Day 10 - 29th March 2006
A new day, a new state. We left at a civilised time in the morning (7.45) and left lush Kerala for the STEEP and windy journey down the other side of the Ghats to reach the traditional south - Tamil Nadu. At the moment we're on a four hour bus journey to Madurai, which is one of the oldest worship and trading places in South Asia. It's history stretches back over 2,000 years. James, who suffers from vertigo, coped extremely well with the trip down the mountainside which I thought would definitely freak him out. He missed the crowd (?) of idle monkeys we had to slow down for on the descent, though.
It's disappointing to leave Kerala, where we had so little time to look at the fabric of the place - just the larger tapestry. We met some remarkable people in three shorts days. The most notable experience was visiting the Emmanuel Orphanage in Kumily, the next village along from our 'jungle retreat'. At this orphanage 22 children live with their surrogate family; two are the couple's own, but you'd never guess which individuals they were. To describe how they live I should start with the family. They are close knit and seemingly happy. Having 21 other brothers and sisters (aged from 7 months to 14 years) is certainly unusual. They squabble and fight, some are timid, others are bullish but they are seem to understand the principle of sharing all right.
Well they might considering the space they have to live in. 20 girls sleep in four beds in a single room; the lucky 2 boys have a room to themselves. The orphanage itself is a typical working class Indian home: one storey, basic, small yard around it for the children to play in and to keep chickens. The children - strange though it may seem, were thrilled to see a bunch of westerners turn up. Some kids ran up to meet, then hug and kiss us. Some of the girls smiled shyly and kept their distance. We were invited into the sitting room where we were introduced to their mother. We found out that she was the only woman who would marry the childrens father - it was not from lack of interest, but that he was an orphan himself and his life's dream was to open this orphanage and unofficially adopt the children. Whatever age the children reach he will not make them leave the home. In the kitchen, the children sang some hymns for us, and we in turn sang for them. We went outside in the yard and played frisbee, skipping and catch ball with them. We made sure to encourage the timid ones out and had a fantastic time with them all. An afternoon with some white people, won't do much for them sadly. Previous groups that had visited donated beds, fridges etc. These gestures were kind enough, but how many millions are there like this across the country? As we left we donated what we could, but it seemed hollow.
Better than this James met Robin a young local man who teaches the children songs. Earlier James and I were disappointed that a guiar they had on the wall was broken beyond repair as we'd at least hoped to play the children a song. James used his initiative and asked Robin if there was a music shop locally, and we all trooped off to buy guitars. Sadly the only instruments they had in the shop when we arrived didn't tune properly, and we decided there was no point in buying somethng they wouldn't use. We decided we'd buy them in Hong Kong or Japan and ship them on. Instead we got a small tambourine to accompany them when they sing hymns (they are devout Christians).
I came back rattling it in the air and they looked genuinely pleased. I gave them a short demonstration but I needed have bothered, they certainly knew what to do with it. I just hope it doesn't annoy their mother too much. 22 children is enough to cope with, especially when you're husband is away for a few days in Chennai! James showed them photos of his family that he had with him.
We took some photos of all the children and hugged goodbye.
The saddest moment, just before we left, was looking at a picture of child we hadn't seen. We asked their Mother, apparently she was another child in their care who had run out into the road in front of a truck and been killed instantly.
Needless to say the whole visit was humbling and hard to stomach. James and I are aleady plotting some schemes beyond simply sending them instruments.
More about Madurai at a later date, so far we've only established that: 1. India got their revenge over England in the one day international, 2. It's hot and crowded & 3. Good directions to an ATM are hard to come by.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
The Land of Coconuts
Day 8 - 27 March 2006
It's our third day proper on the Intrepid South India tour, and we're really stuck into Kerala, or the Land of Coconuts now. This morning we leave the Keralan Homestay we arrived at yesterday. I'm lazing downstairs in the cabin of a local boat nursing my stomach after a bout of the you-know-whats, through the Keralan backwaters. This area covers 630 sq miles and 33 islands. All of this lies below sea-level and is reclaimed land. This process started centuries ago with the Indiginous Dravidian Indians, who dredged up mud from the river bottoms. They were known as mud diggers. As years passed and Hinduism took over, they became effective slaves under Hindu caste groups.
We've been staying with a lovely local family, the Zachariahs. After arriving and providing us with an excellent homecooked meal, they took us on a walk around the backwaters, showing us traditional farming, housing, families, boat building etc. A tough and busy life, no doubt. To western eyes taking a glimpse it seemed pretty idyllic. These are small self-sufficient communities who, although assimilating some pop-culture through television, have managed to preserve a traditional way of life over the centuries. If we end up going back down the path in the future, it is possible we could be receiving more than we are losing. I saw animal living happily amongst and largely undisturbed by man, ducking in and out of the undergrowth. Everybody in the community knew each other and seemed to enjoy a level of congenialty unprecedented in anywhere else I've seen.
We enjoyed an organised walk, with our two hosts, Mathew and Thomas guiding us (there is a significiant Christian population here). We walked through the man-made islands and canals, but it was hard to imagine that an environment which looked so peaceful and natural could be several feet under sea water in reality. The Keralan backwaters are lush, green and teeming with wildlife. The locals happily smiled and waved at us and we're happy to pose for photos. Thomas distributed the photos taken by previous groups to the families and it is not an exaggeration to say they were thrilled. As we continued down in interior canal the indolent atmosphere of the afternoon was sharply fractured by a clap of thunder, after which the sky greyed and rain fell. We continued the journey by canoe. The Sun began to set and as the light filtered through the storm clouds an enchanting unique light lit up the firmament and all below. As the rain gently fell, I stopped musing on my upset stomach and was lifted in mood. I felt genuinely chuffed - this was definitely the most enduring moment of the tour so far. Dad - you would absolutely love it here, if they served salad nicoise as well, you'd be in hog's heaven.
