Dear readers,
It has been some months now since I returned from travelling and almost exactly a year since I departed. I find myself living in London with a new job and things are starting to feel settled. At almost exactly the same time I began to feel settled, my feet started to itch.
In order to combat this - I've found myself going through photos and writings from my travels which I have barely looked at since their creation.
It now seems as good a time as any to actually start going through all this stuff and publishing it.
As a result what you find below is the first entry I've published since my return.
All these pieces were written on location and the tense matches accordingly.
So without futher ado - I take you back to Amritsar, where I'm on the roof sat on an old toilet...
_________________________
I'm sat on the roof of a hotel on an old toilet drinking beer.
Beer’s not supposed to be sold in the old city near the Golden Temple, but the hostel staff did a beer run for us. When I say us - I met a guy yesterday called Brock - who is an Australian [23]. Brock is a mechanic by trade and by the sound of an engine can tell you not only what model of motorbike it is, but if it’s an Enfield he can tell you which year and where the engine was made. We were also joined by a couple Brock had met. They were an English couple who are motor biking round the world on an old BMW. Presumably Brock heard them coming. They have already ‘done India’ on an Enfield bullet [a very popular bike here] and now are doing the whole world over land and sea with their bike. The first leg is a short nip from London to Perth...
[see a link to their excellent blog at the end of this].
We all got talking and, as it often does between Australians and Brits, talked turned to beer. There was initially some confusion about the time of day that it was as we all had different time zones on our phones. After some deliberation it was agreed that it was some time after 4pm and most certainly beer o'clock. Our parched palates needed quenching and the hotel informed us a lengthy walk of over an hour in the punishing heat was the only way to get beer. We were too thirsty to try and prove them wrong, so for a reasonable fee, the hotel did a run for us [on and Enfield Bullet, of course].
We all agreed to meet on top of the hotel and drink together in about half an hours time, where the hotel had agreed to deliver it. For various reasons I'm early [it's a new habit I'm forming] so I find myself sat alone in the sun on an old toilet on top of a hotel with a fresh delivery of some ice cold beers - watching a man fly a kite from another rooftop in front of the Golden Temple. I write this, sweating quite profusely as I'm about 5 ft away from a rooftop diesel generator. The heat from the exhaust and sun has made my body try to force as much water as possible out of my pores. The nearest thing to hand is a ‘Kingfisher Strong’ [Strong – as opposed to light - means 'much more glycerine syrup than light'].
The generator is a common sight in India. I'm near the Pakistan border and in both Lahore and Amritsa electricity seems to be rationed out by the Government. I pay a 'luxury tax' of an extra 10% everywhere I go and stay [e.g. somewhere with Air Conditioning]. In the place I am the power cuts out about every 40 min for about 30 min. I wake up in the night, puzzled to be awoken by my body at such strange hours – only to discover that it's because my mouth's drier than a sheet of sandpaper sanding down the sphynx's arse. Then I realise the power has been stopped for our region and my room has gradually reached the temperature and humidity [and often scent] of a builder's arse crack in a portaloo on a hot roof. Sometimes though, the lights kick back in before the AC, and this was a mystery. Brock, my seasoned traveller of an Australian friend - informs me there are two power systems in most places. The normal electricity feeds TV, lights and fans etc but ACs must be plugged into the Government grid as they are so power hungry. I imagine a fat man in an unbuttoned shirt sitting at a computer in a fridge temperature room pointing at random to areas of a map and plunging them into darkness/semi-infernos. This is how it feels anyway. So most places have their own generators to power fans which idly push hot air around a room, teasing you with a breeze every ten seconds or so before plunging you back into a dark and chocking heat. Let's hope this 'luxury tax' goes towards some nice shiny new nuclear power stations for India, with big gates to keep out those pesky terrorists...
Anyway, all this merely explains why I'm sweating while writing this. I barely seem to have begun to actually write. Ok. I'll start.
The best way to start to write about India is not to. Well, not to start somewhere.
When I first arrived here I kind of freaked out a bit. The place was huge, everywhere seemed fascinating and the options and possible directions from each place were overwhelming. Usually when I travel I'll have a rough idea of my route before I get there and an idea of how long I'll stay [with a couple of days here or there thrown in for flexibility]. When I arrive somewhere I usually find people who can give me good advice. Ten minutes talking to the right person can equal ten hours of searching on the Internet.
Well India is a bit different.
It is almost impossible to get ten minutes talking to the right person here. Even tourist information centres are full of sponsored scammers.
The advice I got from friends who have travelled in India is 'Don't plan - be flexible'.
It took a while for this to sink in - but after nearly getting scammed into a package tour in Delhi I took it easy. I later met some people who'd done a package tour north to Srinigar and worked down - they felt scammed. I was also slightly freaking out as I'd been offered a volunteer position in a school in the Himalayas and didn't know whether to take it or not.
After a few frantic days in Delhi I concluded that I needed to get out of Delhi – so I thought I’d start with something easy like the Taj Mahal.
So that was that.
I'd met some girls at the Red Fort who were doing just that at the same time I was, so we marched off to the railway station to get some tickets. The price of a ticket from Delhi to Agra [125 miles] is about equal to half the price that a rickshaw driver will quote you to go around Delhi for the day. Trains in India are cheap. And great. Every scammer and dickhead tourist-predator will say 'why you go by train? - bus better! come into my shop I give you good deal!'. Well fuck busses, fuck them with bells on. I only travel on busses if I have to when I travel, where as I actively seek out trains. Busses are lurchy, bumpy and impossible to sleep on. India was no exception and I travelled by train whenever possible.
Everyone knows a little about Indian trains, even if they don't think they do. We all summon up images of people sat on them [I have seen this a bit, but only a bit – it’s more common in the south I'm told]. Most people know it was the British Empire which aided the construction of the major routes which still run today, thereby creating arteries through the country which still support the postal system, amongst everything else you can imagine, from milk to Nuclear waste.
Despite it's delays and chaos, the railways really are a backbone of India in a way not many the other countries can claim [the generator has just turned itself off - the hostel is back on the grid and I can hear the lovely live sitar music coming from the Golden Temple]
India has the largest railway network in the world. Let that sink in for a minute. We're not talking longest [I.e. Trans-Siberian or Australia's incredibly recent north south railway of this decade]. It's the biggest and most complex in the world. And it works. Not only that but it caters, quite effectively, for some of the poorest people in the world. So once I'd taken that into account I found myself beginning to marvel at it more than slag it off. [this toilet seat is really quite comfortable - the sun is lower now, the generator has stopped - my beer is at an acceptable temperature and the batteries in my fold-out Bluetooth keyboard seem to be lasting].
So, having travelled quite a bit by train, I think that in India, more than anywhere else on earth, the trains are a real way of life. In North America, you fly or get a Greyhound bus if you don't drive - the few train routes that do run are prohibitively expensive and very slow. In South America, I'm told you mostly get the bus. In Europe, trains are there, but only as a hangover from the industrial era really. If we started building Europe all over again today, it’s unlikely a train network of as large a scale would be constructed.. In Japan the trains are amazing, but can't be said to be a way of life - like I said in another blog - even the Japanese can't afford the Bullet trains, and the 'local' trains are nothing special. I can't speak for anywhere else - I guess in China, when travelling between the big Chinese cities the trains must play a similar role in life- but there just isn’t the capacity in China for them to be described as a way of life for everyone.
I felt very at home on the Indian railways. Despite the dust and clunks - everything is well rehearsed with a real human touch. I had one of the best omelettes of my life at 6:30am on a train from Jaipur to Amritsar sold by a man with 300 omelettes in foil tins carried on a tray on his head. It was about 15p. In Japan, the food servers might bow when they enter and leave the carriage but you could live in India for three days for the price of a beer on one of those trains - and I prefer India in that sense.
People live off the railways too, wondering into carriages selling chai and leaping on and off trains as they begin to lethargically slide out of the stations - and those who live off the railway cater for real people [i.e. not tourists] - so it's not ripping you off [I'm thinking British rail sandwich levels of inhuman rip offs] and on the trains it's all good stuff, it's got the human touch [unfortunately quite literally in most cases].
So I think I like India's railways, more than anywhere else, you feel so much a part of the culture just being a passive passenger on it - which can't really be said anywhere else I've been.
I met a family who’s mother was rather ‘new age’. I told friends about her and took the piss out of her as she’d said it was a 'special experience’ to be in a crowded carriage on a full capacity train with her two small children - but in a way I guess it kind of is. The staff-supervised rugby scrum when getting onto the Delhi metro was quite bad. I saw disabled people pushed out the way and all sorts - even the Tube rarely gets that bad - but once people were on it was fine. A few elbows and armpits in places everyone could do without, but it was air-conditioned [which can't be said for London] and it was all a bit of fun really. For example, something quite interesting happened on one metro trip. The train kept stopping suddenly and throwing people around over and over again. With only each other to hold onto in most cases the whole carriage slopped around until people regained their balance – then the train sat there for 5 minutes with no obvious reason. Then it would lurch again, causing people to grab at any part of anyone near by. It really was a groper’s dream. Each time this happened a knowing laugh went around the carriage and people smiled. People who 5 minutes earlier had been sworn enemies pushing old ladies and disabled dwarves out the way to get on were now all the best of friends. It's something quite British too, I think, in the face of something pretty shit - to just make a joke of it all. But in London I think a few meaningful nasty looks would have been given and nothing else exchanged. Here there was an odd sense of comradely. But that’s the Metro…quite different from the mainliners.
On the Indian trains you're just one in a crowd rubbing along and rattling your way to your own personal destiny and you've got nothing to do but sit and stare at life going by for 15 hours and drink chai. You're not hurtling at 177mph from Tokyo to the next identical metropolis, but neither is half your train unexplainably left in a siding for two hours with your girlfriend on the other half, still in the toilet and no English speaking staff to explain [this happened to me at the Greek/Turkish border and is, perhaps, another story].
In India it's a stately pace through the lives of so many in India. You see the vast and wonderful countryside, the incomparably expansive farmland and countless villages that your brain can actually make sense of. It’s not a Japanese blur of concrete, it’s a field being ploughed by a bull, probably in a very similar manner as it would have been done maybe 8000 years ago. The whole experience is very intelligible, very humbling and, despite the general filth, quite civilised. India seems to have kept the humanity in it's transport. In doing this, as it has in so many other areas of life, I think India has kept something that more developed countries have sacrificed it in favour of profit margins and efficiency tables. I don't think I can really articulate any more why I liked the trains, but they just matched my pace of life and mind. Things slowed from a blur and hum of noise and returned to the steady lub dub heartbeat of the steam trains from my childhood. Maybe that's why I liked it.
