although there are dual carriage ways and roundabouts surrounding the complex and mining housing, but nothing remarkable. We travel back to Semiliguda and the market is still in full swing but M ploughs on as if he is the only bike on the road, pausing, sometimes, when he spots a hump or bump or a pothole. We then divert to a village mid way between Koraput and Semiliguda to visit an orphanage he worked in for 6 months during his social work training in 2006. Sad but at the same time a seemingly good and happy place to be if you are an orphan. Holds nearly 200 kids from 4 to 16, mainly younger. When we arrived there was 100 a side football match going on which only paused for them to say hello to us and to stare self consciously at me. House Mum invited us to tea which I was really grateful for as by now my mouth was dry and my legs aching from the odd pillion position I had been in all day due to a one sided pannier blocking one foot peg. On leaving I put my shoes on and amused them when I sat down on the kerb to do the laces up. Why do trainers have such long laces? Standing up I couldn’t locate the second waist strap of the back pack. Small girl shyly taps me and hands the end to me with a huge beam.
Arriving back in Koraput we pass A’s house and I know in less than 5 minutes I can stretch my legs. No, M spots his best friend J along with a dozen other people coming back from a hill trek. When I express surprise at a 5 km wander being described as a hill trek the guide quickly tells me they didn’t set off until after lunch; so that ’s alright then. They all crowd round very interested in who I am etc. We spend 5 minutes talking plus receive an invite from his friend J to visit him sometime. He calls M his “bloody good friend” which everyone thinks is funny. Arriving back M won’t come in for tea (what a relief) and I rush inside to get the washing in. And don’t laugh, my washing is important. You are up to date on the intrepid adventures of Mister Mike.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Got a fuse gov?
India is a big place. We all know that. Koraput is remote and relatively isolated, some of you know that. But to save our bacon we can always fall back on the internet, can’t we? Provided both the power and the communication lines are working. Which they often aren’t.
I persuaded our Head Honcho that it might be a good idea to install some sort of backup system to the computers here. No real problem as I laid it on thick and informed him larger organisations had gone to the wall because they neglected to install half decent systems. OK, I identified the best system available within our cost limits and he said let’s do it. That bit was easy. Acquiring it is turning into a circus of whirling dervish’s on local hooch laced with LSD. If I ever manage it I think I will join them.
We have all been caught up in the circle of menu driven robotic voice “help” customer service systems so I won’t elaborate. What I will say is count yourself lucky. All the local, and I really mean the whole of India, suppliers either don’t identify what they are in business for or if they do they really mean we might sell something if by some odd chance we happen to have it stashed out back somewhere after our stupid boy, visiting the local market thought it looked natty and brought one back with him. I email the USA head office. They direct me to Delhi or some other place light years away from here, no email just phone numbers and names. Delhi continues the performance by giving me a further list of numbers. I do not possess a code book of exchanges so for all I know these numbers call offices galaxies away. Undeterred I soldier on. A very nice man, a very, very nice man, helps me to indentify the numbers that are close. By close I mean within 500 miles of here. In the meantime I am googling like you have never googled. In between power and lines being down.
I think I have struck pay dirt as a supplier, recommended by the States, has an address in a city not 202 kilometers away. I phone, or should I say the Head Honcho phones. Glory be, we have a language problem between two locals. I am handed the phone to continue the discussion. Even less joy but we do manage to extract an email address where I can be more specific than over a line that is snap, crackling and popping enough to bring a smile to the face of Kellogg’s. I email my needs. I await with less than baited breath a reply. Sure enough, they do deal with my manufacturer but not the bit I want. I think about this and decide the boy didn’t bring one back from the market because it was too heavy (16kg if you are that interested) which explains why they don’t have one. But they kindly refer me back to Delhi. And the circle starts going round again.
I find another supplier who actually lists the cities they operate in. I bribe the very nice man to help me again. This time to tell me how far these places are from here. This one is close, he says pointing to a name. How close, ‘ooo’ about 500 kms. A train leaves here every night at 5 he continues helpfully. Two days there and back to collect the lump. I am currently reading Bram Stokers Dracula and attempt not to imitate Dracula on a bad night and smile indulgently. Two days. My mind is now racing, who do I know is coming here from Delhi, Kulkata or maybe the Moon in the next few days, or months, as let’s be realistic here.
You may wonder why all the fuss. In Koraput we have any number of I.T. training colleges, Institutes and other academic establishments but can you find a fuse. Yes, it is called a 2 inch nail. So what hope have I? Use the post you say. At the risk of being expelled from the country I hesitate to answer, so I won’t. Head Honcho has the bright idea of asking someone arriving here from the UK next month to bring it with them. 16kg will attract a nice bonus for the air carrier in excess baggage fees, the visitor will probably either die of a heart attack lugging the thing around or have a diplomatic illness preventing travelling anywhere or the thing will be confiscated at customs in Delhi. The saga will continue.
In the meantime I have no ideas, brilliant or otherwise. That is not lateral thinking Mr Spock. Beam me up Scotty, warp fact 20, we are on our way out of here, to anywhere.
I persuaded our Head Honcho that it might be a good idea to install some sort of backup system to the computers here. No real problem as I laid it on thick and informed him larger organisations had gone to the wall because they neglected to install half decent systems. OK, I identified the best system available within our cost limits and he said let’s do it. That bit was easy. Acquiring it is turning into a circus of whirling dervish’s on local hooch laced with LSD. If I ever manage it I think I will join them.
We have all been caught up in the circle of menu driven robotic voice “help” customer service systems so I won’t elaborate. What I will say is count yourself lucky. All the local, and I really mean the whole of India, suppliers either don’t identify what they are in business for or if they do they really mean we might sell something if by some odd chance we happen to have it stashed out back somewhere after our stupid boy, visiting the local market thought it looked natty and brought one back with him. I email the USA head office. They direct me to Delhi or some other place light years away from here, no email just phone numbers and names. Delhi continues the performance by giving me a further list of numbers. I do not possess a code book of exchanges so for all I know these numbers call offices galaxies away. Undeterred I soldier on. A very nice man, a very, very nice man, helps me to indentify the numbers that are close. By close I mean within 500 miles of here. In the meantime I am googling like you have never googled. In between power and lines being down.
I think I have struck pay dirt as a supplier, recommended by the States, has an address in a city not 202 kilometers away. I phone, or should I say the Head Honcho phones. Glory be, we have a language problem between two locals. I am handed the phone to continue the discussion. Even less joy but we do manage to extract an email address where I can be more specific than over a line that is snap, crackling and popping enough to bring a smile to the face of Kellogg’s. I email my needs. I await with less than baited breath a reply. Sure enough, they do deal with my manufacturer but not the bit I want. I think about this and decide the boy didn’t bring one back from the market because it was too heavy (16kg if you are that interested) which explains why they don’t have one. But they kindly refer me back to Delhi. And the circle starts going round again.
I find another supplier who actually lists the cities they operate in. I bribe the very nice man to help me again. This time to tell me how far these places are from here. This one is close, he says pointing to a name. How close, ‘ooo’ about 500 kms. A train leaves here every night at 5 he continues helpfully. Two days there and back to collect the lump. I am currently reading Bram Stokers Dracula and attempt not to imitate Dracula on a bad night and smile indulgently. Two days. My mind is now racing, who do I know is coming here from Delhi, Kulkata or maybe the Moon in the next few days, or months, as let’s be realistic here.
You may wonder why all the fuss. In Koraput we have any number of I.T. training colleges, Institutes and other academic establishments but can you find a fuse. Yes, it is called a 2 inch nail. So what hope have I? Use the post you say. At the risk of being expelled from the country I hesitate to answer, so I won’t. Head Honcho has the bright idea of asking someone arriving here from the UK next month to bring it with them. 16kg will attract a nice bonus for the air carrier in excess baggage fees, the visitor will probably either die of a heart attack lugging the thing around or have a diplomatic illness preventing travelling anywhere or the thing will be confiscated at customs in Delhi. The saga will continue.
In the meantime I have no ideas, brilliant or otherwise. That is not lateral thinking Mr Spock. Beam me up Scotty, warp fact 20, we are on our way out of here, to anywhere.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Coconuts, Apples and bombs
I could say that this is the time when India celebrates but India has a celebration almost every week so I won’t. But for a few of us it has been busier than usual. H was informed that some staff from her placement would like to clean her house. Until recently there were two living in her house but number two has, after going on a token strike (how can a volunteer go on strike?) finally taken possession of her house. There was some difficulty with a previous tenant but then what is surprising about that. Outgoing tenants always present problems. So, M departs into a very western style house while H is left alone. This, for some reason requires that H’s house be cleaned. This I understand is no reflection on M but one wonders. H was asked to purchase a coconut for the cleaning crew. Another puzzle and we are both intrigued as to the magical and as yet unknown to us cleaning powers of the humble coconut. A coconut is purchased from the local market.
In the meantime I am engaged elsewhere firing up the IPod that a local has been given by a wealthy relative. For those of you that follow Charlie Brooker you will know what’s coming next. He has no time for the Apples of this world, neither have I. Who else but Apple would market something where a laptop wasn’t an optional extra but a mandatory essential? After a lengthy (our internet broadband is broadband Jim, but not as we know it) download of some hours I get the software. Most hardware from the PC world comes with at least the smidgen of start up software. But oh no, not the IPod. I digress. My laptop is a fast dual core but it means another cup of coffee before Mr Jobs and his cohorts allow me to access the b***** thing. I discover everything is Internet based. Here the Internet is an optional extra. By the end of the whole sorry business, including fixing the IPod owners laptop so that he can actually use the d**n thing, we have a working IPod. Irritatingly, Apple keeps asking for money which is in quite short supply in this neck of the woods. But I am the guy that refuses to even carry a bag with a logo on unless I’m paid to do the marketing so you will understand my grief at Apple. Designer man I am not.
Coconuts are far more interesting to me. As I fume over the obstacles Apples is placing before me I watch the clock as I want to be at H’s house to witness the use of this coconut. Making my excuses I leave somewhat late (it is India so I am not that worried, everyone is always late, for everything) for H’s. Naturally I am the first to arrive and H offers me a broom (I joke, there are no brooms here, only cane swatches) to start the process off. I decline as politely as I can and explain I am only here for the beer (and the coconut).
Some indeterminate time later the cleaning crew arrives. But not carrying any cleaning materials. Panic, maybe H misunderstood and a coconut is the local slang for brooms etc. It turns out cleaning actually means a spiritual cleansing of the demons and other bogies from the house to ensure the well being of the new occupant(s). Then, total disaster. I miss the coconut event. Somehow, whilst talking to the foreman cleaner, the coconut has been put to its appointed use. The short story is that it is smashed on the floor, three joss sticks are placed in a container in the spilt coconut oil and lit, and a small bowl of water containing some yellowish substance is placed beside it and a small offering of food items next to that. The chief cleaner then moves around the house sprinkling water everywhere and the final ceremony is him sprinkling each one of us with a handful of rice over our heads. Tradition or ritual, I have no idea but I rather like the idea, don’t you? The downside to this story is H has to leave the coconut oil until it has gone naturally. Given the endemic presence of roaches they will have a feast removing it. Somehow I think H will allow a token period and then slyly remove the oil. Only guessing of course.