As the night set in Mathew and Thomas, together with the boatmen paddling the canoes sang folk songs to us, that we apparently dying out at the same rate as the dimming light. The experience of listening to this in the pouring rain as the power on the banks flickered house lights on and off sent the proverbial shiver down the spine. After precariously getting out of the canoes we smapled 'Toddy', the local alcoholic drink made with coconuts. This was in a small brick hut, which despite the location had a similar atmosphere to most pubs the world over. I couldn't partake myself, although I was consoled with a damp trip to the outdoor latrine - damn Morton stomach.
Back to the present, the water temperature is pretty high and I'm tempted to get in and join the local who are waist deep doing their laundry. It's extremely humid here, but I'm surprising myself with how easy I'm finding to handle. I've skipped a few days - I know. We arrived in Cochin, joined a small and friendly tour party, and explored Ernakulam, Fort Cochin and saw the local dance. More about this place when we return at the end of the trip but it is much less crowded than Mumbai! It has Portugese, Dutch, Jewish and British influences, and was a self-governing state until partition. That's all for now.
It's our third day proper on the Intrepid South India tour, and we're really stuck into Kerala, or the Land of Coconuts now. This morning we leave the Keralan Homestay we arrived at yesterday. I'm lazing downstairs in the cabin of a local boat nursing my stomach after a bout of the you-know-whats, through the Keralan backwaters. This area covers 630 sq miles and 33 islands. All of this lies below sea-level and is reclaimed land. This process started centuries ago with the Indiginous Dravidian Indians, who dredged up mud from the river bottoms. They were known as mud diggers. As years passed and Hinduism took over, they became effective slaves under Hindu caste groups.
We've been staying with a lovely local family, the Zachariahs. After arriving and providing us with an excellent homecooked meal, they took us on a walk around the backwaters, showing us traditional farming, housing, families, boat building etc. A tough and busy life, no doubt. To western eyes taking a glimpse it seemed pretty idyllic. These are small self-sufficient communities who, although assimilating some pop-culture through television, have managed to preserve a traditional way of life over the centuries. If we end up going back down the path in the future, it is possible we could be receiving more than we are losing. I saw animal living happily amongst and largely undisturbed by man, ducking in and out of the undergrowth. Everybody in the community knew each other and seemed to enjoy a level of congenialty unprecedented in anywhere else I've seen.
We enjoyed an organised walk, with our two hosts, Mathew and Thomas guiding us (there is a significiant Christian population here). We walked through the man-made islands and canals, but it was hard to imagine that an environment which looked so peaceful and natural could be several feet under sea water in reality. The Keralan backwaters are lush, green and teeming with wildlife. The locals happily smiled and waved at us and we're happy to pose for photos. Thomas distributed the photos taken by previous groups to the families and it is not an exaggeration to say they were thrilled. As we continued down in interior canal the indolent atmosphere of the afternoon was sharply fractured by a clap of thunder, after which the sky greyed and rain fell. We continued the journey by canoe. The Sun began to set and as the light filtered through the storm clouds an enchanting unique light lit up the firmament and all below. As the rain gently fell, I stopped musing on my upset stomach and was lifted in mood. I felt genuinely chuffed - this was definitely the most enduring moment of the tour so far. Dad - you would absolutely love it here, if they served salad nicoise as well, you'd be in hog's heaven.
As the night set in Mathew and Thomas, together with the boatmen paddling the canoes sang folk songs to us, that we apparently dying out at the same rate as the dimming light. The experience of listening to this in the pouring rain as the power on the banks flickered house lights on and off sent the proverbial shiver down the spine. After precariously getting out of the canoes we smapled 'Toddy', the local alcoholic drink made with coconuts. This was in a small brick hut, which despite the location had a similar atmosphere to most pubs the world over. I couldn't partake myself, although I was consoled with a damp trip to the outdoor latrine - damn Morton stomach.
Back to the present, the water temperature is pretty high and I'm tempted to get in and join the local who are waist deep doing their laundry. It's extremely humid here, but I'm surprising myself with how easy I'm finding to handle. I've skipped a few days - I know. We arrived in Cochin, joined a small and friendly tour party, and explored Ernakulam, Fort Cochin and saw the local dance. More about this place when we return at the end of the trip but it is much less crowded than Mumbai! It has Portugese, Dutch, Jewish and British influences, and was a self-governing state until partition. That's all for now.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Netravati Express
23 March 206, Day 4
I’m writing from a new environment today. Let’s see if you can guess where. Here are your clues:
1. It’s cramped
2. It’s hard
3. It’s hot
4. It has some of the mot beautiful views I’ve ever seen
If you hadn’t guessed from the title I’m on the Netravati Express train from Mumbai (Lokmanya Tilak Terminus in the middle of nowhere, but mre of that later) to Trivandrum. We are only going as far as Cochin (Ernakulam Junction). We’ve traveled for only a few hours so far, but we’ve already seen the Western Ghats and the countryside changing from hard farmed agricultural land and slum housing to a more rural, natural and even tropical back drop. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.
There was a stage this morning when I wasn’t sure if we’d get on this train, or even still be in contact with one another. Yes, we got ourselves into a pickle – silly boys!