I’ll end these ponderings with a passage I wrote on one such train journey:
“I'm on the train from Jaipur for Amritsar at the moment. It is due in at 10:30 am and it's now half eleven. The train is suspiciously empty and my two unfinished water bottles have been tidied away before they were finished. This tidying is mysterious - everything else on this train is filthy. The whole train -inside and out - is covered in a thin film of dust and diesel oil. There are windows but no one shuts them. You'd have to be Swedish and in the mood for a shite-scented sauna. As a result the whole train is very much open to the elements, which I like – but it means everything I own has a kind of brownish tint to it now.
I don't actually know if I’ve missed my stop and we've turned around back to Jaipur - it's quite possible - I have slept for most of these 14 hours [what else is there to do on a sleeper train?]
Despite the babies crying, the calls of 'Chai' entering my dreams, the wafts of shite scented stale air, the jolts, stops and starts - I have rested remarkably well. I always enjoy sleeping on trains. I think there is something maternal about it. From my most early memories of going on a steam train [I am rare in my generation- living in Loughborough, the first train I ever went on was a steam train thanks to my Dad taking me to the Great Central steam railway] my most early memories are of extreme joy and excitement at the idea of boarding such a colossal and 'gallant' machine. The rhythm and movement cast a spell which has lasted my life. I have the best dreams on trains too. Something about the movement and the rhythm gets into my brain - all the sounds and smells and voices must combine into a thrilling cocktail for my subconscious.
Ok I'm here now so I better shut up and go and see the Golden temple”
So, from rolling trains and typing on broken toilets drinking beer, I sign out for now and leave you only with a link:
http://globegallivanting.blogspot.com/
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Trip Up On The Last Leg
This is the story of how an Ashram led to me having to effectively bribe Indian Rail and how I ended my train journey signing a fraudulent police document.
__
I find myself in Delhi once again - but this time it's on the eve of my return home. So this will be my last blog from overseas - for now. There will be plenty backblog to come once I return home...
So I finished at the school last week. The last day ended with the performance of the school song I wrote followed by a giant simultaneous group hug from all the students of the school to thank me for all I'd done at the school [perhaps they were mobbing me?]. It was all quite emotional - but a great experience.
On a parallel thread, some staff [or faculty if you're a yank] from the school introduced me to a local Guru. I won't say much about him here - as I'm not sure I've digested everything yet - but suffice to say he was an extrodianary person who made quite an impression on me.
His home had become an Ashram of sorts and I'd stayed there a couple of nights. One morning I was going through my escape plan from Gangtok and trying to decide whether to fly out to Delhi or get the train. The website 'makemytrip.com' [which should be called 'ripmeoffandfuckupmytrip.com'] put flights at about 5000RP [50 GBP] and the train at about 1600 [20 GBP]. After some thought I decided I'd go for the cheap option and see a bit more of India, not wanting to be a hypocritical flash-packer.
Well, I waved goodbye to Gangtok and got a jeep to Siligury. Jeeps [or 4WDs] are the only way in and out of Gangtok unless you're the proud owner of a helicopter. It was a bumpy ride through landslide terrain but I made it to Siliguri just after sundown.
That night I felt the most unwell I have done for all of my trip. Mild fever, stomach cramps [no orangey BJ thankfully...] but mad mad dreams - all night. I woke up in a sweat in the morning and dragged myself under the shower to make my way on the next leg of my journey home.
I got to the station with an hour to spare and had a small vegetable chowmein [a great breakfast in my books] but still felt very dizzy. I had a ThumbsUp which didn't help much. I searched for an ibuprofen in my bag - didn't have one. I haven't taken an aspirin or Ibuprofen in 5 months it seems! Never mind - onward.
So I get to the platform and the train pulls in bang on time. My 'ticket' says third class AC [there was no second class sleeper on this train before you call me a gapper-slapper]. The strange system of Indian trains sees 1980s era computer print-outs [with the perforated hole-punched tear-off edges]stuck to the outside of the trains with long lists of everyone who is on that carriage. My name was nowhere. In desperation I took my ticket to various uniformed [or uninformed...] people who looked like they might give a shit [always a gamble in India] and after much rustling of paper it was generally agreed that the piece of paper I held in my hand was not a ticket, but a twenty pound waiting list voucher. I'd been had by the most official looking website.
"Sorry sir, you can't get on this train" the mustached grumpy railway inspector said.
"Can't I buy a ticket?" I asked optimistically. I knew this was a stupid question - trains sell out days before - esp AC ones.
"Go to the station master - he will help you" said the man.
Well I knew this was a lie. After queuing for 20 mins I'd have been told exactly what I knew already, and missed the train. My carefully planned journey home was stumbling at an early stage [- I am hoping to get back for my Dad's 60th]. So, I did what any sane person would do.
I ran down the platform, out of his field of vision, got on the train and hid in the toilet until it pulled away.
Now this might seem bonkers - and slightly sadomasochistic [anytime in an Indian train toilet is time you'd rather spend in a festival toilet] - but I was on a mission - and I was a stowaway - like James Bond, but a bit sweatier and with a backpack - and not in the MI6...
I knew that this was the only train out of here for days and I also knew the guy who told me that had one motivation for telling me that which seems to be shared by so many officials in India - genuine apathy. He simply couldn't be bothered to help me. So - it seemed I was to become his problem and make him help me - in a kind of karmic way.
So once we were rolling I needed to construct a plan. 20 hours in a toilet didn't seem realistic - yet I hadn't moved far beyond that in my planning. I thought to myself - "if I'm going to stowaway I should do it in the last place they'd expect".
Within 5 min I'd found a berth in first class and had settled down on my bed, listening to Ravi Shankar [remember at this point I'm highly fevered and had been dreaming of just lying down all the way to Delhi...]
Suddenly there's a tap on my leg. 'Excuse me'. 'oh well - here comes the hassle' I thought...
'What would you like for dinner? Veg or non-Veg?'
Aghhhh the life of a stowaway.
Well - I'd just settled back to sleep when another tap came. This time it was a ticket inspector - low and behold the same one who had told me not to board the train. He did not look happy - I'd become his problem.
___________
I was subsequently paraded up and down the train [with a mild fever and a back-pack] and made anyone's problem but the person who I happened to be with at the time.
After much discourse it was established I COULD buy a ticket for 4000 RP or 5000 for first class. At this point - it officially cost more than flying. I was joyous as I'm sure you can guess. I paid up - using the stipend the school had given me for my work and bedded down to get some rest.
Soon, a strange, ghastly music permeated my brain. Earplugs [my first line of defense] seemed strangely ineffective to this dreadful music - which seemed to be on a 7 min loop. I ferociously prowled the carriarge for the puropotrator - but it remained constant throughout - even into the next carriage. This was an all pervasive evil. This was lift music on midi instruments - the only thing comparable would be 14 year old girls playing their mobile phone ringtones directly into your brain. This would not do.
After asking up and down the carriage I found the source. The guardian of the music was a guy who'd helped mediate before when buying my 'ticket' to replace my 'ticket' [more on that later]. I mentioned the dreadful music. He asked me did I not like it? I flipped the question right back at him. 'No one does' he cackled - and all around laughed like maniacal lost souls on the last train to hell. I said "Indian music is amazing, why are you playing this shite, don't you have any Ravi Shankar?". He shook his head and opened a metal cabinet door to reveal a bust up tape player with the door missing. Scattered around were other gems such as 'Jazz hits' and 'Classics' - which I'm quite sure no tape contained. "Why do you play this music?" I asked, genuinely. "Indian people are stupid - they will put up with it". I frowned. "They are not stupid" I said - "they are just obedient - but I'm English and I complain if I don't like something".
They turned the music off - seeming happy to do so and loving each insult I threw at it.
Suddenly, the same grumpy inspector appeared. Yet again he saw me at the centre of a crowd and undoubtedly wondered how I was to become his problem this time.
"Where has the music gone" he barked "don't you like it?" he bullyingly asked me, testing my mettle. I hadn't the energy to take him head on and referred the question to my accomplice who'd turned off the music. My accomplice laughed and said 'No'. At this the inspector chuckled and waddled off back into his own world of lethargy, speckled with petit bureaucracy. The music stayed off.
On my way back to my seat I got a cheer and was thanked by each of the people I'd asked on the way down about where the music was. I guess if you see something changeable as unchangeable, then it becomes so.
____
Let me just say - I slept well and was given about 5 meals and endless free tea - all of a quality better than any flight and we arrived an amazing 15 min early on our 1,470 KM journey. Ok - compliments for Indian Rail end here.
I slept quite well, sweating out most of the fever in the AC. I had eaten some eggs [egg white], which as some friends will know this has interesting effects. Let's just say that at one point on my carriage a baby had its nappy changed. The man with air-freshener walked past the baby and sprayed my berth. Despite this - I was relatively unhassled until we arrived.
When the train did pull into Delhi - all chaos erupted. It seems people want to get their huge trunks full of godknowswhat off of the train before women and children. I couldn't deal with it - I hadn't the energy. I stayed out the way on my top bunk.
Without going into meticulous detail about what was where and when, someone stole something from me. It was just up on the bed and it's the first time I've let anything out of my sight on a train - and the last.
It was my small pouch of electrics - containing [amongst other things] the harddrive of ALL my photos from the entire trip [which I have not been able to upload either...]. Before you gnash your teeth and wail in empathy - I had the foresight to back everything up [mostly] in Gangtok onto one of the school computers [in case of such an eventuality]. So assuming it's still there I should be able to upload some photos after airmail delivers DVDs...
So - not only had my pouch been stolen - now had my afternoon. I'd planned to go to the Indian National Museum - feeling guilty having not made the effort before.
After telling various disinterested men with mustaches, uniforms and big sticks - it was a young student who helped me and walked me to the right place. "Why didn't you fly?" he asked. I smiled through gritted teeth.
I spent the next 4 hours in Police offices. Here again I was met with that apathetic attitude - stopping at nothing to save themselves more work. First I was accused of making it all up. Then when they asked to see my ticket, apparently I only showed them a 'fine form' [I was later told by a fellow passenger I'd been fined about 2000RP too much - I wasn't surprised - they were all grinning too much and speaking Hindi when I paid]. This 'fine ticket' seemed good enough thankfully. I was taken to the CCTV room so they could prove nothing was stolen [!?] but stangely the 7 cameras covering the 18 platforms didn't really clarify anything. I sat eating chocolate and playing chess on my phone to kill time between their faffs as they'd send for someone else to decide a new way of not dealing with my problem.
