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.

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.

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!

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.

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. 

 

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.

We do the 3 miles at a very respectable 30 kph. Not because he’s a careful rider, more because we have to steer through more holy cows than I thought existed, shoo some of those rabid dogs out of our way, avoid school children that have most definitely not passed their cycling proficiency test, slow down so that the driver can have a gossip with another rider going in the opposite direction and lastly WATCH OUT FOR THAT POTHOLE. I arrive, shaken but not stirred at the office.

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.