After leaving our stupid smart shoes behind in Mumbai and paying an inflated bill for our home for the last few days – Prabhat Colony – we set off early to miss the rush hour and catch the train from Santa Cruz to Tilak Nagar, close to Lokmanya Tilak. It sounds simple enough, but it didn’t work out that way. Getting onto a packed suburban Mumbai train with a full back pack is an incredibly silly idea. We managed to get a few stop down the line to Bandra (in a crammed first class carriage), after we realized that we needed to change train. With the temperature rising and tempers fraying, I found out that we needed to catch our train from platform 7. I wish I hadn’t bothered. James and I spent too much time wondering how a stray goat had defied to laws of physics and found itself onto raised concrete ledge to notice that the approaching ‘harbour line’ train was dangerously brimming over. Head down I launched into piledriving mode and forced my way onto the train, with my backpack clutched behind. When I started getting pushed from all sides, I started to panic abut where James was. I couldn’t see anything in the unlit shaded interior of the car. Admist a forest of hands and arms, I couldn’t see the man next to me. I called out to James, but there was no reply. Had he got on the train? I really thought I’d left him on he platform, but reality could have been far worse. Jim was hanging on by one hand to the outside of the carriage. After James shouted back, I kept hollering instructions about a station to get off at, but I thought we wouldn’t be able to get off until we reached the terminus. The commuters started laughing at our increasingly frightened and vexed dialogue and started mimicking us. I wasn’t really in the mood for this as some of other passengers noticed, and they tried to help me by beckoning me into their compartment. This only made the situation worse, as I was further in, and James announced he was getting off at the next stop. I knew I wouldn’t be able it make it in time, but with a rush and a push we both made it close to one door. The crush was scary and even the locals were getting angry (probably at being hit in the face with backpacks). Finally at the next station we went for broke and stumbled off the train knocking several people over in the process. We were amazed we’d kept hold of our backpacks and come away unscathed. As James said, the 350 rupees we spent on a taxi to Lokmanya Tilak terminus was the best we’d spent since arriving.
We kicked around for a bit in a massive ticket hall and waiting area once we'd arrived at the station, as we were over an hour early for the train. Here we identified some other backpackers who were clearly too worldly to talk to two buffoons who couldn’t even catch a local train without causing a rumpus. After stocking up on water and biscuits, we found our way to the train, finding our names on a print out taped to the carriage door. We cruelly spurned cash to several beggars, but happily shared our cracker biscuits with them. Once we’d made our way on to the train, and James had thrashed me at travel chess, a never ending stream of traders, beggars, singers, vendors and transvestites wandered past looking for our rupees. Making a living, one way or another, never stops and will adapt to any situation in India it seems.
We ordered some lunch from one of the red-shirted official vendors. Veg. Biriyani and roti. The same meal we’d had for the previous 6. At 30r it was the best value substantial meal we’d eaten in India; three foil trays: one rice, one dahl and one sauce. There was also a plastic bag of milk (we think it was milk) and a water sachet to wash your hands with. Among the more interesting snacks also on offer were a cucumber/corgette looking vegetable which was peeled, cut into four length wise and filled with something looking like burger sauce in the middle. I wasn’t adventurous enough to try it. The heat is building so I’m off to sleep…
I’m writing from a new environment today. Let’s see if you can guess where. Here are your clues:
1. It’s cramped
2. It’s hard
3. It’s hot
4. It has some of the mot beautiful views I’ve ever seen
If you hadn’t guessed from the title I’m on the Netravati Express train from Mumbai (Lokmanya Tilak Terminus in the middle of nowhere, but mre of that later) to Trivandrum. We are only going as far as Cochin (Ernakulam Junction). We’ve traveled for only a few hours so far, but we’ve already seen the Western Ghats and the countryside changing from hard farmed agricultural land and slum housing to a more rural, natural and even tropical back drop. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.
There was a stage this morning when I wasn’t sure if we’d get on this train, or even still be in contact with one another. Yes, we got ourselves into a pickle – silly boys!
After leaving our stupid smart shoes behind in Mumbai and paying an inflated bill for our home for the last few days – Prabhat Colony – we set off early to miss the rush hour and catch the train from Santa Cruz to Tilak Nagar, close to Lokmanya Tilak. It sounds simple enough, but it didn’t work out that way. Getting onto a packed suburban Mumbai train with a full back pack is an incredibly silly idea. We managed to get a few stop down the line to Bandra (in a crammed first class carriage), after we realized that we needed to change train. With the temperature rising and tempers fraying, I found out that we needed to catch our train from platform 7. I wish I hadn’t bothered. James and I spent too much time wondering how a stray goat had defied to laws of physics and found itself onto raised concrete ledge to notice that the approaching ‘harbour line’ train was dangerously brimming over. Head down I launched into piledriving mode and forced my way onto the train, with my backpack clutched behind. When I started getting pushed from all sides, I started to panic abut where James was. I couldn’t see anything in the unlit shaded interior of the car. Admist a forest of hands and arms, I couldn’t see the man next to me. I called out to James, but there was no reply. Had he got on the train? I really thought I’d left him on he platform, but reality could have been far worse. Jim was hanging on by one hand to the outside of the carriage. After James shouted back, I kept hollering instructions about a station to get off at, but I thought we wouldn’t be able to get off until we reached the terminus. The commuters started laughing at our increasingly frightened and vexed dialogue and started mimicking us. I wasn’t really in the mood for this as some of other passengers noticed, and they tried to help me by beckoning me into their compartment. This only made the situation worse, as I was further in, and James announced he was getting off at the next stop. I knew I wouldn’t be able it make it in time, but with a rush and a push we both made it close to one door. The crush was scary and even the locals were getting angry (probably at being hit in the face with backpacks). Finally at the next station we went for broke and stumbled off the train knocking several people over in the process. We were amazed we’d kept hold of our backpacks and come away unscathed. As James said, the 350 rupees we spent on a taxi to Lokmanya Tilak terminus was the best we’d spent since arriving.
We kicked around for a bit in a massive ticket hall and waiting area once we'd arrived at the station, as we were over an hour early for the train. Here we identified some other backpackers who were clearly too worldly to talk to two buffoons who couldn’t even catch a local train without causing a rumpus. After stocking up on water and biscuits, we found our way to the train, finding our names on a print out taped to the carriage door. We cruelly spurned cash to several beggars, but happily shared our cracker biscuits with them. Once we’d made our way on to the train, and James had thrashed me at travel chess, a never ending stream of traders, beggars, singers, vendors and transvestites wandered past looking for our rupees. Making a living, one way or another, never stops and will adapt to any situation in India it seems.