I was taken back to Delhi Railway Police. I was very frank with them from the start. I said "I don't expect you to get it back, but I just need you to sign a document saying I've reported it stolen so I can claim it on my insurance". This seemed all too much again. First I was accused of letting it be stolen [!?] because I knew it was insured [who needs Sherlock Holmes...]. I said, very cooly, "can I just confirm that you are accusing me of lying?". This is a strong word to say out-loud in an Indian Police station and it changed the dynamic. Lying goes on on paper all the time here, but to utter it out loud - well...
I went on to explain that the HD had little value, only that it contained all my photos. Then they rejected the word stolen and tried to use misplaced - I rejected this - not believing in dematerialisation. Next they tried to convince me it had happened back in Siliguri - or somewhere else. They listed fictional place names that it could have happened at - places I'd never been - anywhere that would have to fill out the paper work but New Delhi Railway police. I stood my ground and restated my terms. "I just want a signed document from here saying I have reported something stolen". It really didn't seem much - I wasn't asking for money.
Eventually the Cheif Faffer was called, the most creative of the Uniformed Legthargics. "Look" he pitched "if we say that it was stolen here it becomes a judicial matter and you have to go to court". "My hairy arse" I thought, loudly. I said [with a friendly smile] "if the Indian Gov wants to fly me back to testify, I'd be more than happy".
I realised there was a game here and I wasn't playing by the rules. He wanted, or should I say WAS going to bend the truth - and I just wanted my police report and to be out of there. I imagine the real truth was their crime statistics might be badly affected and thus affect tourism [god-forbid statistics should reflect the truth]. So he told me a place name I'd never heard of and asked if I could report it missing there. "I've never been there!" I said. He frowned as if he'd have to explain I'd need to got to court again. After some deliberation the official place of stealing was named as the stop before Delhi, not that it really matters I suppose. Eventually
I was given my report and signed it. It only took 4 hours.
Anyway - after all that I still intended to go the the museum. My fever had other plans and Dr Jack stepped in and I put myself to bed. I stirred for a vegetable Chowmein and watched the sunset over Delhi on the last night of my travels.
I've had a wondeful trip and I've been so lucky in so many ways.
Thank you for everyone who's read along or been in touch while I've been away. I hope that my backlog will prove just as interesting.
Look out for:
'Why I Fish' - an explanation of the perversion of fisting. Sorry, fishing.
'So Where Am I?' - an examination of the surreal borders for modern travelers
'Final Ponderings on Japan' and lots of others I've probably forgotten about.
I might even try recording some as podcasts for naughty people at work to listen to so it looks like they are working [I was told my blogs sound better than they read, but that's probably because of my terribly sexy voice]
So this is it! Good bye from Delhi - who knows when I'll travel next - but I promise not to blog if people pay me enough...
Right - enough guff,
Peace and love from Delhi,
Jack
__
I find myself in Delhi once again - but this time it's on the eve of my return home. So this will be my last blog from overseas - for now. There will be plenty backblog to come once I return home...
So I finished at the school last week. The last day ended with the performance of the school song I wrote followed by a giant simultaneous group hug from all the students of the school to thank me for all I'd done at the school [perhaps they were mobbing me?]. It was all quite emotional - but a great experience.
On a parallel thread, some staff [or faculty if you're a yank] from the school introduced me to a local Guru. I won't say much about him here - as I'm not sure I've digested everything yet - but suffice to say he was an extrodianary person who made quite an impression on me.
His home had become an Ashram of sorts and I'd stayed there a couple of nights. One morning I was going through my escape plan from Gangtok and trying to decide whether to fly out to Delhi or get the train. The website 'makemytrip.com' [which should be called 'ripmeoffandfuckupmytrip.com'] put flights at about 5000RP [50 GBP] and the train at about 1600 [20 GBP]. After some thought I decided I'd go for the cheap option and see a bit more of India, not wanting to be a hypocritical flash-packer.
Well, I waved goodbye to Gangtok and got a jeep to Siligury. Jeeps [or 4WDs] are the only way in and out of Gangtok unless you're the proud owner of a helicopter. It was a bumpy ride through landslide terrain but I made it to Siliguri just after sundown.
That night I felt the most unwell I have done for all of my trip. Mild fever, stomach cramps [no orangey BJ thankfully...] but mad mad dreams - all night. I woke up in a sweat in the morning and dragged myself under the shower to make my way on the next leg of my journey home.
I got to the station with an hour to spare and had a small vegetable chowmein [a great breakfast in my books] but still felt very dizzy. I had a ThumbsUp which didn't help much. I searched for an ibuprofen in my bag - didn't have one. I haven't taken an aspirin or Ibuprofen in 5 months it seems! Never mind - onward.
So I get to the platform and the train pulls in bang on time. My 'ticket' says third class AC [there was no second class sleeper on this train before you call me a gapper-slapper]. The strange system of Indian trains sees 1980s era computer print-outs [with the perforated hole-punched tear-off edges]stuck to the outside of the trains with long lists of everyone who is on that carriage. My name was nowhere. In desperation I took my ticket to various uniformed [or uninformed...] people who looked like they might give a shit [always a gamble in India] and after much rustling of paper it was generally agreed that the piece of paper I held in my hand was not a ticket, but a twenty pound waiting list voucher. I'd been had by the most official looking website.
"Sorry sir, you can't get on this train" the mustached grumpy railway inspector said.
"Can't I buy a ticket?" I asked optimistically. I knew this was a stupid question - trains sell out days before - esp AC ones.
"Go to the station master - he will help you" said the man.
Well I knew this was a lie. After queuing for 20 mins I'd have been told exactly what I knew already, and missed the train. My carefully planned journey home was stumbling at an early stage [- I am hoping to get back for my Dad's 60th]. So, I did what any sane person would do.
I ran down the platform, out of his field of vision, got on the train and hid in the toilet until it pulled away.
Now this might seem bonkers - and slightly sadomasochistic [anytime in an Indian train toilet is time you'd rather spend in a festival toilet] - but I was on a mission - and I was a stowaway - like James Bond, but a bit sweatier and with a backpack - and not in the MI6...
I knew that this was the only train out of here for days and I also knew the guy who told me that had one motivation for telling me that which seems to be shared by so many officials in India - genuine apathy. He simply couldn't be bothered to help me. So - it seemed I was to become his problem and make him help me - in a kind of karmic way.
So once we were rolling I needed to construct a plan. 20 hours in a toilet didn't seem realistic - yet I hadn't moved far beyond that in my planning. I thought to myself - "if I'm going to stowaway I should do it in the last place they'd expect".
Within 5 min I'd found a berth in first class and had settled down on my bed, listening to Ravi Shankar [remember at this point I'm highly fevered and had been dreaming of just lying down all the way to Delhi...]
Suddenly there's a tap on my leg. 'Excuse me'. 'oh well - here comes the hassle' I thought...
'What would you like for dinner? Veg or non-Veg?'
Aghhhh the life of a stowaway.
Well - I'd just settled back to sleep when another tap came. This time it was a ticket inspector - low and behold the same one who had told me not to board the train. He did not look happy - I'd become his problem.
___________
I was subsequently paraded up and down the train [with a mild fever and a back-pack] and made anyone's problem but the person who I happened to be with at the time.
After much discourse it was established I COULD buy a ticket for 4000 RP or 5000 for first class. At this point - it officially cost more than flying. I was joyous as I'm sure you can guess. I paid up - using the stipend the school had given me for my work and bedded down to get some rest.
Soon, a strange, ghastly music permeated my brain. Earplugs [my first line of defense] seemed strangely ineffective to this dreadful music - which seemed to be on a 7 min loop. I ferociously prowled the carriarge for the puropotrator - but it remained constant throughout - even into the next carriage. This was an all pervasive evil. This was lift music on midi instruments - the only thing comparable would be 14 year old girls playing their mobile phone ringtones directly into your brain. This would not do.
After asking up and down the carriage I found the source. The guardian of the music was a guy who'd helped mediate before when buying my 'ticket' to replace my 'ticket' [more on that later]. I mentioned the dreadful music. He asked me did I not like it? I flipped the question right back at him. 'No one does' he cackled - and all around laughed like maniacal lost souls on the last train to hell. I said "Indian music is amazing, why are you playing this shite, don't you have any Ravi Shankar?". He shook his head and opened a metal cabinet door to reveal a bust up tape player with the door missing. Scattered around were other gems such as 'Jazz hits' and 'Classics' - which I'm quite sure no tape contained. "Why do you play this music?" I asked, genuinely. "Indian people are stupid - they will put up with it". I frowned. "They are not stupid" I said - "they are just obedient - but I'm English and I complain if I don't like something".
They turned the music off - seeming happy to do so and loving each insult I threw at it.
Suddenly, the same grumpy inspector appeared. Yet again he saw me at the centre of a crowd and undoubtedly wondered how I was to become his problem this time.
"Where has the music gone" he barked "don't you like it?" he bullyingly asked me, testing my mettle. I hadn't the energy to take him head on and referred the question to my accomplice who'd turned off the music. My accomplice laughed and said 'No'. At this the inspector chuckled and waddled off back into his own world of lethargy, speckled with petit bureaucracy. The music stayed off.
On my way back to my seat I got a cheer and was thanked by each of the people I'd asked on the way down about where the music was. I guess if you see something changeable as unchangeable, then it becomes so.
____
Let me just say - I slept well and was given about 5 meals and endless free tea - all of a quality better than any flight and we arrived an amazing 15 min early on our 1,470 KM journey. Ok - compliments for Indian Rail end here.
I slept quite well, sweating out most of the fever in the AC. I had eaten some eggs [egg white], which as some friends will know this has interesting effects. Let's just say that at one point on my carriage a baby had its nappy changed. The man with air-freshener walked past the baby and sprayed my berth. Despite this - I was relatively unhassled until we arrived.
When the train did pull into Delhi - all chaos erupted. It seems people want to get their huge trunks full of godknowswhat off of the train before women and children. I couldn't deal with it - I hadn't the energy. I stayed out the way on my top bunk.
Without going into meticulous detail about what was where and when, someone stole something from me. It was just up on the bed and it's the first time I've let anything out of my sight on a train - and the last.