Then Diwali, Divali, Diweepi, Deweli, Dowhaly and any other spelling one cares to use (I’ve seen them all used here and they should know) started this weekend. So we all, H, A and I met up at M’s new house to both house warm and witness the start of this very important Hindu celebration of their ancestors’. Staffs from their placements also drop in to wish us all Happy Diwali. We sip beer covertly, though we know they have no objection to us drinking beer we are sensitive to their beliefs. At 6pm or close after the fun begins. Bangers, normal fireworks, and rockets are ignited. Our respective houses are on a hill surrounding Koraput so we adjourn to M’s rooftop to witness better the spectacle. And what a spectacle. In every direction as far as our eyes can see we see the flames of all manner of firework erupting into the night sky. Rockets take off with abandon, and I say that under advice. They shoot straight up, they shoot off horizontally and at every angle between the two extremes. Most fly flat. We all become instant ballistics engineers trying to calculate whether one will land near us. Then we become complacent about the missiles as we enjoy the free display. Wrong. One lands, still fizzing, within half a meter of M. Unanimously deciding discretion is the better part of valour we take cover under her roofed veranda. We can only see 50% of the conflagrations so the brave amongst us return to the roof. I, having spent years in hazardous environments, and a self declared coward, choose to stay under the roof. Plus, the beer is here so why leave it. During this whole time bangers are going off.
Now, there are bangers and there are BANGERS. Who needs a nuclear deterrent when you have these instruments of audible torture. Small boys of no greater than six years old seem to be the demolition experts here. Across the lane from us he is determined either to blow their wall down or Dad has upset him and assassination is to the fore. Whatever, his bangs get bangier as the evening gets later. Nobody can actually buy things this loud without a firearms licence so this guy must be some sort of prodigy. In reality he is probably tying a few of them together, who knows. To finish the evening off small boy must be in despair as the wall is still standing so he lets off a rocket bomb (combined BANGER and rocket) but it is misdirected and heads straight into one of their window openings. A few whoops and hollers and order is restored. No idea what happened to small boy.
I am told that at the end of Diwali in ten days time the local market traders have a rocket bomb battle where they shoot at each other across the road. Under advice we are warned to take care that evening. For once I think we will take heed of the advice.
Friday, 9 October 2009
Teddy bears
Sitting in the cubicle I call my office, the staff all suddenly get up and rush outside. Now I heard nobody say come and see this so the famous osmotic process of the Asian communication method still eludes me. Not being one to miss a party I nonchalantly follow them trying to look as if I know what is going on. All crowded round the top steps they are pointing and shouting to each other at something in the distance. All I can see are the hills that have been there for a few thousand years. If it takes this long for them to notice a hill or two it is not surprising they need me to show them how to use computers. But, I figure it must be more than hill or two to wake them from their office duties so continue to peer into the distance. About 200 metres away are a couple that have dismounted from their motor scooter. They seem to be gesticulating at the hill. Yes, a hill I agree silently. A more shouty Indian shouts back to them. Probably saying, yes, isn’t it exciting, a hill. By now I’m getting bored with this hill business and wander off back to my cubicle.
At the end of the day those of us heading to town climb into the jeep. 200 metres up the road we stop with the driver pointing excitedly at the hill. This b******y hill business is as you will have guessed by now is really getting boring . I’m bored just writing about it so you have my sympathy if you have managed this far. I still cannot see what the fuss is about. Mobile phones come out and photos are taken. This cannot be the first time that you have seen grass, it’s that green stuff all around us. The driver is growing agitated and wants to move off. The passengers dissent and want to continue watching the grass grow. And then I see it!!! Describing it later to another volunteer I say I’ve seen one. How big he says. Well, bigger than a large dog but smaller than a calf I reply. Bush size he suggests. Depends on the bush I answer. Much smaller than a 50 year old rhododendron but bigger than a year old azalea I proffer. I’m really dragging this out but I’ the one having fun so up yours. For the more observant of you the clue (and there is one) is in the title. How the Indians had seen this curiosity at such a distance suggests they have Hubble telescopes for eyes. At 50 feet (I just love mixing my units up) it is difficult enough to see particularly when you don’t know what you are looking for but there it was. A small bush sized brown furry animal with all the appearance of a brown bear. And now I’ve gone and given the game away.
They used to be common in these parts but since the forests were destroyed in the quest for many mighty dollars the ground cover has all but disappeared so are rarely sighted now. They are not keen on being in close quarters with us, any more than you would want to meet a fully grown teddy without some serious backup device like a tank or other large gun shaped object. In other words they tend to hide away under whatever cover there is. So I feel privileged to have seen one in the wild and David Attenborough had better watch his back.
Bengal tigers on the other hand are a much more demanding animal and have suffered even more drastically from de-forestation. If you ever find yourself near Canterbury, Kent, England visit Howletts Wild Animal Park in the village of Beakesborne, a 10 minute ride away to see them in all their glory. They are in my very limited wild life expert’s opinion the most magnificent beast you are likely to see, Bengal tigers I’m referring to of course. Whatever, according to a recent report in the Indian Sunday Times, some 20 years ago there were around a million of them. At the last tiger census 2 years ago there were thought to be around 1100. If you belong in that revered group of occupations related to logging, shame on you. You have spent your dollars and the tigers have gone.
But hey, I’ve seen a wild brown bear in the wild. Have you?
Big dippers
We’ve had a lot of visitors at the office of late. All, no doubt to check out our credentials before an upcoming grant is finally signed over to us. Although not directly involved with the application or its implementation I am here to produce an M.I.S to track and record its progress over the next five years. One problem, I’m here until December then I’m back to sunny UK. I will be hard pressed to meet the deadline with essentially only a month and a small bit to complete it. Complete assumes I have started. No, he says full of aplomb. Despite various attempts to persuade the project manager to give me a clue, even a small clue, they have been met with assurances that all will become clear as October draws to a close. So, as a final last ditch effort to suggest now might be a good time to start planning I prepared a draft system to illustrate the complexity of the job and the fact that despite my best efforts in making it user friendly it will, nevertheless require user training. My presentation was met with considered silence and elicited the comment, ‘end of October we will start planning’.
Is this of interest to you? Probably not but it is too late to stop reading, you have got this far so may as well continue on. Back to visitors then. Yesterday we had a couple of truck loads of them arrive. Some from local areas to attend a meeting, others from mainstream India. Result, at the end of the day there is not enough transport to get everyone away. Being a very important guy around here, I’m one of the everyone group. Or, to put it more succinctly I am at the back of the queue. The very end of the queue no less. So at the end there is no transport for me. Now, there are no buses where I work, and the main road outside the office is a track more for easy movement of the thousands of cattle and goats than to move people about. I can either hitch a lift on the back of a likely looking cow roughly heading in my intended direction or stick around, hoping. Hoping for what, transport to return is what. Sitting on the steps pondering my fate, night starts to draw in and darkness is descending. No, stupid, rain clouds are assembling overhead is why it’s getting dark, not night arriving early.
Not getting depressed very easily I start to throw rocks and other hard missiles at the dog pack that is sensing dinner sitting on the steps. Until dinner starts heaving rocks at them, at which point they retire to a safe distance but still planning their strategy for achieving full stomachs. At that moment one of the smallest Indian guys here (he admits to being the smallest in his family at 5 foot 1 inch) taps me on the shoulder and says ‘come with me’. Being the obliging sort of bloke I am, I did. We head to the lean-to that substitutes as a garage. He pushes his motorcycle off its stand and says jump on. Here is where I consider my options. Invite the dogs to dinner, climb on a cow, sleep overnight in the office, commit hari-kari, or do the decent thing and climb on as I don’t want to upset him by refusing his offer. I climb on; a no brainer really, isn’t it?
By now evening is falling and dusk is getting duskier by the moment. My bike taxi driver is wobbling all over the track, missing the deep flood run offs on either side of the track by millimetres. Talking constantly and turning round to see me he rubs his eyes at the same time with a hand not where it should be ON THE HANDLEBARS. The track has some rather sharp and deep dips in it which I had earlier decided where there to help the natural water course run rather than a lack of interest in the track builders in bridge building. But in dim light it is difficult to see them. Ouch, we have just gone dooown and uuuuuup one and I am struggling to stay in my seat. ‘Are you comfortable Sir?’ he asks. Reply as you think appropriate. Approaching civilisation we now fag paper avoid hitting oncoming tuk tuks, wandering villagers and other mobile obstacles. Only as a last resort is the headlight switched on but only to see who we have nearly hit, or almost been hit by, and having determined that we are not hospital fodder the lights are switched off again. Until the next reportable near miss. What dumbo said this was a no brainer? We turn into the hospital grounds, not because he is giving up and presenting us prematurely as patients but because I live on the other side of the hospital.
As I dismount another biker pulls up beside us. Oh dear, I think my driver has really peed someone off and I am about to witness Indian road rage. But no, it is someone I recognise. Has he come all this way to say hello. No, he has come to collect one of the four brand new motor bikes stored in my reception room. Is that a typo, no, I have four bikes stored in my reception room. His pillion asks to see photographs of my family whilst the bike is sorted out. There is a mix up with keys so I have time to do the whole family album bit. Plus a rather embarrassing video of me doing my whirling dervish bit in Indonesia. Big smiles all round, the new bike is chuffing away contentedly, pillion is now the rider and together they ride off into the sunset, which in fact set some few hours ago.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Bus day out
Jeypore here we come, crammed on. An old style charabanc that had obviously been welded together by some back street bus company without ISO 9001 accreditation. Windows had long gone and the two half doors were hanging on by luck, or was it disguised chewing gum? Pushing and shoving we pile in and I end up standing on the steps along with 2 others plus the pusher onner who also doubles as the conductor. He hangs on, half in half out, to his door and chats at the same time. We set off. I think we are already too many as it is really tight. Bumping along he whistles and the bus stops. Not to let someone off but to let another dozen or so on. No room here, use front door. They comply. It is hot and sweaty, rattley and you hang on for dear life. A few kms up the road he lets out an ear piercing whistle and the bus stops, eventually, again. More pushing and shoving as now someone wants to get off along with the sacks of whatever they have crammed under the seats. Now more get on, one off six on. 3 get on my end and now I’ve got let’s just say a large women with her shoulder pressed against my stomach. I cannot move back as there are 2 small children sitting on Mums lap one thousandth of an inch behind me and I don’t want to smufurcate them and anyway I’m not able to move as six Indians are all vying to stand on my flip flop clad feet, and who am I to spoil their fun.
