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.
Friday 20 November 2009
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.
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