It was my small pouch of electrics - containing [amongst other things] the harddrive of ALL my photos from the entire trip [which I have not been able to upload either...]. Before you gnash your teeth and wail in empathy - I had the foresight to back everything up [mostly] in Gangtok onto one of the school computers [in case of such an eventuality]. So assuming it's still there I should be able to upload some photos after airmail delivers DVDs...
So - not only had my pouch been stolen - now had my afternoon. I'd planned to go to the Indian National Museum - feeling guilty having not made the effort before.
After telling various disinterested men with mustaches, uniforms and big sticks - it was a young student who helped me and walked me to the right place. "Why didn't you fly?" he asked. I smiled through gritted teeth.
I spent the next 4 hours in Police offices. Here again I was met with that apathetic attitude - stopping at nothing to save themselves more work. First I was accused of making it all up. Then when they asked to see my ticket, apparently I only showed them a 'fine form' [I was later told by a fellow passenger I'd been fined about 2000RP too much - I wasn't surprised - they were all grinning too much and speaking Hindi when I paid]. This 'fine ticket' seemed good enough thankfully. I was taken to the CCTV room so they could prove nothing was stolen [!?] but stangely the 7 cameras covering the 18 platforms didn't really clarify anything. I sat eating chocolate and playing chess on my phone to kill time between their faffs as they'd send for someone else to decide a new way of not dealing with my problem.
I was taken back to Delhi Railway Police. I was very frank with them from the start. I said "I don't expect you to get it back, but I just need you to sign a document saying I've reported it stolen so I can claim it on my insurance". This seemed all too much again. First I was accused of letting it be stolen [!?] because I knew it was insured [who needs Sherlock Holmes...]. I said, very cooly, "can I just confirm that you are accusing me of lying?". This is a strong word to say out-loud in an Indian Police station and it changed the dynamic. Lying goes on on paper all the time here, but to utter it out loud - well...
I went on to explain that the HD had little value, only that it contained all my photos. Then they rejected the word stolen and tried to use misplaced - I rejected this - not believing in dematerialisation. Next they tried to convince me it had happened back in Siliguri - or somewhere else. They listed fictional place names that it could have happened at - places I'd never been - anywhere that would have to fill out the paper work but New Delhi Railway police. I stood my ground and restated my terms. "I just want a signed document from here saying I have reported something stolen". It really didn't seem much - I wasn't asking for money.
Eventually the Cheif Faffer was called, the most creative of the Uniformed Legthargics. "Look" he pitched "if we say that it was stolen here it becomes a judicial matter and you have to go to court". "My hairy arse" I thought, loudly. I said [with a friendly smile] "if the Indian Gov wants to fly me back to testify, I'd be more than happy".
I realised there was a game here and I wasn't playing by the rules. He wanted, or should I say WAS going to bend the truth - and I just wanted my police report and to be out of there. I imagine the real truth was their crime statistics might be badly affected and thus affect tourism [god-forbid statistics should reflect the truth]. So he told me a place name I'd never heard of and asked if I could report it missing there. "I've never been there!" I said. He frowned as if he'd have to explain I'd need to got to court again. After some deliberation the official place of stealing was named as the stop before Delhi, not that it really matters I suppose. Eventually
I was given my report and signed it. It only took 4 hours.
Anyway - after all that I still intended to go the the museum. My fever had other plans and Dr Jack stepped in and I put myself to bed. I stirred for a vegetable Chowmein and watched the sunset over Delhi on the last night of my travels.
I've had a wondeful trip and I've been so lucky in so many ways.
Thank you for everyone who's read along or been in touch while I've been away. I hope that my backlog will prove just as interesting.
Look out for:
'Why I Fish' - an explanation of the perversion of fisting. Sorry, fishing.
'So Where Am I?' - an examination of the surreal borders for modern travelers
'Final Ponderings on Japan' and lots of others I've probably forgotten about.
I might even try recording some as podcasts for naughty people at work to listen to so it looks like they are working [I was told my blogs sound better than they read, but that's probably because of my terribly sexy voice]
So this is it! Good bye from Delhi - who knows when I'll travel next - but I promise not to blog if people pay me enough...
Right - enough guff,
Peace and love from Delhi,
Jack
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
A Marathon Entry
Dear readers [all three of you]
I'd just like to use this channel to draw you attention to a worthy cause.
My good friend Tom is running the Berlin marathon this weekend with his friend and they are both raising money for the charity Cardiac Risk in the Young.
Cardiac Risk in the Young is a charity supported by the British Heart Foundation. As well as raising awareness, CRY campaigns for national heart screening, sponsors medical research and offers ECG testing. CRY also offers support to those who have suffered a bereavement. If you'd like to read more about the charity and possibly donate, please go to this link:
http://www.justgiving.com/helandtomrunberlin/
It's a great cause and I wish Tom and Helen all the best!
As for my blog - you may have noticed it's been in a bit of a lull at the moment.
Well, rest assured it's still being written, just not 'published'. I've taught in schools, met gurus and have too much to write about - far too much in fact - so I'm coming home so I can catch up with myself. It looks like I'll be back in the UK around the 23rd September - so I intend to carry on publishing things I've written [and uploading photos] once I'm back in a place where the internet doesn't just work on the second Tuesday of each month of Sundays.
So thank you to all who have read so far [and especially those who have taken the time to write to me or comment]. I'll hopefully be writing a bit more from India before I leave....
So - for now, please go and visit http://www.justgiving.com/helandtomrunberlin/
And see if you can beat this:
Red Pandas are found here in Sikkim
They eat bamboo leaves and do strip ‘em
Off fast from the trees as,
Alas, it’s not long ‘fore the Chinese will nick ‘em
Jack
I'd just like to use this channel to draw you attention to a worthy cause.
My good friend Tom is running the Berlin marathon this weekend with his friend and they are both raising money for the charity Cardiac Risk in the Young.
Cardiac Risk in the Young is a charity supported by the British Heart Foundation. As well as raising awareness, CRY campaigns for national heart screening, sponsors medical research and offers ECG testing. CRY also offers support to those who have suffered a bereavement. If you'd like to read more about the charity and possibly donate, please go to this link:
http://www.justgiving.com/helandtomrunberlin/
It's a great cause and I wish Tom and Helen all the best!
As for my blog - you may have noticed it's been in a bit of a lull at the moment.
Well, rest assured it's still being written, just not 'published'. I've taught in schools, met gurus and have too much to write about - far too much in fact - so I'm coming home so I can catch up with myself. It looks like I'll be back in the UK around the 23rd September - so I intend to carry on publishing things I've written [and uploading photos] once I'm back in a place where the internet doesn't just work on the second Tuesday of each month of Sundays.
So thank you to all who have read so far [and especially those who have taken the time to write to me or comment]. I'll hopefully be writing a bit more from India before I leave....
So - for now, please go and visit http://www.justgiving.com/helandtomrunberlin/
And see if you can beat this:
Red Pandas are found here in Sikkim
They eat bamboo leaves and do strip ‘em
Off fast from the trees as,
Alas, it’s not long ‘fore the Chinese will nick ‘em
Jack
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
There once was a man from Gangtok
So I find myself in Sikkim.
I've been volunteering in a school in Gangtok for over a week now. Last week I was asked if I could help the Hindi teacher write limericks in Hindi. He asked me to give an example of a limerick - I didn't know one clean one [who does!?]. The cleanest one I knew was:
'There once was a girl from Devises,
Who had breasts of varying sizes
The left one was small
And did nothing at all
But the right one was large and won prizes'
He looked confused. I quickly looked up a few clean ones on the Internet and we successfully managed to create a limerick in Hindi.
Well - it was a rainy lunch time today and, to be honest, Gangtok is a bit of a gift to limerick writers. Sikkim is more of a challenge...
Anyway, I thought I would share the fruits of a bored rainy lunch time in Gangtok with the world...
I'll get the cock one out the way first....
There once was a man from Gangtok
Who had the most glorious cock
But he hadn't a chicken
To lay eggs for his tiffin
For they’d flown with the rest of the flock
There once was a man from Gangtok
Who had knitted an excellent sock
He had made only one
It was thin and not long
So it put it instead on his foot
A dirty old git from Gangtok
Drank whiskey and piss as a shot
He said that it aids
In digesting decayed
Fecal matter, when served in a stock
An innocent girl from Gangtok
Was washing her clothes on a rock
While she bathed in the river
She started to shiver,
For she wore only shoes and a smock
A smutty old maid from Gangtok
Was fixated on picking the lock
To a cupboard which held
Lots of things, which to tell
Would bring shame and would probably shock
A knackered old donkey in Sikkim
Was accustomed to small children sitting
On his back while he rode
Up the road to the school
Which taught languages, weather permitting.
Three women who lived in Gangtok
Grew tired of their lives and forgot
That their duty in life
Was first mother then wife
Not as ping-pong girls paid in Bangkok
A young Buddhist monk from Gangtok
Was a Star Trek fan first, then a mock
Buddhist monk in the day
To get lunch – then not pray
But watch repeats of Spok
A nubile young pair from Gangtok
Had their orgasms set by a clock
Every tick of the spring
They would play with his thing
And remain locked in tantra ‘til tock
Well that’s more than enough for now. I welcome any suggestions or improvements. I’d like to see someone beat my Sikkim one…that nearly killed me.
Oh, I’m off to Darjeeling at the weekend and my Dad reminded me of this gem…
There was a young girl from Darjeeling
Who had a most curious feeling
She lay on her back
And opened her crack
And pissed all over the ceiling
Ta ta for now
I've been volunteering in a school in Gangtok for over a week now. Last week I was asked if I could help the Hindi teacher write limericks in Hindi. He asked me to give an example of a limerick - I didn't know one clean one [who does!?]. The cleanest one I knew was:
'There once was a girl from Devises,
Who had breasts of varying sizes
The left one was small
And did nothing at all
But the right one was large and won prizes'
He looked confused. I quickly looked up a few clean ones on the Internet and we successfully managed to create a limerick in Hindi.
Well - it was a rainy lunch time today and, to be honest, Gangtok is a bit of a gift to limerick writers. Sikkim is more of a challenge...
Anyway, I thought I would share the fruits of a bored rainy lunch time in Gangtok with the world...
I'll get the cock one out the way first....