I notice that the conductor knows when someone wants to get off as they stick their arm out of the window. He whistles and the bus stops. The journey takes about an hour, or two lifetimes, and the driver is unconcerned about the huge potholes, sharp bends or petrol tankers that often want to be on our side of the road but are coming towards us. It has to be the most comfortable (not) journey I have ever made. Getting off I say I’ve had the experience, do not intend to repeat it and it’s taxis for me from now on. Arriving at Jeypore the conductor kicks the door open early, just as we are going over a huge pothole. There is an enormous bang and the door is off. Once stopped he walks back for the door and throws it on the roof. Fix tomorrow he says with a grin. After buying more chewing gum, I think. We have arrived, for the huge sum of 5p, in many small pieces (us I mean, not the money coins), at Jeypore.
Koraput is a small market town with little choice. If you cannot see it they don’t have it and are unlikely to get it. But it is the regional centre, probably because it is cooler and the British decided it was more comfortable for them during the Raj. Jeypore is much bigger although most shops are along one very long road. But most things are gettable, with persistence. We find, by accident, some cheap battery operated strip lamps good for 4 hours after a full charge. H and I buy one each as the power goes off too regularly to rely on torches and candles. No more worries about power at night. We then find some pillows and hard foam seat pads. More joy, we can all sit reasonably comfortably now on our plastic seats. I have a spare pillow but one end is missing and it’s only a matter of time before I have tiny pieces of foam everywhere.
Time to eat. We find a small cafe/greasy spoon and eat. They have no tea in a country that grows the stuff and the service is anything but quick. But we are on a day off with nothing else to do so who cares. We buy bottled water after leaving. It rains. We put on a motley collection of rainwear. My poncho from Bali gets all the attention although I have seen transparent ones in use by some locals. Now we find knives, forks and spoons, more joy. By now we are on a high. We came as a trip with nothing in mind so it is looking good. Now small china cups are found and H is desperate for a tin opener. Using my many talents with sign language and an upturned steel mug to illustrate, the shopkeeper smiles and says sheet cutter. Of course I knew that all along, I’m only testing him. H is over the moon, that tin of baked beans or Spam (label is missing so it may well be dog food) from the UK can now be consumed. And then, the piece de resistance, A finds loo rolls. Here much hilarity as I say I will buy the lot. 17 rolls. Enough to last my time and I offer, at an enhanced but special rate, to sell some to the other two. H then buys some linen throws, A and I look at shirt materials but only because it’s raining again and it is a pain to put our water proofs on again. Rain stops, we decide shirts can wait and leave.
We find 2 white cars that suggest they might be taxis. A makes a phone call to a friend to check that the price is reasonable. It is. In the meantime we have been invited to see photos of tribals in the owner of the taxis small office. 2 pics catch our attention. One is of a group standing on their heads, reason unknown as his English runs out at this point, the other of a group ducking someone to waist, head down into a pool of water. Again, reason unknown but I say one of 2 things, either a baptism or somebody has done a very bad thing and this is their punishment. For some reason this seems to be understood so much laughter from the locals observing us.
Our journey back is more comfortable despite missing 2 or 3 petrol tankers who always seem to want our side of the road. As we pull in to Koraput my phone goes. More hilarity about the banana ring tone so along with my super shirt (I’m not allowed to wear it in the UK, to garish and gaudy, but I love it) they are both totally convinced I am some sort of nutter. But, if it keeps the prolls amused who am I to dissent. The shirt by the way, intrigued Jeypore locals who asked which shop I had bought it in. Rather than explain my daughter had (she loves me really), I told them a shop in Delhi. The taxi driver wants the name of the Delhi shop and promises that he will send the boys in. Not sure what he means by that. Back at the flat I say goodbye to landlord and family off on a short break and promise I will triple lock every time I go out. His relief was transparent when I told him that. Why, I wonder?
I notice that the conductor knows when someone wants to get off as they stick their arm out of the window. He whistles and the bus stops. The journey takes about an hour, or two lifetimes, and the driver is unconcerned about the huge potholes, sharp bends or petrol tankers that often want to be on our side of the road but are coming towards us. It has to be the most comfortable (not) journey I have ever made. Getting off I say I’ve had the experience, do not intend to repeat it and it’s taxis for me from now on. Arriving at Jeypore the conductor kicks the door open early, just as we are going over a huge pothole. There is an enormous bang and the door is off. Once stopped he walks back for the door and throws it on the roof. Fix tomorrow he says with a grin. After buying more chewing gum, I think. We have arrived, for the huge sum of 5p, in many small pieces (us I mean, not the money coins), at Jeypore.
Koraput is a small market town with little choice. If you cannot see it they don’t have it and are unlikely to get it. But it is the regional centre, probably because it is cooler and the British decided it was more comfortable for them during the Raj. Jeypore is much bigger although most shops are along one very long road. But most things are gettable, with persistence. We find, by accident, some cheap battery operated strip lamps good for 4 hours after a full charge. H and I buy one each as the power goes off too regularly to rely on torches and candles. No more worries about power at night. We then find some pillows and hard foam seat pads. More joy, we can all sit reasonably comfortably now on our plastic seats. I have a spare pillow but one end is missing and it’s only a matter of time before I have tiny pieces of foam everywhere.
Time to eat. We find a small cafe/greasy spoon and eat. They have no tea in a country that grows the stuff and the service is anything but quick. But we are on a day off with nothing else to do so who cares. We buy bottled water after leaving. It rains. We put on a motley collection of rainwear. My poncho from Bali gets all the attention although I have seen transparent ones in use by some locals. Now we find knives, forks and spoons, more joy. By now we are on a high. We came as a trip with nothing in mind so it is looking good. Now small china cups are found and H is desperate for a tin opener. Using my many talents with sign language and an upturned steel mug to illustrate, the shopkeeper smiles and says sheet cutter. Of course I knew that all along, I’m only testing him. H is over the moon, that tin of baked beans or Spam (label is missing so it may well be dog food) from the UK can now be consumed. And then, the piece de resistance, A finds loo rolls. Here much hilarity as I say I will buy the lot. 17 rolls. Enough to last my time and I offer, at an enhanced but special rate, to sell some to the other two. H then buys some linen throws, A and I look at shirt materials but only because it’s raining again and it is a pain to put our water proofs on again. Rain stops, we decide shirts can wait and leave.
We find 2 white cars that suggest they might be taxis. A makes a phone call to a friend to check that the price is reasonable. It is. In the meantime we have been invited to see photos of tribals in the owner of the taxis small office. 2 pics catch our attention. One is of a group standing on their heads, reason unknown as his English runs out at this point, the other of a group ducking someone to waist, head down into a pool of water. Again, reason unknown but I say one of 2 things, either a baptism or somebody has done a very bad thing and this is their punishment. For some reason this seems to be understood so much laughter from the locals observing us.
Our journey back is more comfortable despite missing 2 or 3 petrol tankers who always seem to want our side of the road. As we pull in to Koraput my phone goes. More hilarity about the banana ring tone so along with my super shirt (I’m not allowed to wear it in the UK, to garish and gaudy, but I love it) they are both totally convinced I am some sort of nutter. But, if it keeps the prolls amused who am I to dissent. The shirt by the way, intrigued Jeypore locals who asked which shop I had bought it in. Rather than explain my daughter had (she loves me really), I told them a shop in Delhi. The taxi driver wants the name of the Delhi shop and promises that he will send the boys in. Not sure what he means by that. Back at the flat I say goodbye to landlord and family off on a short break and promise I will triple lock every time I go out. His relief was transparent when I told him that. Why, I wonder?
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Eggs and Nails
When I was young and stupid my Mother, as many Mothers do, used to wait up for me if I was late coming in from a night out. As quiet as I might try a voice would say ‘every thing alright etc.etc.’ One night this week I had been visiting other lost souls and as it turned into a very sociable gathering it was not until 11’ish (we play hard in Koraput) that I said goodnight and left for my luxury pad, joking as I went that any later and my landlord would send out a search party for me. As I arrived at the many gated and padlocked Fort Knox my mobile went off. Apart from the fact that the ring tone is about bananas (sad I know, but it amuses me) I had stashed it in my shoulder bag so I scrabbled around in the dark trying to locate it before the entire town came out to see what the banana man was selling at such an ungodly hour. I panicked somewhat as I thought it was a call from the UK and it would stop before I could locate the infernal thing. In the meantime the dogs had started up and the odd cow complained at being woken up. ‘Hello’ I informatively answered. In fractured English a strange voice asked ‘are you coming back or staying out tonight’. Ye Gods, Mum is tracking me from the dead. Being a dumbo it took a few seconds for me to realise who it was. By now lights were appearing in various homesteads interested in listening to the banana man. ‘I am at the gate as we speak’ I answered as the twig finally dropped. ‘OK’ was the reply and the phone went dead. The suburbs, not understanding a word of this very lengthy conversation decided it was nothing interesting and that it was only that mad Englishman so went back to bed. Try opening 6, 12 inch and squeaky bolts, and 3 padlocks, in the dark with keys that all look identical even in daylight and see if you can be quiet about it. If you can you are a better man/woman than I Gunga Din. Having negotiated successfully the iron gates I am met at the door by a very friendly Indian along with his wife and small female child who now all want to have a conversation with me. This is 11 at night, I want to go to bed and I have a family who fully intend to tell me their life history provided I tell them mine first. Normally, fine, but I can only understand one percent of their language (on a good day) and there is even less chance of them understanding me. I feign illness, politely say goodnight and I’m in, at last.
The following day I make breakfast. Nothing unusual about that you say. What you, and I, do not know is that that is the last of the gas. I discover this at coffee time or what passes for coffee time. I put the kettle on (it’s a hard life having to make your own coffee but I’m brave) turn the gas on and, see above about dumbos, have difficulty in not being able to light the gas. Another twig drops, and by now I have a fledgling forest growing about me, and realise there is no gas. This is a disaster of the first magnitude. What to do. When our power goes out, as it does at least twice a day every day, I have an emergency plan that swings into operation. If it is daylight, utter a few profanities and wait for it to return. At night I turn the torch on, light the candles, sit back, and feel smug. But no gas is a new challenge. Being bright, I shout to the landlord ‘NO GAS’. Some Indian minutes later he appears and says all is in hand. This is around 11am. At 3:30pm my bell, or rather dong because that is exactly what it sounds like, goes dong. It’s the boy (there is always a boy in these stories) to collect and exchange the cylinder. An hour later he reappears with my coffees essential ingredient, heat in gaseous form. I grovel at his feet, money changes hands, a beatific smile appears on the boys face and I’m in business. The next time you complain about ‘that coffee seems a long time coming’ just remember my story. My coffee took five and half hours to arrive. And you think you have it tough.