We ordered some lunch from one of the red-shirted official vendors. Veg. Biriyani and roti. The same meal we’d had for the previous 6. At 30r it was the best value substantial meal we’d eaten in India; three foil trays: one rice, one dahl and one sauce. There was also a plastic bag of milk (we think it was milk) and a water sachet to wash your hands with. Among the more interesting snacks also on offer were a cucumber/corgette looking vegetable which was peeled, cut into four length wise and filled with something looking like burger sauce in the middle. I wasn’t adventurous enough to try it. The heat is building so I’m off to sleep…
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Mehta's Maximum City
21 March 2006 – Day 2
Today we set off early to catch the train from Santa Cruz to Churchgate, before the crowds built up. Churchgate is a station smack in the middle of the downtown area. I had an idea of what to expect from an Indian train and soon the platform was packed after we’d bought our 7 rupee ticket. A mad pushing and shoving ensued, as passengers got off the train before it stopped and people crushed together to take their places. The trains themselves were old, but in a reasonable enough state of repair. James and I fought our way on, but there was precious little room to move with other passengers hanging out of the open train doors. The suburban stopper train we were on took thirty minutes to get to Churgate as we absorbed and deposited other passengers. The commuters weren’t interested in us; it was here that I first noticed what I call ‘Mumbai Indifference’. We travelled past slum housing, the cricket ground (where at that moment England were playing a test series against India), new corporate headquarters and flats.
Eventually we arrived in the centre. It didn’t take long for me to lose my sense of direction and cool, but again the locals picked up on the bad vibes and helped us make sense of the municipal gardens, choc-a-bloc roads and chowks (circles). By the same token we were easy prey for the tour guides with out white flesh glinting in the sun. One chap picked up on us as we walked to the Gateway of India and was insistent that we follow him to go on a city tour for 450 rupees each. Not impressed by his pushy manner, we let him lead us to a place for cheap breakfast and then gave him the slip.
When we reached the Gateway of India, beggars, touts and religious individuals crowded us. We tried to resist an elderly Hindu tying bands around our wrists and giving us sweets, but he caught us unawares and ignored our complaints. At this point we met Ramesh. Ramesh was much like the other people we’d met in this section of town, Colaba: slight, polite and clean shaven other than for a proudly sported moustache. Ramesh was another guide, but he was far less pushy and was willing to give us time to consider his proposal: an extensive car tour costing 850 rupees each: expensive but he would stop anywhere and pay for entrance fees to museums. After a few snaps of the Gateway of India, we decided it was time to let Ramesh take over. We jumped into a clapped out white Truimph, a similar looking vehicle to yellow and black Fait taxi cabs ubiquitous in Mumbai. Ramesh said he was at our service, so we decided to stop at: Nariman Point, Chowpatty Beach, Malabar Hill, the Jain Temple, the Hanging Gardens, the Towers of Silence, the MG museum, Crawford Market, an Art Gallery and the Fisherman’s village.
The most interesting section was of Malabar Hill, full of exclusive film stars and wealthy bankers. Incongruously, the Jain temple nestles amongst the other buildings. It was a holy day for the Jain's and we were brought in at Ramesh’s own risk. This branch of Hinduism was formed about 1000 years ago, banning marriage (originally, Ramesh explained, when a Hindi man died, his wife was cremated along side him) and insisting on pure vegetarianism. We were careful to bow and pray to the exquisite silver and marble idols. We then picked up some rich and inedible dairy curd sweets which tasted too farm-yard like for comfort. Ramesh wisely opted for a chapatti breakfast.
We then wandered into the hanging gardens, which are built over a massive water reservoir and saw the mango and jack-fruit trees in the adjacent public park. We discovered Ramesh has three children and he said that he only works for them. He has been a tour guide for 10 years and was born and brought up in Colaba.
On Ramesh’s request we did not take pictures of the Towers of Silence, the place where the Zooastrians leave their dead for the Wildlife to pick clean. We were also privileged to visit Mahatma Gandhi’s house.
Before leaving Churchgate/Fort/Colaba, we went along the increasingly fraught and bustling streets behind the Gateway of India. Here we met a 15-year-old girl beggar, who walked with us and told us about her young brother and sister. It was impossible to refuse her money after establishing an emotional connection and she took us to a grocers so that we could see she was genuinely going to buy food with the 500 rupees each that James and I gave her. Whilst this sum might have been generous from a beggar’s point of view, it was a drop in the ocean to us. I walked away feeling rotten and privileged. The crazy driving, incessant horn-blowing and heat had got to us, so we left town at 5pm for a dusty, slow ride back to Santa Cruz.
Today we set off early to catch the train from Santa Cruz to Churchgate, before the crowds built up. Churchgate is a station smack in the middle of the downtown area. I had an idea of what to expect from an Indian train and soon the platform was packed after we’d bought our 7 rupee ticket. A mad pushing and shoving ensued, as passengers got off the train before it stopped and people crushed together to take their places. The trains themselves were old, but in a reasonable enough state of repair. James and I fought our way on, but there was precious little room to move with other passengers hanging out of the open train doors. The suburban stopper train we were on took thirty minutes to get to Churgate as we absorbed and deposited other passengers. The commuters weren’t interested in us; it was here that I first noticed what I call ‘Mumbai Indifference’. We travelled past slum housing, the cricket ground (where at that moment England were playing a test series against India), new corporate headquarters and flats.
Eventually we arrived in the centre. It didn’t take long for me to lose my sense of direction and cool, but again the locals picked up on the bad vibes and helped us make sense of the municipal gardens, choc-a-bloc roads and chowks (circles). By the same token we were easy prey for the tour guides with out white flesh glinting in the sun. One chap picked up on us as we walked to the Gateway of India and was insistent that we follow him to go on a city tour for 450 rupees each. Not impressed by his pushy manner, we let him lead us to a place for cheap breakfast and then gave him the slip.