There once was a man from Gangtok
Who had the most glorious cock
But he hadn't a chicken
To lay eggs for his tiffin
For they’d flown with the rest of the flock
There once was a man from Gangtok
Who had knitted an excellent sock
He had made only one
It was thin and not long
So it put it instead on his foot
A dirty old git from Gangtok
Drank whiskey and piss as a shot
He said that it aids
In digesting decayed
Fecal matter, when served in a stock
An innocent girl from Gangtok
Was washing her clothes on a rock
While she bathed in the river
She started to shiver,
For she wore only shoes and a smock
A smutty old maid from Gangtok
Was fixated on picking the lock
To a cupboard which held
Lots of things, which to tell
Would bring shame and would probably shock
A knackered old donkey in Sikkim
Was accustomed to small children sitting
On his back while he rode
Up the road to the school
Which taught languages, weather permitting.
Three women who lived in Gangtok
Grew tired of their lives and forgot
That their duty in life
Was first mother then wife
Not as ping-pong girls paid in Bangkok
A young Buddhist monk from Gangtok
Was a Star Trek fan first, then a mock
Buddhist monk in the day
To get lunch – then not pray
But watch repeats of Spok
A nubile young pair from Gangtok
Had their orgasms set by a clock
Every tick of the spring
They would play with his thing
And remain locked in tantra ‘til tock
Well that’s more than enough for now. I welcome any suggestions or improvements. I’d like to see someone beat my Sikkim one…that nearly killed me.
Oh, I’m off to Darjeeling at the weekend and my Dad reminded me of this gem…
There was a young girl from Darjeeling
Who had a most curious feeling
She lay on her back
And opened her crack
And pissed all over the ceiling
Ta ta for now
Monday, 3 August 2009
Delhi: The Hard Way [Day one in Delhi]
I wrote this after my first day in Delhi. Much more to come on India...
___
So I'm definitely in Delhi - and I think I like it. That said I'm starting to feel as if the only way I'm going to get around this country is the hard way. See what you think....
As a white European tourist, I'm starting to get the feeling there are three ways of doing things in a country like India [or any place in the world where travellers can encounter a genuine spectrum in the way people live]. There's the 'deluxe' [a word that is liked very much here] way...that is to say 'well bugger me sideways if I've not got more money than sense of adventure - let's see if I can go this whole trip without leaving an Air-conditioned area and hopefully I'll avoid having to actually interact with anyone from India who doesn't have three PhDs and maybe there'll be a slight chance I won't be splurting out orangey bum juice for the next week or hosting an intestinal buddy with a head of hooks.
Second there's the 'medium' type which is basically saying "I'm going to pretend not to be doing the 'deluxe' by going on a tour with other young gapper-slappers and feeling like we did it ourselves because we had to use public transport to get to our non-airconditioned mini-bus which will drive us around and let us take photos of endangered tigers and Tibetans". The third type can either be described as 'budget', 'endurance', 'hippie', 'the hard way' or 'no money'. It can either be out of an inverted snobbery, a kind of Orwellian "I'm going to live in poverty to find myself when quite frankly I'm really rather comparatively minted and can 'deluxe it up' at any time I like" [Read 'Down and Out in Paris and London' by George Orwell to see the kind of self-serving poverty seeking path of misery borne from a guilt at an upper-lower middle class upbringing which is wonderfully and I think quite unintentionally laid bare by him]. In this bracket you also meet the family travellers, who are couples usually dragging their poor kids around with them and putting them through all kinds of hell for 10 months. I met a woman who was doing this - she described being in a train carriage for 10 people with 18 in it [and her family] as being a 'really special moment'. What bloody nonsense. If 'semi-traumatic testing moments' can be described as special I can think of plenty of 'special moments' I've had travelling. And all those family holidays peppered with arguments were actually our very own 'special moments'. I must have a whole catalog of 'special' memories of me and my sister driving my poor parents insane with an unending stream of nonsensical petty arguments. Maybe I can convince my family they were so special we should have another go at creating some more some time?
Anyway, back to my simplified 3-tier way of travelling. In India, I admit I originally considered the 'medium' route, with a hint of budget and a dash of gapper-slapper for good measure. I'm already very glad I didn't [I met some objectionable gapper slappers today on an organised trip which confirmed this]. As I'm relatively near the end of my trip I'm naturally near the end of my savings. Owing to a few extensions and a bit of denial, I'm actually about two hundred pounds away from the end of my savings - so like it or not - I'm budget.
Saying that, I seem to be choosing 'the hard way' even when I don't have to - it's just more preferable after a while as it's often much more interesting. Maybe I should let Orwell off a bit. [He really does start to fuck you off if you read 'Homage to Catalonia' though. It's like 'George, don't go in the trenches, you're really tall and will probably be shot. Oh, you've been shot, well done - idiot'].
When I say I am choosing the hard way, it's often by accident - it's little things like I didn't realise my hostel did free airport pickups and so managed to walk right past my name on a board at the aiport. To be fair it was amongst literally hundreds of others...it's not like I was arriving at the Arctic research base and walked past a trained Polar bear pissing my name into the snow - it's Delhi - 16 million people live here. So right from the start I seemed to be taking the hard route. My taxi driver gave me a crash course introduction to Indian driving [thankfully not literally]. Watching Sanjay, my driver, swerve between lanes was quite an education in human reflexes. It was like no one was able to chose a lane, or I was like the 6th sense kid, except 'I see road lines' and no one else would believe me. There also seemed to be a strange and secret code of honking and flashing that eluded me and seemed to be equally mysterious to other drivers too.
People in India drive like each one of them has read a different Highway code, each written by a different child with an overactive imagination, not yet curbed by Ritalin. For good measure these codes are then printed in Braille and handed to the drivers to make sense of for the first time whilst being given their first driving lesson/ test and being asked to solve long division problems in some crazy moon language, like Welsh.
It seems the only common code of communication that all drivers share is honking and one other thing. Honking seems to mean 'look out' or 'look at me' or 'I'm bored of this red light, why isn't it green' or 'look, there's a cloud' or 'just testing if my horn works in case I see a cloud'. The other thing is called 'BANG'. Let me say that I felt quite brave sat on the back of a motorbike in Bangkok. Seeing Delhi I feel like I've left 'Primary school for shit driving' and graduated up to big school where all the real fuckwits come to drive before being set free across the world and let loose in places such as Birmingham and Coventry. If you think I'm exaggerating read on.
_____
I sat down to read the paper this morning over my breakfast of tea and toast with jam and felt like an old English gent. One of the many fascinating headlines was 'traffic kills more in Delhi than cancer'. Especially buses called 'blueliners' apparently. I made a mental note to avoid big blue busses, and cancer. As I sat eating my breakfast I was watched impatiently by a member of hotel staff. 'You ready yet? we go to free information centre - we take you there for free'. I enjoyed the last warm dregs of my tea and unenthusiastically walked into what was most certainly something that was too good to be true. You don't get a free transfer to an office when there's not a big commission about to be earned. Once in their office I was, in fairness, given a lot of good information by the guys. I learned of fly-fishing in the Himalayas near a place called Shrinagar. I got that fluttery feeling I write about in 'Why I fish' [which no one has read as I've not uploaded it yet]. It's a dangerous fluttery feeling which is usually followed by the spending of much cash on fish-related fun. Whether I can afford to let this become an idee fixe remains to be seen.
After being given this information I was almost bundled into a car which would take me around 5 sites in Delhi I'd never heard of. This was, might I add, entirely against my will. It was such a rehearsed rip off that so many tourists had fallen for that I just went with the flow until I was in the car. The first stop was a temple. 'where are we?' I asked. This question failed to stumble over the language barrier, 'you look for ten minutes' he replied. We finish in 5 hours, you pay XXX rupees". I walked out the car and began to hatch an escape plan, until someone shouted 'hey mister mister, cobra in a box'.
____
I got back in the taxi, armed with my firm and fair plan. I said slowly and clearly 'Take me to the nearest tourist information centre please - there I will get out and pay you, as I don't have XXX rupees'. He seemed to pick up the drift of me not having money and said ' ok, I take you to tourist information - but first we go to a special shop'. I was getting serious De Ja vu [see Tuk Off]. As I stood in the shop staring into the middle distance some lost looking English girls walked in saying 'why are we here?' to each other. I almost literally pounced on them - the first English people I'd seen since landing. We got chatting and I explained the reason we were in the shop. We agreed to all meet at the nearest Tourist Information and told our respective drivers of our intention. 'See you soon' I said, 'or maybe I'll never see you again ha ha'. I never saw them again - that's Delhi I guess. [[Interestingly, by some astronomical odds - I did see them again the next day - they walked right past my hostel and we chatted away -so that's Delhi, I guess!]]
Finally I arrived at a Government tourist information where a couple of overworked and disinterested people vaguely agreed my itinerary was do-able but expensive. They could do it cheaper. I suddenly realised this wasn't an official Tourist Information, but just a Government licenced information outlet. I'm still not sure if I've been in the real one yet. I don't think one exists. In this way India is frustrating. It is the rule rather than the exception that most people are trying to make money out of you. I'd had enough guff - my blood sugar was low and I needed food. My friend had given me some advice on travelling India and said 'be flexible'. There's just no point fine planning in India for so many reasons - such as unpredictable delays or meeting new friends. Instead of freaking out about what and where I'd do in India and when, I decided there and then I'd make it up as I went -starting with lunch. 'Know any good places for lunch?' I asked. 'KFC that way - McDonalds that way' he said patronisingly. I scornfully replied 'I mean Indian food' with a smug smile. How dare he assume that because I'm European I'll leap in front of a bluebus to get to some chips. Five minutes later I was ordering a dirty Ronald, where the menu was: Veggie, Veggie, Chicken, Chicken or Fish. It was relatively quite pricey. 20 meals could get you a plane ticket up north to the fly-fishing place...
____
Afterwards, I walked to a grassy area [kept on the brink of brown extinction by a sprinkler]. I passed a book shop and bought a copy of 'The Old Man and the Sea' which I'd been seeking for weeks. On the way to finding somewhere to read it I was called to and approached several times by what I assumed were peddlers [they weren't on bikes, but they were definitely peddling something]. I began to learn to ignore these approaches and calls. After ignoring one guy he said 'ear cleaning?'. I turned and smiled at his funny joke - implying I was deaf. Nope. Turns out street peddlers actually clean your ears [I saw them do it to someone]. While reading, I was approached 5 times by these cotton-bud carrying nut cases. They all carry small leather bound books of handwritten multilingual reviews of ear cleanings such as, 'wow, who knew I had such crap in my ears? Thank you so much, now I can hear street peddlers harassing me - John 1987'. The languages he flicked through before reaching English were strange and many. For example, one I'm sure was Sanskrit - one of the most ancient languages on earth, which is apparently still flourishing in the Indian ear-cleaning community. If an archaeologist ever found one of these books it would be like the Rosetta stone.