Eggs are sold loose here and are placed in a small plastic bag which you then carefully carry hoping that a passing cow, Indian, tuk tuk, motorbike or the odd jeep does not pass so close that you end up carrying cold omelette. Now I have to admit that the only reason I am telling this story is to gloat. A, another sorry volunteer here, has asked twice now for his family to send him some egg boxes to prevent the tragedy outlined above. Being a good family they have positively responded and posted the requisite article. But, they have never arrived. He has been here almost two years. I’ve been here just on a month. On one of my many shopping forays I spotted what looked like plastic egg boxes. Looking closer they are what they appear to be, ‘egg boxes’. I buy one. I go to the egg market and pass the box to the vendor. He accepts it, fills it and then proceeds to tie the popper handles together as he knows that they will pop open at the wrong moment. I pop the box into my back pack at last confident that cold omelette is off the menu, forever. Eat your heart out A, I’ve cracked it, the pun is not intended and I will gloat for at least a couple of minutes and for few rupees I will even tell you where to find them.
And to put the nail in the adventures of this dopey old git for this week I also tracked down nails. For wacking into the wall to hang my mosquito net up. It currently hangs closer to the floor than is probably good for it, or me, and I need to raise the string about 2 feet higher. The previous tenant must have been a bit of a short a**** as I can crash into the nails if I am not careful because they are so low down. One concern, I have to wait for the landlord to go out otherwise I just know he will appear wanting to know what the racket is about and I can hardly tell him I am in the process of demolishing his walls. More of this in a later edition of this enthralling narrative.
The following day I make breakfast. Nothing unusual about that you say. What you, and I, do not know is that that is the last of the gas. I discover this at coffee time or what passes for coffee time. I put the kettle on (it’s a hard life having to make your own coffee but I’m brave) turn the gas on and, see above about dumbos, have difficulty in not being able to light the gas. Another twig drops, and by now I have a fledgling forest growing about me, and realise there is no gas. This is a disaster of the first magnitude. What to do. When our power goes out, as it does at least twice a day every day, I have an emergency plan that swings into operation. If it is daylight, utter a few profanities and wait for it to return. At night I turn the torch on, light the candles, sit back, and feel smug. But no gas is a new challenge. Being bright, I shout to the landlord ‘NO GAS’. Some Indian minutes later he appears and says all is in hand. This is around 11am. At 3:30pm my bell, or rather dong because that is exactly what it sounds like, goes dong. It’s the boy (there is always a boy in these stories) to collect and exchange the cylinder. An hour later he reappears with my coffees essential ingredient, heat in gaseous form. I grovel at his feet, money changes hands, a beatific smile appears on the boys face and I’m in business. The next time you complain about ‘that coffee seems a long time coming’ just remember my story. My coffee took five and half hours to arrive. And you think you have it tough.
Eggs are sold loose here and are placed in a small plastic bag which you then carefully carry hoping that a passing cow, Indian, tuk tuk, motorbike or the odd jeep does not pass so close that you end up carrying cold omelette. Now I have to admit that the only reason I am telling this story is to gloat. A, another sorry volunteer here, has asked twice now for his family to send him some egg boxes to prevent the tragedy outlined above. Being a good family they have positively responded and posted the requisite article. But, they have never arrived. He has been here almost two years. I’ve been here just on a month. On one of my many shopping forays I spotted what looked like plastic egg boxes. Looking closer they are what they appear to be, ‘egg boxes’. I buy one. I go to the egg market and pass the box to the vendor. He accepts it, fills it and then proceeds to tie the popper handles together as he knows that they will pop open at the wrong moment. I pop the box into my back pack at last confident that cold omelette is off the menu, forever. Eat your heart out A, I’ve cracked it, the pun is not intended and I will gloat for at least a couple of minutes and for few rupees I will even tell you where to find them.
And to put the nail in the adventures of this dopey old git for this week I also tracked down nails. For wacking into the wall to hang my mosquito net up. It currently hangs closer to the floor than is probably good for it, or me, and I need to raise the string about 2 feet higher. The previous tenant must have been a bit of a short a**** as I can crash into the nails if I am not careful because they are so low down. One concern, I have to wait for the landlord to go out otherwise I just know he will appear wanting to know what the racket is about and I can hardly tell him I am in the process of demolishing his walls. More of this in a later edition of this enthralling narrative.
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Left,right and down the hole
Coming back one night I thought how bizarre this place is compared to Ende. Ende is very ordered and civilised (choke). The traffic does at least make an effort to keep to the lanes there. Here it is go wherever there is a place and out chicken pedestrians and anything else that is where you have decided to be. Tonight we were turning right and took on a huge local bus, a jeep coming out where we were heading, numerous tuk tuks and more than the odd walker. Result we made it first, the bus stopped, tuk tuks wove round us, a small boy on a bike came out from behind another vehicle and swerved round us with a surprised look on his face if to say ‘I chose that place first’. All this is done with everyone hooting at everyone else, chatting to people they recognise in another vehicle and the odd cow not taking the least bit interest as it chews whatever cud it has regurgitated. A policeman stands on a raised platform in the middle of a ‘roundabout’. A word I have chosen very carefully. He waves a tiny circular disk in each hand. If you are more than 10 feet from him you cannot see what the disk is saying. Even if you can read the word he is waving both disks like the proverbial whirling dervish in a very random manner. One says ‘stop’ the other ‘go’. I see him every night as we go round (sometimes clockwise sometimes anticlockwise as my driver is just as qualified as the next man to choose his hole) on our way to the bus stop to drop the women off at the bus station. I have yet to witness anyone take any notice of the copper. Traffic goes round the roundabout in which ever direction there seems to be a bigger hole. Sometimes he blows his whistle. The response is either pretend he isn’t there or assume he is blowing it at someone else.
This is where I discover another riddle. Locating a brick is easy; the only problem there is that it is helping to hold a wall up. Do I knock the wall down or continue my hunt for an errant and solitary brick. The answer is obvious to all but the dim witted. Knock the wall down. Then I remember the landlord and his constant complaints about water overflowing and so on and so forth. Further, I realise if I knock the wall down ratty can come in whenever he likes so that idea is hastily abandoned. A few more days pass until the Eureka moment, I find a brick. I carefully clean the floor around where I am to place it and strategically position it to block the hole. Why clean the floor? Because this is a very special brick and not just any old building brick and I want ratty to know I have no ill feelings towards him other than to STAY OUT. Mission accomplished!
Along with my friends the mossies I have a pet rodent. His name is ratty. He visits me through a hole in the wall where, if the floor gets really dirty, I can sluice the wash water. He is quiet, very secretive and shy so I’ve only seen him twice. Once when I had visitors and he obviously took exception to this as he scuttled off almost immediately, and the second time he sneaked up on me when I was not paying attention. Being shy, as soon as he realised I wanted to say hello (or something to that effect) he did a runner on me. Now this upset me as I really wanted make his close acquaintance. Feeling utterly rejected I decided to take drastic action and issue a memorandum of understanding whereby sanctions would put into immediate effect. Well, immediate in terms of the Indian time scale. So over the next few days I pondered how best to deal with this unfriendly beast and came up with a wheeze. Block the hole up. Now the quick thinkers out there will say why so long for such a simple solution. Answer, because I’m a wrinkly old git and it takes ages to make the brain cells communicate with each other. But, I’m on a mission now and nothing will stop me until my global objective has been achieved. My first solution is finding a piece of wood and block the hole up from the outside. The flaw in that is that anyone passing by could easily kick it away. But it will have to do for now. A few days later I have a design amendment to make. Find a brick and place it against the hole on the INSIDE.
This is where I discover another riddle. Locating a brick is easy; the only problem there is that it is helping to hold a wall up. Do I knock the wall down or continue my hunt for an errant and solitary brick. The answer is obvious to all but the dim witted. Knock the wall down. Then I remember the landlord and his constant complaints about water overflowing and so on and so forth. Further, I realise if I knock the wall down ratty can come in whenever he likes so that idea is hastily abandoned. A few more days pass until the Eureka moment, I find a brick. I carefully clean the floor around where I am to place it and strategically position it to block the hole. Why clean the floor? Because this is a very special brick and not just any old building brick and I want ratty to know I have no ill feelings towards him other than to STAY OUT. Mission accomplished!
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Sunday, Sunday
After washing shirts, towels, jeans etc. I made a shopping list. Was going to do the bed sheets as well but then realised they were doubles and as I haven’t slept on one side at all (two single beds together) just did a left to right and saved some domestic work. On my way out I bumped into the landlord who asked me to re-position my washing line as it would bring the drain pipe down. That’s moan number one. It won’t, but rather than argue I said OK.
As I pass H’s house I stopped by to ask if she wanted to come with me to the market/town centre. I think she was pleased I asked as M is off to Jeypore for the day. So off we set into town. First stop to the ATM as she needed some money. ATM not working so we proceeded to shop. First stop H bought some tools: hammer, screwdrivers, and pincers. The guy working the stall was that unlikely being, honest. How do I know? H was examining the screwdrivers and decided she needed both a flat head and a cross head. Stallholder points out that the blade shaft is reversible so she only needed one. A major sale lost: as there are very few Westerners here the likelihood of him getting a bad name for being less than helpful is remote. I advised him to rename his shack as Honest Joe’s (any Indian name is hard to spell so just pretend his name is Joe). All to knock some nails in for holding things up. Then to the shoe shop to get flip flops for her. I took her to the place I bought mine from so the owner greeted us, I introduced H and hot tea was offered (in a tiny Arabic type glass) which we gratefully received whilst she decided what to buy. Like me, her UK sandals had failed and needed some for the water and mud we have to walk through from time to time, or should I say every day.
The monsoon is over, not that it ever happened (climate change and all that) so where does the water come from. Most homesteads here do not have main drainage thus the waste simply runs out of the holes hacked into the wall where wherever their water supply is. That assumes of course they have running water. Those without water do what they always do, collect it from the nearest stream. Eureka, now you know where the water to make mud (and other stuff) comes from.
Mixed with the cow dung it is sometimes a very heady mixture. And talking of cows most people will know that India has Holy Cows. In Koraput we don’t have Holy Cows we have herds of the stupid animals. They are everywhere. Wandering the streets, people’s yards if they have forgotten to close the iron gates and in among the crowds of shoppers and people just out for a gossip. A small hard of 7 have taken up residence outside a computer training college just 10 minutes from where I live. I pass them every time I walk into town. The computer students must throw out a daily load of rubbish otherwise the cows would have moved on. That leads to my rubbish disposal problem. No collections so where to put? I ask my landlord and he says outside his boundary by the side of the road (it’s really a track but I’m not one to argue). So I do just that. Three days later we bump into each other and moan number two is verbalised. Wrong place for rubbish. He shows me where his invisible boundary ends. Not that there is anything left of my original rubbish after the goats have been at it. But I see this as a success. I know now where the semi-official rubbish dump is. But wait up, my sorry tail of woes are not complete without mentioning moan number three. My flat does have running water (I do have some luxuries) provided either he or I remember to start the water pump up to fill the roof tank. But if you leave it running for more than 10 to 15 minutes the tank overflows and certain residents of the abode may get wet. Landlord lives in the floor above me. Yes, you’ve guessed it. I forgot to turn the pump off and I’m accosted by a very sorry looking landlord trying to maintain his dignity whilst he reminds me of the time limit. I apologise and pretend my twin was to blame. After all he has an invisible boundary so why shouldn’t I have an invisible twin.