When we reached the Gateway of India, beggars, touts and religious individuals crowded us. We tried to resist an elderly Hindu tying bands around our wrists and giving us sweets, but he caught us unawares and ignored our complaints. At this point we met Ramesh. Ramesh was much like the other people we’d met in this section of town, Colaba: slight, polite and clean shaven other than for a proudly sported moustache. Ramesh was another guide, but he was far less pushy and was willing to give us time to consider his proposal: an extensive car tour costing 850 rupees each: expensive but he would stop anywhere and pay for entrance fees to museums. After a few snaps of the Gateway of India, we decided it was time to let Ramesh take over. We jumped into a clapped out white Truimph, a similar looking vehicle to yellow and black Fait taxi cabs ubiquitous in Mumbai. Ramesh said he was at our service, so we decided to stop at: Nariman Point, Chowpatty Beach, Malabar Hill, the Jain Temple, the Hanging Gardens, the Towers of Silence, the MG museum, Crawford Market, an Art Gallery and the Fisherman’s village.
The most interesting section was of Malabar Hill, full of exclusive film stars and wealthy bankers. Incongruously, the Jain temple nestles amongst the other buildings. It was a holy day for the Jain's and we were brought in at Ramesh’s own risk. This branch of Hinduism was formed about 1000 years ago, banning marriage (originally, Ramesh explained, when a Hindi man died, his wife was cremated along side him) and insisting on pure vegetarianism. We were careful to bow and pray to the exquisite silver and marble idols. We then picked up some rich and inedible dairy curd sweets which tasted too farm-yard like for comfort. Ramesh wisely opted for a chapatti breakfast.
We then wandered into the hanging gardens, which are built over a massive water reservoir and saw the mango and jack-fruit trees in the adjacent public park. We discovered Ramesh has three children and he said that he only works for them. He has been a tour guide for 10 years and was born and brought up in Colaba.
On Ramesh’s request we did not take pictures of the Towers of Silence, the place where the Zooastrians leave their dead for the Wildlife to pick clean. We were also privileged to visit Mahatma Gandhi’s house.
Before leaving Churchgate/Fort/Colaba, we went along the increasingly fraught and bustling streets behind the Gateway of India. Here we met a 15-year-old girl beggar, who walked with us and told us about her young brother and sister. It was impossible to refuse her money after establishing an emotional connection and she took us to a grocers so that we could see she was genuinely going to buy food with the 500 rupees each that James and I gave her. Whilst this sum might have been generous from a beggar’s point of view, it was a drop in the ocean to us. I walked away feeling rotten and privileged. The crazy driving, incessant horn-blowing and heat had got to us, so we left town at 5pm for a dusty, slow ride back to Santa Cruz.
Deet Petite
20 March 2006 – Day 1
It’s evening now, I’m in a western hotel room, and everything is calm. The peace is only disturbed by a dim hub-bub of the street outside and planes coming into land at the nearby airport. I have a full belly and a soft bed. I could be at home. I’m actually in India.
We made it. I’m pleased that one miserable night out in Islington 18 months ago has ultimately lead us here. My vital senses are still in England so it’s a dreamy, sedated mood in which I write this. We left, checked in, took off, landed, taxied and arrived in less than 12 hours.
Yesterday’s series of farewells and subsequent journey were far more smooth and slick than we would of imagined. Craig, thank you for getting us into the Terraces Lounge and World Travel Plus on the plane, it made everything very comfortable indeed. James and I were prepared for ambush when we landed, however. We didn’t even step off the plane without covering ourselves in Deet, Sun Block., long trousers, long sleeve shirts, mosquito wristbands and sunglasses. In my chinos, khaki shirt and smart shoes (donned to get into the posh lounge in Heathrow) I felt like an ex-colonial naïve cracker. Fortunately I wasn’t treated like one.
Although the airport was dilapidated and undergoing refurbishment everything was efficient; baggage collection, security checks were quick and the hotel courtesy driver was waiting to collect us as planned. The heat was tolerable even though we were wearing silly clothes. It didn’t take long for our first authentic Indian experience. I asked the courtesy driver to help me buy a ticket for Thursday down to Cochin. We struggled with language between us for a while, but immediately the other taxi-wallahs stepped in to help translate and the keenness of the locals to help out revealed itself. As we made our way towards the kiosk, child beggars approached us. I was thrown off balance as I tried to negotiate a train ticket, mind my bag, hand out money and decide what was a reasonably generous sum. I’ve not been in the situation where a hierarchy was assembled beneath me before, and it was quite a shock. I kept walking to the back of the queue for a ticket, everytime I did so the courtesy driver would grab my arm and pull me back to front of a pushing queue, first for a paper ticket application and then to pay. I looked to see the effect it had, but the locals seemed happy, or at least resigned to letting me through. Flustered and losing my cool, I let myself be cajoled into pushing in, whilst I was chided for giving to the child beggars. I don’t know whether this was to do with colonial aftermath, caste systems, kindness or different measure of each. At 882 rupees for two tickets, our total travel to Cochin will cost James and I little over 5 pound each. I can’t get to Reading from Slough for that amount.
Sweating and stinking of deet, I felt something of a novelty as James and I sat in the back of the courtesy SUV, despite coming from an international airport. With wide eyes we drove through school children, traders, beggars in the slums surrounding the airport. Crude observations filled my head, mainly the scale of the poverty and the diminutive build of the residents. There are few or no lanes at all on Indian roads, even on major routes. Auto-rickshaws and pick-ups swerve around each other with alarming indifference and danger. Though the general speed of travel is slow I think the mortality rate on Mumbai’s roads must be huge. Once we pulled off a major road and into Prabhat Colony, we were moving into another working class but far less poverty-stricken area. On arriving at our hotel, we dithered over tips, politely made our way to our rooms and crashed out.
A few hours later we were revived and refreshed enough to check out the local vicinity. The hotel clerk seemed to be neither pleased nor bothered to answer my questions on Prabhat and Santa Cruz station.