After an hour of reading in the sun I headed off in a random direction. I was shouted at by a group of school boys and called over. They were wearing matching ties of various length and were about 17 - they seemed to just want to test if the English they learned in school actually worked on a real life subject. We chatted and they took turns trying on my [quite normal] hat. If I was wearing a fruit bowl I'd have understood - oh well. The simple act of them trying on my hat drew a crowd of ten. I was surrounded by semi-curious grinning locals and did what I always do when faced with many strangers - I asked for travel advice. Ask a group of strangers from the same place for advice and they'll argue for hours. It was great fun and I gained valuable advice. One guy called Ricky, who was 21 and had a violent scar under his left eye, said he'd walk me to a temple. 'I don't want money - just to practise English'. We got talking about this and that. 'My 5 brothers are dead' he said right before walking in front of a car. It dodged him, just, and I felt no need to ask how his brothers had died. I've seen so many near misses in India - only ever near misses though.
Ricky took me to his temple and explained all the baffling figures. Turns out I actually knew a few of them! We sat down in the temple and some prayer started. A man sat on the floor with a book on a cushion and a microphone by his mouth and he began to sing the prayer. It was only old woman in the temple congregation of about ten and they tunelessly joined in at random it seemed. I was just about to get bored when suddenly an old woman [of about, well, really old]suddenly started playing this massive drum with a hand on each end. She must have played for twenty minutes. I've been present at recording sessions where session drummers have missed more beats. She was ace. Suddenly prayer was a bit more fun, with people randomly hitting bell sticks and clapping. Maybe the Church of England should release a Drum N Base remix of the Lord's Prayer to get people a bit more exited about the concept of an afterlife? Though the next logical step might be spiking the communion wine, which could send out the wrong message...?
Me and Ricky went for some Chi and we sat and unpretentiously exchanged philosophies. 'In India, anything is possible' he said 'live life and love life - that's the Indian way'. Then he offered to get me some hash - turns out this was his preamble. I politely decline. I enjoyed out cup of tea though. I think a cup of tea is something very culturally at the heart of both England and India [and many other cultures] - if only the whole world spoke English and drank tea. Maybe India is bringing out the colonialist in me...
We talked a little more and just before parting he asked me for some money for his school books. I'm pretty sure the money wouldn't have ended up on school books but I'd love to be wrong. I gave him none, of course, giving various patronising reasons about not being able to help everyone even if I wanted to. I couldn't help but feel the entire afternoon had led up to this question. I had half expected it though. I guess he was just a very eloquent beggar. Begging is something that most people like to ignore quite enthusiastically in Europe - not needing to pay much attention to it. In India, it pays attention to you. When ordering an icecream from a stand, three or four children might come up to you and ask for money and make a hand gesture which means food. You can't help but feel like an utter bastard not giving them money. Having worked for a charity though, I know you can't help everyone. And it's never the most needy actually begging - the most needy wouldn't have enough energy to hassle you. None the less, with all my semi-Daily Mail intellectual arguments against giving to beggars and in favor of supporting charities this doesn't help when you're tucking into a delicious icecream Feast with begging children at your feet. You can hardly say 'boo hoo to you' or 'sucks to be you'. I know there's so much suffering in the world - when it's in your face though it's hard to stay strong. When someone fakes a friendship in order to ask money, you start to find it hard to trust anyone you meet in Delhi. And that's a sad state of affairs, but let me explain.
Trust is a problem in India it seems. On the Delhi metro today was an announcement: 'Do no befriend any unknown person'. That was it, word for word. Rather takes the wind out of the idea of making new friends - but false and loaded behavior with a view to extracting money is a big issue in this culture it seems. Similarly, Ricky had earlier told me very earnestly that you couldn't trust a Muslim, 'they are the most dishonest people in India and that they never smile back when you smile at them' at which I expressed some doubt but mostly just listened. This was what he believed though and the ingrained ideas and divisions in all Indian society which manifest in poverty and religious segregation seem to have persisted for Milena so far and show little sign of ending in this one. The girls I re-bumped into today said they felt they couldn't trust anyone in India, which was why they were going on the tour. I can't say I entirely agree with the girls'opinions and I think they may have over-reacted by going on an all-pre-booked tour. Saying that I can certainly see the appeal after all my false leads and misinformation. I always think if you can trust your own judgement you can trust anyone - you can trust them to act how you expect them to - however that may be. And Ricky I guess is just another example of where that line blurs. He was very nice and interesting, but a whole afternoon of conversation was engineered to extract money. It's a very strange state to explore a city in - always expecting the sting in the tail of kindness. And the most strange thing of all is that mistrustful con artists and tauts will try to put you off other mistrustful people, dismissing them as dishonest for trying to con you. In the next breath they will try to con you. From a detached view it's funny, but face to face every day it's quite exhausting.
This is emblematic of an aspect of Indian culture. Each man for himself. Whether it's fellow tauts besmirching the others, tuk tuk drivers fighting fellow drivers to get your bags out your hand for your fare [in the absence of a taxi rank], the endless honking in stationary traffic or the rugby scrum of the Delhi metro - everyone seems to assume that they are in a hurry and you're not. That their personal mission is priority. For example - it isn't rare to find 5 jeeps offering the same trip to the same place, with all of them semi-full and refusing to leave until they are full - while still trying to fill them, rather than just put everyone into two jeeps and leave.
These are just my impressions of India and Delhi, and mostly I'm describing people in business. It almost goes without saying this country is also brimful of amazing, kind and lovely people - just like everywhere in the world. It just seems that India's ratio of people who are out only for themselves is a little higher in the cities than anywhere else I've been. Saying that, I've not been to China.
Right I better stop writing guff and actually decide what on earth I'm going to do here...thanks for reading if you made it this far! I'm in Mcleodganj at the moment and heading out for some food. Bye!
___
So I'm definitely in Delhi - and I think I like it. That said I'm starting to feel as if the only way I'm going to get around this country is the hard way. See what you think....
As a white European tourist, I'm starting to get the feeling there are three ways of doing things in a country like India [or any place in the world where travellers can encounter a genuine spectrum in the way people live]. There's the 'deluxe' [a word that is liked very much here] way...that is to say 'well bugger me sideways if I've not got more money than sense of adventure - let's see if I can go this whole trip without leaving an Air-conditioned area and hopefully I'll avoid having to actually interact with anyone from India who doesn't have three PhDs and maybe there'll be a slight chance I won't be splurting out orangey bum juice for the next week or hosting an intestinal buddy with a head of hooks.
Second there's the 'medium' type which is basically saying "I'm going to pretend not to be doing the 'deluxe' by going on a tour with other young gapper-slappers and feeling like we did it ourselves because we had to use public transport to get to our non-airconditioned mini-bus which will drive us around and let us take photos of endangered tigers and Tibetans". The third type can either be described as 'budget', 'endurance', 'hippie', 'the hard way' or 'no money'. It can either be out of an inverted snobbery, a kind of Orwellian "I'm going to live in poverty to find myself when quite frankly I'm really rather comparatively minted and can 'deluxe it up' at any time I like" [Read 'Down and Out in Paris and London' by George Orwell to see the kind of self-serving poverty seeking path of misery borne from a guilt at an upper-lower middle class upbringing which is wonderfully and I think quite unintentionally laid bare by him]. In this bracket you also meet the family travellers, who are couples usually dragging their poor kids around with them and putting them through all kinds of hell for 10 months. I met a woman who was doing this - she described being in a train carriage for 10 people with 18 in it [and her family] as being a 'really special moment'. What bloody nonsense. If 'semi-traumatic testing moments' can be described as special I can think of plenty of 'special moments' I've had travelling. And all those family holidays peppered with arguments were actually our very own 'special moments'. I must have a whole catalog of 'special' memories of me and my sister driving my poor parents insane with an unending stream of nonsensical petty arguments. Maybe I can convince my family they were so special we should have another go at creating some more some time?
Anyway, back to my simplified 3-tier way of travelling. In India, I admit I originally considered the 'medium' route, with a hint of budget and a dash of gapper-slapper for good measure. I'm already very glad I didn't [I met some objectionable gapper slappers today on an organised trip which confirmed this]. As I'm relatively near the end of my trip I'm naturally near the end of my savings. Owing to a few extensions and a bit of denial, I'm actually about two hundred pounds away from the end of my savings - so like it or not - I'm budget.
Saying that, I seem to be choosing 'the hard way' even when I don't have to - it's just more preferable after a while as it's often much more interesting. Maybe I should let Orwell off a bit. [He really does start to fuck you off if you read 'Homage to Catalonia' though. It's like 'George, don't go in the trenches, you're really tall and will probably be shot. Oh, you've been shot, well done - idiot'].
When I say I am choosing the hard way, it's often by accident - it's little things like I didn't realise my hostel did free airport pickups and so managed to walk right past my name on a board at the aiport. To be fair it was amongst literally hundreds of others...it's not like I was arriving at the Arctic research base and walked past a trained Polar bear pissing my name into the snow - it's Delhi - 16 million people live here. So right from the start I seemed to be taking the hard route. My taxi driver gave me a crash course introduction to Indian driving [thankfully not literally]. Watching Sanjay, my driver, swerve between lanes was quite an education in human reflexes. It was like no one was able to chose a lane, or I was like the 6th sense kid, except 'I see road lines' and no one else would believe me. There also seemed to be a strange and secret code of honking and flashing that eluded me and seemed to be equally mysterious to other drivers too.
People in India drive like each one of them has read a different Highway code, each written by a different child with an overactive imagination, not yet curbed by Ritalin. For good measure these codes are then printed in Braille and handed to the drivers to make sense of for the first time whilst being given their first driving lesson/ test and being asked to solve long division problems in some crazy moon language, like Welsh.
It seems the only common code of communication that all drivers share is honking and one other thing. Honking seems to mean 'look out' or 'look at me' or 'I'm bored of this red light, why isn't it green' or 'look, there's a cloud' or 'just testing if my horn works in case I see a cloud'. The other thing is called 'BANG'. Let me say that I felt quite brave sat on the back of a motorbike in Bangkok. Seeing Delhi I feel like I've left 'Primary school for shit driving' and graduated up to big school where all the real fuckwits come to drive before being set free across the world and let loose in places such as Birmingham and Coventry. If you think I'm exaggerating read on.