But, I digress. To continue our grand shopping expedition. From acquiring tools a mechanic would be proud of (not a good mechanic, I accept) we started on my stuff. Salt, apples, and candles for when the inevitable power is off. (did you spot the oxymoron, there is nothing inevitable about power here other than it will fail sometime(s) everyday). On the way back bumped into a guy from my office so intros were made and even later we bumped into someone H knew from the mobile phone office where she had spent many a happy hour trying to get connected to the rest of the world... He directed us to another ATM so having walked there we discovered that that wasn’t working either. H declined my offer of a loan at 1000% interest per day. I wonder why?
The whole journey took 2 hours so I see at as good exercise for the week. At 1:30 we set off to A’s place for lunch so even more walking. Just before I set off to A's I thought I heard some tapping. Rain. Rushed outside and brought it all in as it was almost dry. Hung it on my line in the reception hall room. Later on (10:00pm) everything is dry except jeans which are still a bit damp. No problem it’s trousers tomorrow anyway. A had done the nearest approach to an English meal. Chicken, potatoes and 3 veg. And for afters he had found some cake that was very near to Madeira which was actually very tasty. All washed down with a beer and tea to finish it all up. But H and I both protested that there was no rice (as if we would). Chatting about India I said it was weird that I didn’t actually feel I was anywhere in particular. They suggested it was because Koraput, for all its noise, dust and people was in fact very laid back. Plus being so remote you are cut off from the world at large. At 5 we all left, A and H to try the ATM again and I back to the flat.
If you find Koraput on Google satellite Maps and identify the Government Hospital, I live just within shouting distance of the Hospital. A lives by what is known as the Malaria tank, also on the map. To give a sense of the size of the place it takes 20 minutes shuffle to A’s from the flat. And my weekend is over.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Food and feet
Food at last in the fridge. But, I start at the wrong point. I’m normally picked up anytime between 9:00 and 9:30 for work. 9:30 no sign. 10:00, still no sign. I start to text and phone but although I have a signal nothing will connect. I check the numbers and they are OK. I am also aware that reception at the office is dodgy at best , non existent for the rest of the time. But, I keep trying. At 11:00 my lift turns up. Apparently there is a conference all this week at SOVA and they were ferrying delegates to the complex 6 at a time. Speaking to the Director later in the day he explained all this and also told me he had had to ride a motorbike in for the same reason. Clarity at last.
Food. When all you have in the fridge is 2 slices of stale bread and a pot of Marmite (from the UK) food becomes somewhat important. OK during the day, I use the canteen for lunch but for an evening meal problems strike. So far the two lovely volunteer ladies that arrived a week before me have been very hospitable and I’ve eaten with them on two occasions, a take way on another evening and ate most of the aforementioned bread another night. But as they say, a man cannot survive on bread alone. Today, at 3:30 I arranged with an Indian consultant to ride me into town and to do the business with me. Joy. Pots and pans, drinking cups and other sundry food implements are acquired along with a pile of food. Prakesh negotiated prices for me and apart from the food a discount was granted on every occasion. On the way back to the flat he was constantly concerned that I was comfortable on the back of the bike. Well, with 3 bags swung from a hook under where one leg wanted to be, a larger bag containing cooking metalwork pushing me out of the rear of the saddle and another 4 bags with food and flip flops dangling precariously over to one side threatening to be wrenched from my grip by passing cows (yes, there really are that many holy cows), overloaded tractors and pedestrians gaily wandering all over the road, what was I to say. I’m fine I replied through slightly gritted teeth.
Prices for non-food items are very cheap here. A pair of bog standard flip flops (for use in the flat and the loo) and an up market pair for walking outside, £2.30p the lot. Now you may ask why didn’t I bring ff’s with me. I did, paid a small fortune at M&S and they started to part company a day after I arrived in Delhi. So all week I’ve been careful where, when and how I walked as I had no wish to walk barefoot. As in most of Asia, drainage is not a top priority so when it rains the roads(?) flood and mixes with holy cow dung (bit polite but I have to keep up appearances) and other physical rejects of an unmentionable nature. Not a pleasant experience but hey, I’m no tourist as I constantly remind people, so you will understand my need for at least some footwear to isolate me from the worst of the underfoot ambiance.
Most of the locals, and all of those coming in from the forests and foothills are barefoot. It’s the custom here to remove footwear when entering most premises. The conference delegates were not conscious of the custom and entered the canteen, boots and all. That meant of course that those of us more native aware were somewhat upset at their insensitivity. When in Rome and all that! Last night, visiting a mobile phone shop, shoes removal was expected. Normally fine, but it was raining and I was wearing a poncho I had purchased in Indonesia. Try removing shoes when you are being swamped in flapping waterproofs; not an easy action. I noticed on the train from BB to Koraput locals stomping over what looked like razor sharp railway ballast along the permanent way. Their soles must be as hard as nails.
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Alcatraz and the zoo
My flat is more secure than Alcatraz. Firstly, it has no discernable address so to find it is somewhat difficult. Then there are the iron gates. The outer one into the property has padlocks inside and out, the inner gate to the house entrance has another monster padlock and finally to enter my flat yet another giant padlock. Over the wall you say. Only if you have a Kevlar body suit on as the 8 foot high walls are topped with really serious broken glass shards cemented in. A helicopter, perhaps. Only a stupido would attempt to navigate through the multiplicity of overhead wires creating a spaghetti scenario over the land. But the brave soul succeeds in getting in. What a fool, there is nothing to steal. I have the minimum of furniture, few decent clothes and what there are await the wash and at present 2 stale slices of bread and jar of marmite represent my entire stock of food. So, having dropped off the helicopter wire, got caught in overheads, landed on the glass shards as he swung like a demented trapeze artist all he would get for his troubles was a rabid bite from one of the mangy looking dogs that abound here as he lands on the wrong side of the wall anyway. And you think you have it hard.
The honeymoon must be over. Until today I have been picked up by a rather shiny 4 wheel drive jeep to take me to the office, about 3 miles away. This morning a tatty motorcycle turns up. It has a very shabby homemade pannier fixed (or should that be hung in a very innovative fashion) on one side. I climb on and find I cannot rest my right foot on anything as the Securicor box is obstructing the foot rest. I have been promoted as I am now riding like a local with one leg nonchalantly hanging free. We set off with me trying to look relaxed and not at all worried about an accident. I’m not concerned about me, it’s my laptop I’m worried about. I can self heal but laptops need a lot a TLC and aspirins just don’t cut it for them.
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
Long trek ends
Listen up there, the trek continues and comes to an end.
I had arranged for the taxi (rusty heap) to collect me from my luxury pad to take me to the station. However, as always, things did not turn out exactly the way I planned it. Presenting myself at the desk to sign out I’m presented a bill. No, no I say, the office will pay you. Consternation on the 3 clerk’s visages as that is against house rules. They ring their boss who says I must pay before leaving. A phone call to Delhi and they reach my office contact. I was supposed to have been given cash to pay the bill. I had timed my departure precisely so that I spent the minimum amount of time in the madhouse that the station is. Looking at my watch I say OK I will pay. I half undress to get to my money belt not caring whether I have clean underpants on or not, I need that money and the clock is ticking. I pay the bill and change is given. I’m off.
Seasoned traveller as I am (please stop laughing at the back, this is serious) I arrive at the station and at the first attempt locate the correct platform. No signs to indicate where the numbered carriages will stop and it will be a long walk if I am at the wrong place. With no choice I take a gamble and stay where I am. The train arrives and I watch carefully for the numbers on the carriages as they come towards me. Although not logically numbered I start to understand how the numbering runs so as B3 goes pass I think, yeh, next but one is mine. Sure enough A1 stops just short of where I am standing. I look at the seat numbering and guess wrong. I climb aboard, the train is pitch black (power down) and along with a few hundred locals Braille our way to where ever. My mistake, I had got on at the wrong end of the coach so had to bumper car my way down its entire length. But by now I know how to shove and push with the best of them, my case is the equivalent of a Panzer Tank so no arguments there. I go first, leaving dismembered bodies behind me.
I share my cabin with a family of 3 Indians. Two of them are women who will struggle to get to the top bunks so after money changes hands (I was there first and being the gentleman I am [not]) I agree to take a top bunk. We also agree, lights out at 10:30. At the appointed time I make my bed and do a Hilary and Tenzing to the top. This is going to be fun. I find somewhere to put my laptop, stash my shoes into a black hole (remember to check for scorpions/cockroaches in the morning before putting them on), wriggle my way with sheets and blanket and sleep. I wake at 7:20am. Eleven and a half hours gone, three to go. I look at the drop before me and think how do I abseil down there? But I’m brave; I check for nasties in my shoes, take a deep breath and go for it. I’m on dry land, the family is looking at me thinking ‘mad English man’ and I’m off to the loo for a nicotine top up.
We arrive at Koraput, Orissa, Bengal at 10:00am, 14 hours to the dot after leaving that place with two B’s in its name and have covered just less than 800 kilometres. My home for the next few months.
I had arranged for the taxi (rusty heap) to collect me from my luxury pad to take me to the station. However, as always, things did not turn out exactly the way I planned it. Presenting myself at the desk to sign out I’m presented a bill. No, no I say, the office will pay you. Consternation on the 3 clerk’s visages as that is against house rules. They ring their boss who says I must pay before leaving. A phone call to Delhi and they reach my office contact. I was supposed to have been given cash to pay the bill. I had timed my departure precisely so that I spent the minimum amount of time in the madhouse that the station is. Looking at my watch I say OK I will pay. I half undress to get to my money belt not caring whether I have clean underpants on or not, I need that money and the clock is ticking. I pay the bill and change is given. I’m off.
Seasoned traveller as I am (please stop laughing at the back, this is serious) I arrive at the station and at the first attempt locate the correct platform. No signs to indicate where the numbered carriages will stop and it will be a long walk if I am at the wrong place. With no choice I take a gamble and stay where I am. The train arrives and I watch carefully for the numbers on the carriages as they come towards me. Although not logically numbered I start to understand how the numbering runs so as B3 goes pass I think, yeh, next but one is mine. Sure enough A1 stops just short of where I am standing. I look at the seat numbering and guess wrong. I climb aboard, the train is pitch black (power down) and along with a few hundred locals Braille our way to where ever. My mistake, I had got on at the wrong end of the coach so had to bumper car my way down its entire length. But by now I know how to shove and push with the best of them, my case is the equivalent of a Panzer Tank so no arguments there. I go first, leaving dismembered bodies behind me.