It seems a couple of white boys make a novel sight, at least to some. Mainly wise-cracking local kids. Auto-rickshaws whiz around the narrow streets of Prabhat colony as fast as anywhere else, and James and I had some close shaves! After making it to the train station we crossed into the market area and India arrived. Streets thronged with traders and merchants variously selling fruit, veg, Indian tea, electronic repair services and clothes. My nostrils were filled with redolent smells and the variety of local people surpassed all expectations I had. We wandered past the Female Indian Railway Worker’s crèche and the municipal co-op and onto more streets full of deals and energy. Jim stood staring at something, so I turned and saw a guy on an elephant walking down the main thoroughfare with bikes, tuk-tuks and cars buzzing around it; the elephant seemed unfazed. We scarpered back to the hotel for some dinner. The number of beggars here were relatively few, but there are many stray dogs that lie prostrate on the road unperturbed by the tuk tuks, not even flinching when they drive straight past their heads. We ordered food, a very pleasant Veg. Biriyani and roti from room service for about 1 pound. After tipping the porter another bloke came in and mopped the floor on his hands and knees with a wet rag. This hugely embarrassed me, but it is impossible to stop employees doing their job. After we gave this chap a tip, he eagerly shook both our hands. Strangely, all the security guards salute us as we enter and leave the hotel. Tomorrow we see down-town Mumbai and no doubt get scammed whilst learning to haggle.
It’s evening now, I’m in a western hotel room, and everything is calm. The peace is only disturbed by a dim hub-bub of the street outside and planes coming into land at the nearby airport. I have a full belly and a soft bed. I could be at home. I’m actually in India.
We made it. I’m pleased that one miserable night out in Islington 18 months ago has ultimately lead us here. My vital senses are still in England so it’s a dreamy, sedated mood in which I write this. We left, checked in, took off, landed, taxied and arrived in less than 12 hours.
Yesterday’s series of farewells and subsequent journey were far more smooth and slick than we would of imagined. Craig, thank you for getting us into the Terraces Lounge and World Travel Plus on the plane, it made everything very comfortable indeed. James and I were prepared for ambush when we landed, however. We didn’t even step off the plane without covering ourselves in Deet, Sun Block., long trousers, long sleeve shirts, mosquito wristbands and sunglasses. In my chinos, khaki shirt and smart shoes (donned to get into the posh lounge in Heathrow) I felt like an ex-colonial naïve cracker. Fortunately I wasn’t treated like one.
Although the airport was dilapidated and undergoing refurbishment everything was efficient; baggage collection, security checks were quick and the hotel courtesy driver was waiting to collect us as planned. The heat was tolerable even though we were wearing silly clothes. It didn’t take long for our first authentic Indian experience. I asked the courtesy driver to help me buy a ticket for Thursday down to Cochin. We struggled with language between us for a while, but immediately the other taxi-wallahs stepped in to help translate and the keenness of the locals to help out revealed itself. As we made our way towards the kiosk, child beggars approached us. I was thrown off balance as I tried to negotiate a train ticket, mind my bag, hand out money and decide what was a reasonably generous sum. I’ve not been in the situation where a hierarchy was assembled beneath me before, and it was quite a shock. I kept walking to the back of the queue for a ticket, everytime I did so the courtesy driver would grab my arm and pull me back to front of a pushing queue, first for a paper ticket application and then to pay. I looked to see the effect it had, but the locals seemed happy, or at least resigned to letting me through. Flustered and losing my cool, I let myself be cajoled into pushing in, whilst I was chided for giving to the child beggars. I don’t know whether this was to do with colonial aftermath, caste systems, kindness or different measure of each. At 882 rupees for two tickets, our total travel to Cochin will cost James and I little over 5 pound each. I can’t get to Reading from Slough for that amount.
Sweating and stinking of deet, I felt something of a novelty as James and I sat in the back of the courtesy SUV, despite coming from an international airport. With wide eyes we drove through school children, traders, beggars in the slums surrounding the airport. Crude observations filled my head, mainly the scale of the poverty and the diminutive build of the residents. There are few or no lanes at all on Indian roads, even on major routes. Auto-rickshaws and pick-ups swerve around each other with alarming indifference and danger. Though the general speed of travel is slow I think the mortality rate on Mumbai’s roads must be huge. Once we pulled off a major road and into Prabhat Colony, we were moving into another working class but far less poverty-stricken area. On arriving at our hotel, we dithered over tips, politely made our way to our rooms and crashed out.
A few hours later we were revived and refreshed enough to check out the local vicinity. The hotel clerk seemed to be neither pleased nor bothered to answer my questions on Prabhat and Santa Cruz station.
It seems a couple of white boys make a novel sight, at least to some. Mainly wise-cracking local kids. Auto-rickshaws whiz around the narrow streets of Prabhat colony as fast as anywhere else, and James and I had some close shaves! After making it to the train station we crossed into the market area and India arrived. Streets thronged with traders and merchants variously selling fruit, veg, Indian tea, electronic repair services and clothes. My nostrils were filled with redolent smells and the variety of local people surpassed all expectations I had. We wandered past the Female Indian Railway Worker’s crèche and the municipal co-op and onto more streets full of deals and energy. Jim stood staring at something, so I turned and saw a guy on an elephant walking down the main thoroughfare with bikes, tuk-tuks and cars buzzing around it; the elephant seemed unfazed. We scarpered back to the hotel for some dinner. The number of beggars here were relatively few, but there are many stray dogs that lie prostrate on the road unperturbed by the tuk tuks, not even flinching when they drive straight past their heads. We ordered food, a very pleasant Veg. Biriyani and roti from room service for about 1 pound. After tipping the porter another bloke came in and mopped the floor on his hands and knees with a wet rag. This hugely embarrassed me, but it is impossible to stop employees doing their job. After we gave this chap a tip, he eagerly shook both our hands. Strangely, all the security guards salute us as we enter and leave the hotel. Tomorrow we see down-town Mumbai and no doubt get scammed whilst learning to haggle.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
The sign on the door of opportunity reads PUSH
Or so it said in my fortune cookie at the restaurant last night, after I'd stuffed down my favoured syrupy Catonese cuisine.