_____
I sat down to read the paper this morning over my breakfast of tea and toast with jam and felt like an old English gent. One of the many fascinating headlines was 'traffic kills more in Delhi than cancer'. Especially buses called 'blueliners' apparently. I made a mental note to avoid big blue busses, and cancer. As I sat eating my breakfast I was watched impatiently by a member of hotel staff. 'You ready yet? we go to free information centre - we take you there for free'. I enjoyed the last warm dregs of my tea and unenthusiastically walked into what was most certainly something that was too good to be true. You don't get a free transfer to an office when there's not a big commission about to be earned. Once in their office I was, in fairness, given a lot of good information by the guys. I learned of fly-fishing in the Himalayas near a place called Shrinagar. I got that fluttery feeling I write about in 'Why I fish' [which no one has read as I've not uploaded it yet]. It's a dangerous fluttery feeling which is usually followed by the spending of much cash on fish-related fun. Whether I can afford to let this become an idee fixe remains to be seen.
After being given this information I was almost bundled into a car which would take me around 5 sites in Delhi I'd never heard of. This was, might I add, entirely against my will. It was such a rehearsed rip off that so many tourists had fallen for that I just went with the flow until I was in the car. The first stop was a temple. 'where are we?' I asked. This question failed to stumble over the language barrier, 'you look for ten minutes' he replied. We finish in 5 hours, you pay XXX rupees". I walked out the car and began to hatch an escape plan, until someone shouted 'hey mister mister, cobra in a box'.
____
I got back in the taxi, armed with my firm and fair plan. I said slowly and clearly 'Take me to the nearest tourist information centre please - there I will get out and pay you, as I don't have XXX rupees'. He seemed to pick up the drift of me not having money and said ' ok, I take you to tourist information - but first we go to a special shop'. I was getting serious De Ja vu [see Tuk Off]. As I stood in the shop staring into the middle distance some lost looking English girls walked in saying 'why are we here?' to each other. I almost literally pounced on them - the first English people I'd seen since landing. We got chatting and I explained the reason we were in the shop. We agreed to all meet at the nearest Tourist Information and told our respective drivers of our intention. 'See you soon' I said, 'or maybe I'll never see you again ha ha'. I never saw them again - that's Delhi I guess. [[Interestingly, by some astronomical odds - I did see them again the next day - they walked right past my hostel and we chatted away -so that's Delhi, I guess!]]
Finally I arrived at a Government tourist information where a couple of overworked and disinterested people vaguely agreed my itinerary was do-able but expensive. They could do it cheaper. I suddenly realised this wasn't an official Tourist Information, but just a Government licenced information outlet. I'm still not sure if I've been in the real one yet. I don't think one exists. In this way India is frustrating. It is the rule rather than the exception that most people are trying to make money out of you. I'd had enough guff - my blood sugar was low and I needed food. My friend had given me some advice on travelling India and said 'be flexible'. There's just no point fine planning in India for so many reasons - such as unpredictable delays or meeting new friends. Instead of freaking out about what and where I'd do in India and when, I decided there and then I'd make it up as I went -starting with lunch. 'Know any good places for lunch?' I asked. 'KFC that way - McDonalds that way' he said patronisingly. I scornfully replied 'I mean Indian food' with a smug smile. How dare he assume that because I'm European I'll leap in front of a bluebus to get to some chips. Five minutes later I was ordering a dirty Ronald, where the menu was: Veggie, Veggie, Chicken, Chicken or Fish. It was relatively quite pricey. 20 meals could get you a plane ticket up north to the fly-fishing place...
____
Afterwards, I walked to a grassy area [kept on the brink of brown extinction by a sprinkler]. I passed a book shop and bought a copy of 'The Old Man and the Sea' which I'd been seeking for weeks. On the way to finding somewhere to read it I was called to and approached several times by what I assumed were peddlers [they weren't on bikes, but they were definitely peddling something]. I began to learn to ignore these approaches and calls. After ignoring one guy he said 'ear cleaning?'. I turned and smiled at his funny joke - implying I was deaf. Nope. Turns out street peddlers actually clean your ears [I saw them do it to someone]. While reading, I was approached 5 times by these cotton-bud carrying nut cases. They all carry small leather bound books of handwritten multilingual reviews of ear cleanings such as, 'wow, who knew I had such crap in my ears? Thank you so much, now I can hear street peddlers harassing me - John 1987'. The languages he flicked through before reaching English were strange and many. For example, one I'm sure was Sanskrit - one of the most ancient languages on earth, which is apparently still flourishing in the Indian ear-cleaning community. If an archaeologist ever found one of these books it would be like the Rosetta stone.
After an hour of reading in the sun I headed off in a random direction. I was shouted at by a group of school boys and called over. They were wearing matching ties of various length and were about 17 - they seemed to just want to test if the English they learned in school actually worked on a real life subject. We chatted and they took turns trying on my [quite normal] hat. If I was wearing a fruit bowl I'd have understood - oh well. The simple act of them trying on my hat drew a crowd of ten. I was surrounded by semi-curious grinning locals and did what I always do when faced with many strangers - I asked for travel advice. Ask a group of strangers from the same place for advice and they'll argue for hours. It was great fun and I gained valuable advice. One guy called Ricky, who was 21 and had a violent scar under his left eye, said he'd walk me to a temple. 'I don't want money - just to practise English'. We got talking about this and that. 'My 5 brothers are dead' he said right before walking in front of a car. It dodged him, just, and I felt no need to ask how his brothers had died. I've seen so many near misses in India - only ever near misses though.
Ricky took me to his temple and explained all the baffling figures. Turns out I actually knew a few of them! We sat down in the temple and some prayer started. A man sat on the floor with a book on a cushion and a microphone by his mouth and he began to sing the prayer. It was only old woman in the temple congregation of about ten and they tunelessly joined in at random it seemed. I was just about to get bored when suddenly an old woman [of about, well, really old]suddenly started playing this massive drum with a hand on each end. She must have played for twenty minutes. I've been present at recording sessions where session drummers have missed more beats. She was ace. Suddenly prayer was a bit more fun, with people randomly hitting bell sticks and clapping. Maybe the Church of England should release a Drum N Base remix of the Lord's Prayer to get people a bit more exited about the concept of an afterlife? Though the next logical step might be spiking the communion wine, which could send out the wrong message...?
Me and Ricky went for some Chi and we sat and unpretentiously exchanged philosophies. 'In India, anything is possible' he said 'live life and love life - that's the Indian way'. Then he offered to get me some hash - turns out this was his preamble. I politely decline. I enjoyed out cup of tea though. I think a cup of tea is something very culturally at the heart of both England and India [and many other cultures] - if only the whole world spoke English and drank tea. Maybe India is bringing out the colonialist in me...
We talked a little more and just before parting he asked me for some money for his school books. I'm pretty sure the money wouldn't have ended up on school books but I'd love to be wrong. I gave him none, of course, giving various patronising reasons about not being able to help everyone even if I wanted to. I couldn't help but feel the entire afternoon had led up to this question. I had half expected it though. I guess he was just a very eloquent beggar. Begging is something that most people like to ignore quite enthusiastically in Europe - not needing to pay much attention to it. In India, it pays attention to you. When ordering an icecream from a stand, three or four children might come up to you and ask for money and make a hand gesture which means food. You can't help but feel like an utter bastard not giving them money. Having worked for a charity though, I know you can't help everyone. And it's never the most needy actually begging - the most needy wouldn't have enough energy to hassle you. None the less, with all my semi-Daily Mail intellectual arguments against giving to beggars and in favor of supporting charities this doesn't help when you're tucking into a delicious icecream Feast with begging children at your feet. You can hardly say 'boo hoo to you' or 'sucks to be you'. I know there's so much suffering in the world - when it's in your face though it's hard to stay strong. When someone fakes a friendship in order to ask money, you start to find it hard to trust anyone you meet in Delhi. And that's a sad state of affairs, but let me explain.
Trust is a problem in India it seems. On the Delhi metro today was an announcement: 'Do no befriend any unknown person'. That was it, word for word. Rather takes the wind out of the idea of making new friends - but false and loaded behavior with a view to extracting money is a big issue in this culture it seems. Similarly, Ricky had earlier told me very earnestly that you couldn't trust a Muslim, 'they are the most dishonest people in India and that they never smile back when you smile at them' at which I expressed some doubt but mostly just listened. This was what he believed though and the ingrained ideas and divisions in all Indian society which manifest in poverty and religious segregation seem to have persisted for Milena so far and show little sign of ending in this one. The girls I re-bumped into today said they felt they couldn't trust anyone in India, which was why they were going on the tour. I can't say I entirely agree with the girls'opinions and I think they may have over-reacted by going on an all-pre-booked tour. Saying that I can certainly see the appeal after all my false leads and misinformation. I always think if you can trust your own judgement you can trust anyone - you can trust them to act how you expect them to - however that may be. And Ricky I guess is just another example of where that line blurs. He was very nice and interesting, but a whole afternoon of conversation was engineered to extract money. It's a very strange state to explore a city in - always expecting the sting in the tail of kindness. And the most strange thing of all is that mistrustful con artists and tauts will try to put you off other mistrustful people, dismissing them as dishonest for trying to con you. In the next breath they will try to con you. From a detached view it's funny, but face to face every day it's quite exhausting.
This is emblematic of an aspect of Indian culture. Each man for himself. Whether it's fellow tauts besmirching the others, tuk tuk drivers fighting fellow drivers to get your bags out your hand for your fare [in the absence of a taxi rank], the endless honking in stationary traffic or the rugby scrum of the Delhi metro - everyone seems to assume that they are in a hurry and you're not. That their personal mission is priority. For example - it isn't rare to find 5 jeeps offering the same trip to the same place, with all of them semi-full and refusing to leave until they are full - while still trying to fill them, rather than just put everyone into two jeeps and leave.
These are just my impressions of India and Delhi, and mostly I'm describing people in business. It almost goes without saying this country is also brimful of amazing, kind and lovely people - just like everywhere in the world. It just seems that India's ratio of people who are out only for themselves is a little higher in the cities than anywhere else I've been. Saying that, I've not been to China.
Right I better stop writing guff and actually decide what on earth I'm going to do here...thanks for reading if you made it this far! I'm in Mcleodganj at the moment and heading out for some food. Bye!
Delhi: Cobraload
Yesterday was my first day in India.