I share my cabin with a family of 3 Indians. Two of them are women who will struggle to get to the top bunks so after money changes hands (I was there first and being the gentleman I am [not]) I agree to take a top bunk. We also agree, lights out at 10:30. At the appointed time I make my bed and do a Hilary and Tenzing to the top. This is going to be fun. I find somewhere to put my laptop, stash my shoes into a black hole (remember to check for scorpions/cockroaches in the morning before putting them on), wriggle my way with sheets and blanket and sleep. I wake at 7:20am. Eleven and a half hours gone, three to go. I look at the drop before me and think how do I abseil down there? But I’m brave; I check for nasties in my shoes, take a deep breath and go for it. I’m on dry land, the family is looking at me thinking ‘mad English man’ and I’m off to the loo for a nicotine top up.
We arrive at Koraput, Orissa, Bengal at 10:00am, 14 hours to the dot after leaving that place with two B’s in its name and have covered just less than 800 kilometres. My home for the next few months.
Monday, 31 August 2009
Trains and plains
So, the trek begins. Arrived at Delhi station in time to watch my train arrive. Somewhat longer than at home. It’s 24 carriages long. Now I know why the carriage numbers are indicated on the platform. You do not want to have to haul you baggage from one platform end to the other looking for your seat/bed number. It stops and I am 20 feet from my berth. Fighting my way through the throng of arriving and departing travellers I clamber on board. My berth is the first one in and the loo is close by. Great, smoking is banned but my guide says I have the option to smoke in the loo. Given I’m going to be on the train for 23 odd hours the attendants will think I am suffering Delhi Belly the number of times I’m likely to visit the loo.
First things first, I push my case under the seat and secure it to a chain loop welded to the seat. My guide says ‘no chain, case go missing’. My spare underpants are in the case so chain it is. I settle in and wait. An Indian couple arrive and take the other seat. They also use a chain so it must be dodgy. We depart on time. Within minutes the attendants arrive with tea and biccies or ‘tiffin’ for those still yearning for the days of the Raj. I think I’m going to like Indian railways. 10 minutes later I decide to investigate the loo. Basic but serviceable and it has a fan for removing whatever (I’m not going to spell it out, use your imagination). Tea debris is collected and another attendant brings the bedding. Two sheets, a blanket and a pillow. After living for a week without air-conditioning the carriage feels a bit parky but I can live with that as this may be my last A.C. experience until December. I visit the loo again and on returning to my berth the outside world has gone black and night has fallen. I’d forgotten night falls fast in hot countries.
Two hours into the journey more food is delivered. This, I discover, is to happen roughly every two hours from now on, except during the official/unofficial sleeping hours from 10:30 until 6:00. At 8 the Indian couple settle down for the night, the woman disappearing totally under her sheets whilst her husband takes up what to me is a most uncomfortable position. In his berth I mean not with his wife (keep your evil thoughts to yourself, this is a clean blog). I know I’m not going to sleep easily so I amuse myself by watching the darkness flash by, punctuated by the occasional light(s) from villages we pass. At 11:30 I finally declare enough and settle down myself. However, being warned to never let my backpack stuffed with my laptop and other goodies out of my sight I shuffle it about near my head and attempt the impossible, sleep. Glory be, it’s 5:30 now and although felling a bit battered it’s daylight and at last I can observer the Indian countryside. No chance, more refreshments arrive. I struggle out of the bedding and hit my head on the bunk overhead as I stand up to stretch.
The countryside is to prove somewhat disappointing. For the next 1800 kilometres and 10 station stops it is a never ending vista of flat, green plains interspersed with isolated bumpy hills suddenly rising from the plain. Mainly rice fields, water buffaloes, goat herds and shanty homes. Oh, yes, and people working in the fields. Which reminds me, approaching one of the 10 stops I notice a female goat herder with her flock, she picking flowers or something, the goats feeding between the rails. This in and on the rail way itself! Somehow I don’t think British Railways would allow that if only because they would be constantly retrieving roasted goat from the third rail. But, there is no third rail here as it’s either diesel or in our case overhead power lines so that’s alright then. I have a question, how do you train goats to keep off the line being used or do they have a goat language timetable.
The train is referred to as an Express. Obviously the word has a different meaning here as the thing moves slowly most of the time although when it does speed up it shakes and rattles so much that perhaps it’s the driver attempting to shake the rattles loose and so allow him to proceed apace.
We reach our destination Bhubaneswar after 25 hours(no, I can’t pronounce it either so don’t feel bad about it) not quite two hours late. I wonder whether my pick up will have lost the will to live and I will have to find my own way to the hotel. I disembark and fight my way through the crowds to what I think is the pickup point. On the way I assailed on all sides by ‘taxi mister?’ and ‘I take your bag for you?’. I’d been warned to not let my bag be carried as once they have possession it costs money to get it (them) back. Being a mean SOB I prefer to suffer a heart attack and lug them myself. No pickup. What a surprise. There is a very persistent taxi driver trying to convince me he knows my hotel and that he is very cheap (not as cheap as me though) and will not go away. I locate my mobile trying to keep an eye on my luggage at the same time. I call the hotel; they tell me that the pickup is there with a large notice, looking for me. I repeat ‘at platform one?’. The taxi driver overhears and enlightens me to the fact that I am not at platform one. He points the way. Trying, and failing not to look stupid, I walk to platform one. Up a thousand stairs, down a thousand stairs, through the population of India plus China to platform one. I have 2 heart attacks on the way. Perhaps I can afford 20p for a porter after all. But I’m a hardy soul and venture on. Now I have another problem, I can’t see an exit sign! I find the ‘tourist information desk’. ‘Exit?’ I ask. He shrugs. ‘Exit’ I repeat. He shrugs again. A scruffy looking clerk at the back of the office looks up and points in a vague way to the left. I depart deciding that the problem with the world is that not everyone speaks English. I move left and bingo, people seem to be walking to a rather large doorway. YES, I shout silently to myself, found it. Just outside the door is a large sign, my name writ large. Fame at large. Or is it announcing the name of the most useless traveller in the world. I don’t care, comfort looms, I hope.
Silently he gathers me up (burk, he’s thinking) and off we go to the hotel. What can I say? The office has done me proud. A 4 or 5 STAR hotel, running hot water for a shower (the first I have ever encountered in Asia) and, good food. The first chapter of my trek is over.
First things first, I push my case under the seat and secure it to a chain loop welded to the seat. My guide says ‘no chain, case go missing’. My spare underpants are in the case so chain it is. I settle in and wait. An Indian couple arrive and take the other seat. They also use a chain so it must be dodgy. We depart on time. Within minutes the attendants arrive with tea and biccies or ‘tiffin’ for those still yearning for the days of the Raj. I think I’m going to like Indian railways. 10 minutes later I decide to investigate the loo. Basic but serviceable and it has a fan for removing whatever (I’m not going to spell it out, use your imagination). Tea debris is collected and another attendant brings the bedding. Two sheets, a blanket and a pillow. After living for a week without air-conditioning the carriage feels a bit parky but I can live with that as this may be my last A.C. experience until December. I visit the loo again and on returning to my berth the outside world has gone black and night has fallen. I’d forgotten night falls fast in hot countries.
Two hours into the journey more food is delivered. This, I discover, is to happen roughly every two hours from now on, except during the official/unofficial sleeping hours from 10:30 until 6:00. At 8 the Indian couple settle down for the night, the woman disappearing totally under her sheets whilst her husband takes up what to me is a most uncomfortable position. In his berth I mean not with his wife (keep your evil thoughts to yourself, this is a clean blog). I know I’m not going to sleep easily so I amuse myself by watching the darkness flash by, punctuated by the occasional light(s) from villages we pass. At 11:30 I finally declare enough and settle down myself. However, being warned to never let my backpack stuffed with my laptop and other goodies out of my sight I shuffle it about near my head and attempt the impossible, sleep. Glory be, it’s 5:30 now and although felling a bit battered it’s daylight and at last I can observer the Indian countryside. No chance, more refreshments arrive. I struggle out of the bedding and hit my head on the bunk overhead as I stand up to stretch.
The countryside is to prove somewhat disappointing. For the next 1800 kilometres and 10 station stops it is a never ending vista of flat, green plains interspersed with isolated bumpy hills suddenly rising from the plain. Mainly rice fields, water buffaloes, goat herds and shanty homes. Oh, yes, and people working in the fields. Which reminds me, approaching one of the 10 stops I notice a female goat herder with her flock, she picking flowers or something, the goats feeding between the rails. This in and on the rail way itself! Somehow I don’t think British Railways would allow that if only because they would be constantly retrieving roasted goat from the third rail. But, there is no third rail here as it’s either diesel or in our case overhead power lines so that’s alright then. I have a question, how do you train goats to keep off the line being used or do they have a goat language timetable.
The train is referred to as an Express. Obviously the word has a different meaning here as the thing moves slowly most of the time although when it does speed up it shakes and rattles so much that perhaps it’s the driver attempting to shake the rattles loose and so allow him to proceed apace.
We reach our destination Bhubaneswar after 25 hours(no, I can’t pronounce it either so don’t feel bad about it) not quite two hours late. I wonder whether my pick up will have lost the will to live and I will have to find my own way to the hotel. I disembark and fight my way through the crowds to what I think is the pickup point. On the way I assailed on all sides by ‘taxi mister?’ and ‘I take your bag for you?’. I’d been warned to not let my bag be carried as once they have possession it costs money to get it (them) back. Being a mean SOB I prefer to suffer a heart attack and lug them myself. No pickup. What a surprise. There is a very persistent taxi driver trying to convince me he knows my hotel and that he is very cheap (not as cheap as me though) and will not go away. I locate my mobile trying to keep an eye on my luggage at the same time. I call the hotel; they tell me that the pickup is there with a large notice, looking for me. I repeat ‘at platform one?’. The taxi driver overhears and enlightens me to the fact that I am not at platform one. He points the way. Trying, and failing not to look stupid, I walk to platform one. Up a thousand stairs, down a thousand stairs, through the population of India plus China to platform one. I have 2 heart attacks on the way. Perhaps I can afford 20p for a porter after all. But I’m a hardy soul and venture on. Now I have another problem, I can’t see an exit sign! I find the ‘tourist information desk’. ‘Exit?’ I ask. He shrugs. ‘Exit’ I repeat. He shrugs again. A scruffy looking clerk at the back of the office looks up and points in a vague way to the left. I depart deciding that the problem with the world is that not everyone speaks English. I move left and bingo, people seem to be walking to a rather large doorway. YES, I shout silently to myself, found it. Just outside the door is a large sign, my name writ large. Fame at large. Or is it announcing the name of the most useless traveller in the world. I don’t care, comfort looms, I hope.
Silently he gathers me up (burk, he’s thinking) and off we go to the hotel. What can I say? The office has done me proud. A 4 or 5 STAR hotel, running hot water for a shower (the first I have ever encountered in Asia) and, good food. The first chapter of my trek is over.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Sea state and go to jail
At a small gathering of volunteers to celebrate the occupation of a volunteers new flat we were discussing what keeps us interested when away from our respective countries. Various ideas came up but the saddest item was a devotion to listening to the BBC UK shipping forecast by one of our group. Sorry C, I told you I would a get a line for my blog about that! How the knowledge of knowing the sea state, visibility in Dover, Fitzroy etc. can be of interest to someone living in India is beyond me but it does confirm how daft you have to be to do what we do.