Well, it's finally here. I'm on my way today; at 9.30pm our plane departs from Heathrow to Mumbai. I suppose an emotional farewell beckons.
It's a beautiful sunny day in Windsor, not a gloomy one full of trepidation, which helps. The English cricket team are playing a test series against India in Mumbai and it lasts for another few day after we land, and I know from match reports that it's hot and sticky out there. Mosquito repellant is at the ready for when we land at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport at 11.40 tomorrow morning (20th March).
Enough prevaricating, time to go.
PUSH
Well, it's finally here. I'm on my way today; at 9.30pm our plane departs from Heathrow to Mumbai. I suppose an emotional farewell beckons.
It's a beautiful sunny day in Windsor, not a gloomy one full of trepidation, which helps. The English cricket team are playing a test series against India in Mumbai and it lasts for another few day after we land, and I know from match reports that it's hot and sticky out there. Mosquito repellant is at the ready for when we land at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport at 11.40 tomorrow morning (20th March).
Enough prevaricating, time to go.
PUSH
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Come on, lets go...
15th March 2006
This is the Wednesday morning before the Sunday evening. That’s when I leave the secure, cool and safe English home counties (well, if you ignore AWE Aldermaston and Burghfield) for the semi-tropical heat, unpredictability and multiplicity of Mumbai. From the Gateway of India, we embark in our white colonial suits and hats onto the ‘wide-world’. *Gulp*
Today, I am calm not clammy. I certainly wasn’t feeling like this a week ago. Deep unease and anxiety had set in. Like a million before me, moving house, packing in a steady job, selling my car and leaving myself with not a lot to do frankly, made me think ‘oh no!' One of the guide books I have provides a culture shock rating for different locations from one (minor disorientation and unease) up to three (total readjustment and personal reappraisal required). India’s a three. Concentrating on any of the research I’d set myself was tough and everything I attempted lacked structure. It felt a like gingerly picking up a broken plate one shard at a time. As usual I was taking myself too seriously and concentrating too hard. Kicking around the house was doing my head in – thank goodness I’ve chilled out now.
Towards the end of last week I spent plenty of time with my mates, including a final recording session with the Gresham Flyers on Thursday in Whitechapel. This went swimmingly despite the fact we missed an hour and a half of studio time stuck in traffic on the A10. We managed to get one of John’s songs ‘Blackpool’ down and one of mine, ‘Plastic Bag’. I’ll try and link to these at some point in the future. I’ve spent a year with the Flyers now and it’s a real shame to move on - of all the bands I’ve been in this one was the most fun. My best wishes to Kerry, my replacement, and the rest of the band in future.
James & I had our major leaving party on Saturday and I’m pleased to say it was neither a poorly-recollected booze-up, nor a sentimental tear fest. I managed to speak to everyone properly as I’d hoped and I still remember all of it! Thank you to those of you whom came, it was pretty special. The venue was, and could only be, the Windsor Arts Centre. The WAC was home of much juvenile aspiration and hi-jinx for me and many of my close friends, as well as the place I first got into live music and bands. Indeed I played my first ever gig there. After being unceremoniously kicked out at closing time, we ended up under the railway arches at Charley’s Horse a Mexican bar and restaurant that has a crappy disco on Weekend evenings. Charley’s Horse is not in the least a favourite place of mine, but Windsor isn’t big on diverse nightspots and it’s probably the only place that would have had us. We got a bit of Beatles and Stones played so we could dance which tailed off into the soppiness you’d expect, bit it was genuine and didn’t get too yucky!
This week I’ve regained my focus and I’m cracking on with the research. I am exited again, extremely excited. In between buying one item of every product in Millets, stuffing my back pack and wandering around the Great Park with all the stuff on my back, I’ve researched India. Aside from finishing Maximum City and reading general guide books, I watched Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi last night with James. This was a useful insight for two people who know almost nowt about Indian history. I thought some of the complexity of partition and the make up of the Indian Congress was left out, but at three hours the film would have needed two intermissions to make it longer! Anyway,
I’m up for this trip. Let’s get on with it.
Soundtrack: The Gresham Flyers - ‘Plastic Bag’.
This is the Wednesday morning before the Sunday evening. That’s when I leave the secure, cool and safe English home counties (well, if you ignore AWE Aldermaston and Burghfield) for the semi-tropical heat, unpredictability and multiplicity of Mumbai. From the Gateway of India, we embark in our white colonial suits and hats onto the ‘wide-world’. *Gulp*
Today, I am calm not clammy. I certainly wasn’t feeling like this a week ago. Deep unease and anxiety had set in. Like a million before me, moving house, packing in a steady job, selling my car and leaving myself with not a lot to do frankly, made me think ‘oh no!' One of the guide books I have provides a culture shock rating for different locations from one (minor disorientation and unease) up to three (total readjustment and personal reappraisal required). India’s a three. Concentrating on any of the research I’d set myself was tough and everything I attempted lacked structure. It felt a like gingerly picking up a broken plate one shard at a time. As usual I was taking myself too seriously and concentrating too hard. Kicking around the house was doing my head in – thank goodness I’ve chilled out now.
Towards the end of last week I spent plenty of time with my mates, including a final recording session with the Gresham Flyers on Thursday in Whitechapel. This went swimmingly despite the fact we missed an hour and a half of studio time stuck in traffic on the A10. We managed to get one of John’s songs ‘Blackpool’ down and one of mine, ‘Plastic Bag’. I’ll try and link to these at some point in the future. I’ve spent a year with the Flyers now and it’s a real shame to move on - of all the bands I’ve been in this one was the most fun. My best wishes to Kerry, my replacement, and the rest of the band in future.
