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.
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.
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