Today I needed to change my traveller’s cheques into local currency. No problem, down to our local bank. Ha, no chance, it being small it was beyond their ability. But they did refer me to a larger branch, a 20p tuk tuk ride away. Very efficient I thought and very helpful so off I go. Here it becomes somewhat bizarre. When doesn't it? Clearing something indescribable from my sandals at the main entrance, I say Hello to the guard and walk into the bank. Find the foreign transactions center and explain my purpose. Officials go into a huddle. Phone calls are made; I begin to panic, especially when the guard approaches me and instructs me to sit down. Being an absolute coward I meekly comply. After all he is the man with the gun and I'm only armed with a passport. A few minutes pass by with officials still in a huddle. For all I know they were probably discussing the match last night but not being privy to their words I can only assume the worst. Expelled from India as an undesirable at best, gaoled as a currency crook at worst. More pleasurable minutes pass whilst I ponder my likely fate. A rough looking character, not complying with banking dress codes, points to me and beckons me forward with a curt ‘follow me’. The guard nods. OK, I know when I’m beaten and start to pray.
We leave the bank and make our way down the street. The shops are getting seedier the further we walk. We enter a tatty looking building and ascend 4 flights of stairs passing characters as seedy as the building and getting worse as we rise. By now I know my fate. They are taking the easy route and intend to throw me of the roof and put it down to a drunken foreigner thinking he can fly.
Last floor opens out to a very scruffy office serving as a money changing operation. They offer me a very good rate which I instantly accept even if later turns out to be monopoly money.
PS: Turned out to be genuine NON MONOPOLY CASH. Isn’t life grand?
Today I needed to change my traveller’s cheques into local currency. No problem, down to our local bank. Ha, no chance, it being small it was beyond their ability. But they did refer me to a larger branch, a 20p tuk tuk ride away. Very efficient I thought and very helpful so off I go. Here it becomes somewhat bizarre. When doesn't it? Clearing something indescribable from my sandals at the main entrance, I say Hello to the guard and walk into the bank. Find the foreign transactions center and explain my purpose. Officials go into a huddle. Phone calls are made; I begin to panic, especially when the guard approaches me and instructs me to sit down. Being an absolute coward I meekly comply. After all he is the man with the gun and I'm only armed with a passport. A few minutes pass by with officials still in a huddle. For all I know they were probably discussing the match last night but not being privy to their words I can only assume the worst. Expelled from India as an undesirable at best, gaoled as a currency crook at worst. More pleasurable minutes pass whilst I ponder my likely fate. A rough looking character, not complying with banking dress codes, points to me and beckons me forward with a curt ‘follow me’. The guard nods. OK, I know when I’m beaten and start to pray.
We leave the bank and make our way down the street. The shops are getting seedier the further we walk. We enter a tatty looking building and ascend 4 flights of stairs passing characters as seedy as the building and getting worse as we rise. By now I know my fate. They are taking the easy route and intend to throw me of the roof and put it down to a drunken foreigner thinking he can fly.
Last floor opens out to a very scruffy office serving as a money changing operation. They offer me a very good rate which I instantly accept even if later turns out to be monopoly money.
PS: Turned out to be genuine NON MONOPOLY CASH. Isn’t life grand?
Monday, 24 August 2009
Singing Marmite and tuk tuk's
Delhi. We don't stay in 5 star hotels, thus, we see a different Delhi than the tourist. My room overlooks a very upmarket slum made of brick with another smaller building that serves as a privy come washroom. The man of the house, if I dare refer to it as that, is an ironworker who starts battering, whatever, after the sun has gone down. Now whether this is actual work or his response to the hooting traffic I've no idea but mixed with the local ambulances/come hearses testing their many toned emergency sirens every hour on the hour at least it makes a change from the noise of Ende and motorcycles. The lady of the house runs a small flower stall barely leaving the traffic room to pass. Her strategy is obvious, slow the traffic down, thrust your wares through the window and unless you buy something you won't be getting to that important meeting any time soon.
Ambulance/hearse? That is actually written on both sides of the each of the vehicles that park up, also opposite my room. Bets will be taken as to which job they do most of. The smart money, given the traffic, is my secret. If you want to make money here produce and sell some very loud hooters. European truck horns are baby cries compared to the motorcycle horns here. Even the dogs cower away. Combined with the noise of my puka fan whizzing round but loosing the hopeless battle with the humidity and you have all the ingredients for a non tourist experience in Delhi.
Last night one of the volunteers was invited by her ex-landlady to a private concert she was giving. So, to show support and gratitude 5 of us went with her. Now the singer, whose name was both unpronounceable and unspellable by a stupid European was, by all accounts a world famous Indian Singer who had sang in the USA, Canada and for some reason beyond my limited mental capacity to grasp, Norway. We set off, led by a Romanian volunteer who knew her way to the concert hall as she had been there on a previous occasion. Readers will know my fame for being unable to find my way about. Glory be, I have met my match. For 45 minutes we wandered about looking for what turned out to be a very large and very impressive concert hall. A five minute walk from my luxurious abode took 45 minutes. I take comfort knowing I am not alone.
We took our seats, not at all sure what to expect. The hall was packed. After a 20 minute introduction by the accompanying band the star came on and the show began. I have no problem with Arabian or Indonesian Music. I leave to your imagination my feelings of Indian Music but suffice to say after 40 minutes I was ready to eat a giant sized jar of Marmite, without toast, in one sitting. The audience was very appreciative of her work so I can only assume I must have been the only one in step (sorry, out of step).
We left and found our way to an extremely good eatery where we consumed the requisite curry. For the tourists out there, the dinner for 5 cost £6.50, or to those not fortunate to be British, 6 Euro.
To end my story (about time too, I hear you say) I am now an expert on tuk tuk's. For the ignorant out there they are those funny little 3 wheeled thingies that I think Brighton tried to introduce as a tourist attraction during the holiday season. Their official name is auto rickshaw, of which there are thousands here. Boring bit over, I hired one to take me back from our HQ to my abode. You must remember Delhi is a city of close on if not exceeding, a population of 20 million souls. It would be unreasonable to expect any but a local driver to know where I wanted go, given that HQ is in the suburbs, my abode in the center. But I had a cunning plan. A few minutes away from my room is the tomb of one of the local hero’s here, known by everyone (I was told) by people more knowledgeable than I. Not a difficult thing to achieve. To continue, I instructed the drive to take me to the tomb. Agreeing a price we set off. The journey normally takes around 30 minutes. 30 minutes later we arrive at the Indian International Center. Not where I want to be. I repeat where I want to go. He shrugs, turns round and minutes later we arrive at the tomb. Am I a tuk tuk expert or what? Do not answer that question for fear I will ramble on with even more inane writing.
Ambulance/hearse? That is actually written on both sides of the each of the vehicles that park up, also opposite my room. Bets will be taken as to which job they do most of. The smart money, given the traffic, is my secret. If you want to make money here produce and sell some very loud hooters. European truck horns are baby cries compared to the motorcycle horns here. Even the dogs cower away. Combined with the noise of my puka fan whizzing round but loosing the hopeless battle with the humidity and you have all the ingredients for a non tourist experience in Delhi.
Last night one of the volunteers was invited by her ex-landlady to a private concert she was giving. So, to show support and gratitude 5 of us went with her. Now the singer, whose name was both unpronounceable and unspellable by a stupid European was, by all accounts a world famous Indian Singer who had sang in the USA, Canada and for some reason beyond my limited mental capacity to grasp, Norway. We set off, led by a Romanian volunteer who knew her way to the concert hall as she had been there on a previous occasion. Readers will know my fame for being unable to find my way about. Glory be, I have met my match. For 45 minutes we wandered about looking for what turned out to be a very large and very impressive concert hall. A five minute walk from my luxurious abode took 45 minutes. I take comfort knowing I am not alone.
We took our seats, not at all sure what to expect. The hall was packed. After a 20 minute introduction by the accompanying band the star came on and the show began. I have no problem with Arabian or Indonesian Music. I leave to your imagination my feelings of Indian Music but suffice to say after 40 minutes I was ready to eat a giant sized jar of Marmite, without toast, in one sitting. The audience was very appreciative of her work so I can only assume I must have been the only one in step (sorry, out of step).
We left and found our way to an extremely good eatery where we consumed the requisite curry. For the tourists out there, the dinner for 5 cost £6.50, or to those not fortunate to be British, 6 Euro.
To end my story (about time too, I hear you say) I am now an expert on tuk tuk's. For the ignorant out there they are those funny little 3 wheeled thingies that I think Brighton tried to introduce as a tourist attraction during the holiday season. Their official name is auto rickshaw, of which there are thousands here. Boring bit over, I hired one to take me back from our HQ to my abode. You must remember Delhi is a city of close on if not exceeding, a population of 20 million souls. It would be unreasonable to expect any but a local driver to know where I wanted go, given that HQ is in the suburbs, my abode in the center. But I had a cunning plan. A few minutes away from my room is the tomb of one of the local hero’s here, known by everyone (I was told) by people more knowledgeable than I. Not a difficult thing to achieve. To continue, I instructed the drive to take me to the tomb. Agreeing a price we set off. The journey normally takes around 30 minutes. 30 minutes later we arrive at the Indian International Center. Not where I want to be. I repeat where I want to go. He shrugs, turns round and minutes later we arrive at the tomb. Am I a tuk tuk expert or what? Do not answer that question for fear I will ramble on with even more inane writing.
Friday, 21 August 2009
Got there
Delhi is stamped in my passport! Not without incident I might add. Between home and London we made an unscheduled stop as a passenger was suddenly taken ill. Phoning ahead the guard arranged for an ambulance to meet the train at the next station where the ambulance crew were waiting and after a few moments took the poor sod off on a stretcher. America eat your heart out, all at no cost to the passenger and I did not hear anyone ask if there was a credit card to pay for all the service.
On the train from London to Heathrow a young girl (mid 20’s I guess) sat on a jump seat and ate sweets from a box as if they were either her first or last meal. Feeding frenzy or what. Finally, on the flight over I had the good fortune to sit next to a student who smelt as if he’s not washed for some indeterminate days or maybe weeks and one row back from a family with the most miserable baby ever. She cried from embarking to disembarking . I was barking by the time the plane landed so that was OK.
Delhi airport impressed me with its efficiency. Quick, no hassle and out through arrivals. Pity I didn’t meet its high standards as I walked straight passed my welcoming party without spotting them. No problem, I stood close to the nearest ashtray and lit up. I decided I would book into the nearest 5 star hotel once my nicotine level had been restored but before I could say “Hilton Hotel, James” the VSO party had found me. Deep joy on their part, deep sadness on my part as I now find myself booked into a sleepery (sometimes known as The something Institute) more in keeping with VSO budget constraints. However it caters for people from cradle to grave. I know that because outside there is a row of vehicles that look like ambulances but have Ambulance/Hearse written on their sides. Now, whether that means that they are dual purpose or whether they don’t have much faith in the health system I’ve no idea but I like the multi functional all purpose approach. A lesson for our NHS perhaps in cost cutting (or in politico speech, meeting efficiency targets).