James & I had our major leaving party on Saturday and I’m pleased to say it was neither a poorly-recollected booze-up, nor a sentimental tear fest. I managed to speak to everyone properly as I’d hoped and I still remember all of it! Thank you to those of you whom came, it was pretty special. The venue was, and could only be, the Windsor Arts Centre. The WAC was home of much juvenile aspiration and hi-jinx for me and many of my close friends, as well as the place I first got into live music and bands. Indeed I played my first ever gig there. After being unceremoniously kicked out at closing time, we ended up under the railway arches at Charley’s Horse a Mexican bar and restaurant that has a crappy disco on Weekend evenings. Charley’s Horse is not in the least a favourite place of mine, but Windsor isn’t big on diverse nightspots and it’s probably the only place that would have had us. We got a bit of Beatles and Stones played so we could dance which tailed off into the soppiness you’d expect, bit it was genuine and didn’t get too yucky!
This week I’ve regained my focus and I’m cracking on with the research. I am exited again, extremely excited. In between buying one item of every product in Millets, stuffing my back pack and wandering around the Great Park with all the stuff on my back, I’ve researched India. Aside from finishing Maximum City and reading general guide books, I watched Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi last night with James. This was a useful insight for two people who know almost nowt about Indian history. I thought some of the complexity of partition and the make up of the Indian Congress was left out, but at three hours the film would have needed two intermissions to make it longer! Anyway,
I’m up for this trip. Let’s get on with it.
Soundtrack: The Gresham Flyers - ‘Plastic Bag’.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Itinerary
A very useful piece of information if you want to follow my movements...
TRAVEL 06-07
Bombay & Kerala (March, April 06)
Hong Kong (April 06)
Tokyo & Kyoto (April, May 06)
Bangkok, Ho Chi Mihn & Singapore (May, June, July 06)
Sydney (July, August, September & October 06)
Auckland (October 06)
Santiago (October 06)
Lima & Cuzco (November 06)
Santiago (November, December 06)
Rio de Janeiro, Sau Paulo (January, February 07)
Buenos Aires (February, March 07)
TRAVEL 06-07
Bombay & Kerala (March, April 06)
Hong Kong (April 06)
Tokyo & Kyoto (April, May 06)
Bangkok, Ho Chi Mihn & Singapore (May, June, July 06)
Sydney (July, August, September & October 06)
Auckland (October 06)
Santiago (October 06)
Lima & Cuzco (November 06)
Santiago (November, December 06)
Rio de Janeiro, Sau Paulo (January, February 07)
Buenos Aires (February, March 07)
Monday, March 06, 2006
Let there be more light
*Cough, Cough*
Well, please bear with me because this is the first post you’ll read, but it’s also the first one I’ve written to you. I’ll make a point of remembering this for the whole of this section, so I don’t branch off into personal musings.
To the collective Uncles, acquaintances, close friends, colleagues I chat to by the coffee machine (‘I see that one’s broken as usual… tsk, tsk!) and mothers, both real and surrogate, the first thing that you need to know is that there are two diaries. This one, which contains pen pictures of places we go, people we meet and my general state of mind and another which will have my closer observations and political opinion. The latter (http://waywardpilgrimage.blogspot.com/) will be more intimate and detailed less interesting to those who don’t know me well (and which might bore those that do), but if there’s anything juicy to be passed on, it’ll be mentioned here. I hope it will be a smellier, fluffier, tastier and brighter version of what I’m doing. If that sounds a bit suspect and you’d rather not know about that stuff, don’t visit the page! I don’t want either to be a bucket and spade recollection of a pleasant holiday, but this page is closer to that type of thing.
Anyway, I left work two days ago, and I’m waiting for the weight of what I’ve chosen to do to hit me. How many thousands of people go travelling around the world every year now? The global tourism trade is a multi-billion dollar industry. What percentage, however, of the world’s population ever get to take a holiday abroad? Not a large slice. Being a very privileged little oik, I’d better have some damn good reasons for travelling, hadn’t I?
- To get an idea of how the world around me will change over the remainder of my working life.
It’s not accepted by the vast majority of climate scientists that carbon related climate change is in full swing. Most believe that it is highly unlikely that our current capitalist society can bring fundamental changes needed to industry and lifestyle quickly enough to prevent grave changes across the globe. I want to see at first hand what attitude people have to what is staring them in the face and what impact it is likely to have on communities, individuals and the environments I visit. I should mention that I have no formal qualifications in sociology, anthropology, economics or the environment beyond Geography ‘A-level’!
- To formulate a plan about what I plan to do with the rest of my life because of what I observe and think.
- Personal experience and development like everyone else.
If I’m going to stand a chance of sticking to any of those reasons, I’m going to need some guiding intentions/milestones. What I have in mind is:
- Spending time working within communities in
- Seeing what impact government policy has on these communities
- Looking at privatisation of public amenities
- Trying to understand how countries with substantial social divides, such as caste systems, confrontational religious groupings, and racial tension operate and cope/don’t cope.
- I want to work in very different environments to the standard office base I am used to.
- Work on my writing, perhaps producing essays
- Decide on a format and style to present what I gather back
Looking back over that, it all sounds a bit corporate, doesn’t it? I’ve spent too long in the Cabinet Office.
I’ll stick to a couple of principles to guide me while I’m away and remind myself of a few home truths before I leave. Firstly, I represent the country of former colonial rulers in many of the places I’m going to and I have enjoyed a wildly privileged life compared to that of most of the people I’ll meet. Secondly, I need to avoid acting like a drunken tourist and attempt not to rush to the bars/beach as a default position when I run out of inspiration.
You may know that I am not travelling alone. James, my good friend of 11 years is my travelling partner. If you continue to read this you’ll get to know James. I’ll need his humour, humanity and his ability to tolerate me talking nonsense in order to survive, I expect.
That’s sums it up neatly for now. Speak to you all in a while…
p.s. I need to watch this affinity for bullet point lists I’m developing, don’t I?
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