My fear now is that my laptop will blow up before I can fire this off. The voltage here varies from nothing to 240V and all stops in between. But, looking on the bright side I have an A.C in my room. The windows don’t close, the A.C unit sounds worse than the proverbial bag of bolts and I keep having to clear the mossies out of the air filter as they block the feeble air flow every 5 minutes but hey, I’ m here in Delhi and the fun will start eventually. Or not.
On the train from London to Heathrow a young girl (mid 20’s I guess) sat on a jump seat and ate sweets from a box as if they were either her first or last meal. Feeding frenzy or what. Finally, on the flight over I had the good fortune to sit next to a student who smelt as if he’s not washed for some indeterminate days or maybe weeks and one row back from a family with the most miserable baby ever. She cried from embarking to disembarking . I was barking by the time the plane landed so that was OK.
Delhi airport impressed me with its efficiency. Quick, no hassle and out through arrivals. Pity I didn’t meet its high standards as I walked straight passed my welcoming party without spotting them. No problem, I stood close to the nearest ashtray and lit up. I decided I would book into the nearest 5 star hotel once my nicotine level had been restored but before I could say “Hilton Hotel, James” the VSO party had found me. Deep joy on their part, deep sadness on my part as I now find myself booked into a sleepery (sometimes known as The something Institute) more in keeping with VSO budget constraints. However it caters for people from cradle to grave. I know that because outside there is a row of vehicles that look like ambulances but have Ambulance/Hearse written on their sides. Now, whether that means that they are dual purpose or whether they don’t have much faith in the health system I’ve no idea but I like the multi functional all purpose approach. A lesson for our NHS perhaps in cost cutting (or in politico speech, meeting efficiency targets).
My fear now is that my laptop will blow up before I can fire this off. The voltage here varies from nothing to 240V and all stops in between. But, looking on the bright side I have an A.C in my room. The windows don’t close, the A.C unit sounds worse than the proverbial bag of bolts and I keep having to clear the mossies out of the air filter as they block the feeble air flow every 5 minutes but hey, I’ m here in Delhi and the fun will start eventually. Or not.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Cogito ergo sum
There has been press recently about plagiarism by both students and academics. Being neither I feel no guilt at using Descartes as the heading for this latest piece of rubbish. I definitely know who I am, so, at long last, does the Indian Embassy. After 6 weeks (average wait 2-3 days) my visa to work in India has arrived. Subject to it not being revoked when they discover I know very little about anything at all I fly to Delhi on the 20th. The bright eyed out there will have spotted that horrible 4 letter word 'work'. For those unable to read I have highlighted the word in red. If you are colour blind, tough, there is only so much I am prepared to do.
Whatever, I am applying to the Guinness Book of records for the worlds most determined person with a masochistic wish to suffer. Who else would wait 6 weeks to get approval to w**k in a place recently known to have experienced a 7 day (days, not hours) power blackout. Unless you live in Dartford/Gravesend where the vandals know where the off switch is. The adventure begins!
Whatever, I am applying to the Guinness Book of records for the worlds most determined person with a masochistic wish to suffer. Who else would wait 6 weeks to get approval to w**k in a place recently known to have experienced a 7 day (days, not hours) power blackout. Unless you live in Dartford/Gravesend where the vandals know where the off switch is. The adventure begins!
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Negative feedback
Update on non-event. World record about to be broken. After almost 5 weeks no sign of visa. More as it doesn’t happen .
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
I've started so I'll finish
I finally remembered my password for my earlier blog. But s*d it, I can not be a*****d to update it now having started this one. I use passwords not easily remembered and they make no sense either to me or would be hackers so it was a Damascus moment that it (the password you dummy) came to me. So, unless you are called St John and are deeply religious and are walking along a desert road trying to guess any of my passwords will take slightly more than a miracle and as I am not religious miracles are not allowed.
Mind you, as I am paranoid about computer security (it is part of my job) hoist and petard come to mind. So, those of you using complex passwords such as secret, confidential, letmein, myname, 123456 etc. can smile indulgently knowing they will never forget their password. Neither will I, so be careful out there: I'm watching you.
No knickers
Delayed again. New flight, not yet booked, will be on Sunday 2nd August. I am getting the distinct impression they don't want me out there. No sign of visa and BA have invented a special slot called MT as the seat has been changed so often they have designed a new database just to keep track of the constant changes. In the meantime I have run out of knickers and my socks are beginning to smell as I have everything else in the suitcase locked and ready to go and I can't find the key. My spare swiss army knife (I always carry 2 in case I lose one) may yet prove useful to cut into the case to release the unmentionables. Does anyone know where I can buy paper underthings?
Friday, 17 July 2009
Dr Who
The travelling gods have a vendetta against me. Latest is that I've been rescheduled for the 28th July. As I'm due back to the UK on the 20 December, which is not negotiable, if this goes on much longer I shall be returning before I leave. I'm considering putting in an application to be the real Dr Who!
Documents
The travelling gods are against me. No visa, thus no passport as yet. There is a postal strike this weekend so the chances of it arriving before Monday are slim. There is a half hour slot on Monday between the post arriving and me having to leave for the airport but history says 'no chance'. Am I concerned, no. Asian time culture is well inside my experience having once waited 14 hours for a Tristar (my favourite plane until they started to fall out of the sky too regularly) that had been requisitioned by a local Prince to go to a Polo match. Despite the unreliability of 'in country' airlines that particular record delay is still standing after 30 years. I do not count cancelled or crashed flights as a delay.
Saturday, 11 July 2009
Flying pigs
Not a happy week. With just a week to go before I depart for India the b****** car has blown up on me. After days of messing around with dealers, breakdown trucks and such like I decided to dump the thing as the repair costs for a black box were almost as much as the worth of the car itself. Bought a fairly decent Saxo (i.e. it is has 4 wheels in roughly the correct position) as a short term replacement and next year after we have returned from our Global wanderings it can be traded in for a new mobile box of aggravation.
All the final medical stuff is complete and I have to be the planets most certified healthy person(after x-rays, jumping up and down stuff, a few dozen needles stuck into various bits of me and unspeakable other painful goings on). My eticket is printed out and my passport is hopefully getting a visa stamped into it. Subject to not contracting pig flu, asian flu, bird flu or any other flu that happens to be knocking around I leave on the 20th July. However, looking back at the possible flu variants I wonder whether that is the origin of the term flying pigs (think about it).
A volunteer already in place in Koraput tells me it is the monsoon at the moment and suggests I bring some wellies with me otherwise there is a chance of catching fish flu. Given the ability of the virus to mutate I'm half inclined to believe him.
All the final medical stuff is complete and I have to be the planets most certified healthy person(after x-rays, jumping up and down stuff, a few dozen needles stuck into various bits of me and unspeakable other painful goings on). My eticket is printed out and my passport is hopefully getting a visa stamped into it. Subject to not contracting pig flu, asian flu, bird flu or any other flu that happens to be knocking around I leave on the 20th July. However, looking back at the possible flu variants I wonder whether that is the origin of the term flying pigs (think about it).
A volunteer already in place in Koraput tells me it is the monsoon at the moment and suggests I bring some wellies with me otherwise there is a chance of catching fish flu. Given the ability of the virus to mutate I'm half inclined to believe him.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Food allergy
My eldest daughter has just phoned to invite us out for an Indian meal. With the next few months promising nothing but curry it took ages to say OK, thanks. Yeh, I know ungrateful b****** but that's life.
Beta release (work it out!)
This is the start of something new. I'm off to India in a few days and returning (subject to Malaria and other pleasurable experiences) to the UK in time for Christmas. Took weeks to find out what the place is all about and eventually got some real info today. That prompted me to start this new blog as I have forgotten the password for my earlier blog so that can not be updated. For all the I.T weirdos out there yeh, I know about passwords etc. But when did you last speak to a plumber that had yet to fix his own leaks or a car mechanic whose own car was not always breaking down. Physician heal thy self I hear you say. Knickers to you is my response.
To continue. I had already committed to India without knowing about any potential horrors but I had reckoned that any rabid dog that was daft enough to take a chunk out of me deserved its day in the limelight before going to the great dog kennel in the sky. It seems there are no horrors awaiting me, they even speak English, (confirmed by the people I am going to) which is a great relief as earlier readers will know my language ability on a scale of 1 to 10 is about minus 100. And that is on a good day when the sun is shining and I've had a few beers. However, I have been informed that lunch is always curry and vegetables, every day. It took me 2 years to over come my hatred of chicken after I returned from working in the Middle East where chicken was the only item on the menu for over 2 years, I have a current dislike of Nasi Gureng (Indonesian fried rice) for much the same reason so I suspect curry is about to disappear from the my UK menu.
Packing gets easier. Shove everything into a Sainsburys (or Tesco) carrier and you are off. Did think about going to London and getting a Harrods carrier to display rampant consumerism but decided the thicker plastic would add to the baggage weight so didn't.
Do need to get my very expensive laptop backpack repaired as one of the straps is fraying and whilst I don't object to wearing the same cloths (I know the 'e' is missing for those with decent eyesight, but clothes seems a bit over the top to describe my rags) for weeks or months on end to save the aggro of washing but I do have a problem if my laptop goes AWOL on me.
You can tell my background. Might have a flash car outside and the very latest telly and hi-hi but furniture, whats that?
On that cheerful and insightful note, welcome to my blog.
To continue. I had already committed to India without knowing about any potential horrors but I had reckoned that any rabid dog that was daft enough to take a chunk out of me deserved its day in the limelight before going to the great dog kennel in the sky. It seems there are no horrors awaiting me, they even speak English, (confirmed by the people I am going to) which is a great relief as earlier readers will know my language ability on a scale of 1 to 10 is about minus 100. And that is on a good day when the sun is shining and I've had a few beers. However, I have been informed that lunch is always curry and vegetables, every day. It took me 2 years to over come my hatred of chicken after I returned from working in the Middle East where chicken was the only item on the menu for over 2 years, I have a current dislike of Nasi Gureng (Indonesian fried rice) for much the same reason so I suspect curry is about to disappear from the my UK menu.
Packing gets easier. Shove everything into a Sainsburys (or Tesco) carrier and you are off. Did think about going to London and getting a Harrods carrier to display rampant consumerism but decided the thicker plastic would add to the baggage weight so didn't.
Do need to get my very expensive laptop backpack repaired as one of the straps is fraying and whilst I don't object to wearing the same cloths (I know the 'e' is missing for those with decent eyesight, but clothes seems a bit over the top to describe my rags) for weeks or months on end to save the aggro of washing but I do have a problem if my laptop goes AWOL on me.
You can tell my background. Might have a flash car outside and the very latest telly and hi-hi but furniture, whats that?
On that cheerful and insightful note, welcome to my blog.
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