So I step out of the taxi at my first tourist destination in Delhi. 'Look mister, mister look - a cobra in a box'. 'Bull-shit' I thought - I wasn't going to fall for that one and look...it's probably code for something lude. But I did look, and it was a cobra in a basket with a guy playing a flute. It was like I'd accidentally walked into a cliche of what Delhi is supposed to be like, rather than the wonderful modern mersloperlis that it is. I was instinctively sure that looking impressed would probably cost me somehow so I tried hard not to. My trusty dark glasses saved me from giving away too much, but this was a cobra, in a basket! I tried to look like I'd seen a cobra in a basket three times already that morning and, frankly, I wasn't in the mood. By the end of the morning, I literally had seen three. Welcome to Delhi.
The snake 'charmers' [I don't see them as charmers, more botherers] seem to spot white skinned people and follow them, unfurling a cobra as they go and sitting resolutely in your path as if, at the sight of a cobra, you'll say something like "well lay me down and spank me with a wet glove if that isn't a snake in a freakin' basket - here are my life savings Dr Dofukall". Surely if you want to see a man sat down in skimpy shorts playing the flute at a snake in a basket there are places you can go, with curtained booths - like Amsterdam or Bangkok - do you know what I mean?
More to come.
____
If you liked this post please text 'rip me off' to 6969 and have the next installment sent to your phone directly [texts cost 300 Rupees and the service can only be stopped by visiting our headquarters on a remote Himalayan mountain where you can use a satellite phone to call our Customer Indifference centre in Ipswich where we'll gladly ignore you in a virtual que and play you "Wagner's Greatest Hits" reinterpreted by Rolf Harris on a 1980s Casio keyboards while your precious life trickles down the drain of time into a pool of despair.]
So I step out of the taxi at my first tourist destination in Delhi. 'Look mister, mister look - a cobra in a box'. 'Bull-shit' I thought - I wasn't going to fall for that one and look...it's probably code for something lude. But I did look, and it was a cobra in a basket with a guy playing a flute. It was like I'd accidentally walked into a cliche of what Delhi is supposed to be like, rather than the wonderful modern mersloperlis that it is. I was instinctively sure that looking impressed would probably cost me somehow so I tried hard not to. My trusty dark glasses saved me from giving away too much, but this was a cobra, in a basket! I tried to look like I'd seen a cobra in a basket three times already that morning and, frankly, I wasn't in the mood. By the end of the morning, I literally had seen three. Welcome to Delhi.
The snake 'charmers' [I don't see them as charmers, more botherers] seem to spot white skinned people and follow them, unfurling a cobra as they go and sitting resolutely in your path as if, at the sight of a cobra, you'll say something like "well lay me down and spank me with a wet glove if that isn't a snake in a freakin' basket - here are my life savings Dr Dofukall". Surely if you want to see a man sat down in skimpy shorts playing the flute at a snake in a basket there are places you can go, with curtained booths - like Amsterdam or Bangkok - do you know what I mean?
More to come.
____
If you liked this post please text 'rip me off' to 6969 and have the next installment sent to your phone directly [texts cost 300 Rupees and the service can only be stopped by visiting our headquarters on a remote Himalayan mountain where you can use a satellite phone to call our Customer Indifference centre in Ipswich where we'll gladly ignore you in a virtual que and play you "Wagner's Greatest Hits" reinterpreted by Rolf Harris on a 1980s Casio keyboards while your precious life trickles down the drain of time into a pool of despair.]
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Cultural Karma in Mong Kok
This is the story of why I sacrificed my daily diet of dirty Ronald McDonald for pig intestine.
________
Before I launch into this story, let me just clear something up. For most of my life I've said I'm a vegetarian. Generally speaking I just don't really enjoy eating meat. The taste, texture...all that. It's not an animal welfare thing - I kill fish for sport. But I eat those fish. So technically I'm a pescetarian. But no one says they're a pescetarian. If I'd have said that at my primary school I'd have got a punch - and rightly so. As it was, in 1989 my school's vegetarian option was a plate of grated cheese - every day - just a plate of grated cheese - in 1989. Then as I got older people were like 'I can't believe you don't eat bacon - you're missing out'. I tried bacon. I was missing out. So I'm a pescetarian who eats bacon. So what does that make me? The answer is fussy. But at a dinner party or an airline menu list there isn't a fussy option so I just say vegetarian and most people seem happy and move on. The truth is though- I'll try anything once. I've eaten steak, sausages [even kangaroo sausages called Kanga Bangers - which sounds like the Australian equivalent of a sheep shagger]. I've had crocodile, emu, a venison burger in NZ [called a bambi burger]. I've had scores of fish species and seafoods - I once ate a pizza with something from 5 different phylums on it. After all this experimentation - I can safely say I don't really enjoy eating meat, but I like bacon and love seafood. So there. Right.
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At the time of writing I'm staying in Mong Kok. Mong Kok is not Hong Kong. Well, Mong Kok is technically in Hong Kong - but Mong Kok is mainland - Hong Kong island isn't. Ask anyone who lives on Hong Kong island [whether they are Asian or not] and they will describe the people who live in Mong Kok as locals. This basically implies all of the below. By being 'local' you are more tradionally Chinese. Hong Kong is almost actively not traditionally Chinese, or at the very least likes to maintain a distinct cultural identity. Hong Kong is, and has been for some time, a very international place. Many Europeans, North Americans, Japanese and Australasians call it home as well as many multi-nationals...all with their own towering sky scrapers marking their patch. The result of this mix is a city culture similar to London, Sydney, San Francisco or Vancouver. There are areas which are very Asian/Oriental but there is always that over-riding feel of 'Western' commercialism. Adverts and slogans are almost all in English and a majority of people working there will be able to give you directions if you're lost. The comparison between the other cities I mentioned really does seem to mostly end where the malls do. For example, a senior politician recently publically referred to homosexuality as a disease. They love Malls, but it might be fair say that on the surface the culture can seem very 'western' - but often only on the surface. In the malls though there will be lots of 'Western' outlets- Body Shop is huge here, as is Lush. [Boots was a giant in Thailand..!?]. Then there are the food outlets; McDonalds, Prêt a Manger and Ben and Jerry’s. There will also be, of course, the 711. Anyone who has never ventured outside of the EU will probably be quite unaware of 711 - perhaps they've seen it in American TV. Anyone else in the world will have noticed it's gradual march as it slowly takes over the world. It makes Tesco look like France [in a WWII simile] and Starbucks look like Belgium, McDonalds perhaps Britain while 711 is Mother Russia. Ok I need some help with this simile - who can do better...? The point is 711 are everywhere. If you've ever been to Leicester Square in London there's a point I like to stand at where you can see 5 Pizza Huts all at the same time. I've found places in Japan, Sydney, Bangkok and Hong Kong where you can count five 711s on a 5 minute walk. Last night I was walking home with a friend and fancied a chocolate milk. I popped into a 711, whipped out my magic Octopus card and *doot* it was mine. Five minutes later I'd finished and fancied another one. I'd passed three 711s in that time and I went into the fourth one and *doot*, with a waving gesture against the octopus reader it was mine. I try to support local business where ever I go in the world, but in Hong Kong especially I've found that hard. Which leads me very uneatly back to Mong Kok.
Mong Kok was full of anything but 'Western' commercial food outlets. There were restaurants, street vendors and stalls - all selling things which I could only guess at what they were, unless it was clearly a dead chicken/fish/squid/dog*. Every place was baffling and entirely void of any English [language]. [*Ok I didn't see any dogs but I have it on good authority that although it's not on the menu in some places, it very much is - if that makes sense. I don't know if it's 'bring your own and we'll cook it' - like a seafood restaurant but it certainly would be a good send off for Fido.] Now, as I said at the start - I like to try new things and be adventurous with my food. Who doesn't, right? That's how you find your favorite foods in life...[I'm thinking Udon noodles and soft-shell crab here people...who's with me?] But I think everyone will agree that once in a while you just want nourishment - something quick, cheap and tasty. Or fruit. Fruit is a different story.
Now, the first time I ever visit a new country I make a habit of going to a McDonalds as soon as possible. Don't gasp. It's never to buy food, but always to see how much they charge for a meal. It's pretty much the best way that I know of getting a feel for a strange currency. I did this in Hong Kong though and got very confused. I hadn't made a good start with the currency though. When I first arrived in HK I went to a cash machine for the first time I tried to get out 20,000 Hong Kong Dollars.- it refused. The maximum you could withdraw was 4000. Evidently, I'd got a decimal point wrong by two places place. [Thai baht is about 20,000 to twenty quid...I was jetlagged]. 500 Dollars is about 40 quid so I just tried to withdraw my non-existent life savings....
So I went into McDonalds in Mong Kok, just to work out what was going on with the currency. I did a double check - McDonalds in Hong Kong is almost exactly half the price of eating ANYWHERE else, that's including street food. For a semi-decent restaurant it's a quarter of the price. For a good one you're getting nearer to small fractions. Not only that, you could pay for it with a magic swipey octopus card. Suddenly Ronald had a new appeal about him, his luscious red locks blowing in the wind of my dreams and calling to me....
No.
I snapped out of it and went to an amazing Vietnamese with a friend instead.
The next day however, I wondered out of my hostel and decided to try some street food next to my right outside it. This included something that smelt like a ham sandwich that had been left in a plastic bag on a hot coach all day [which later turned out to be stinky tofu] and tentacles on a stick [I never found out if they were squid/octopus]. It tasted bloody lovely. Just as I was finishing it some English people from my hostel appeared next to me with disgusted looks. After selling them the idea of squid on a stick I convinced them all to try it. They liked it - victory! I wasn't a freak! Then I thought they were about to invite me for a drink and they said something strange. 'Do you want to come and do the happy meal challenge?'. I didn't know - did I? The happy meal challenge, if you haven't guessed or didn't know involves stuffing an entire McDonalds happy meal into your face in under 3 minutes. You only win once you've assembled the toy. The whole group was so lairy in the McDonalds that they drew a crowd. I'd gone for a Fillet-o-Fish double - just because I could. It had been a while since my last McDonalds - and after all my recent cultural food experimentation...I will admit it tasted bloody lovely. The next day I was hungry and needed food - fast. You could say, I needed fast-food. I looked around Mong Kok. Everywhere was this impenetrable Cantonese and strange foods and 711s.
Then - in the middle of all this confusion shone the Golden Arches of Ronald's open legs. 'Come on in' he whispered, his red wig playfully brushing my shoulder, 'I'm dirty but I'm cheap...and you LOVE it'. I surrendered to Ronald. I'd have been less ashamed if I'd accidently gotten a happy ending than a happy meal.
Afterwards I walked out, head down low - licking the salty grease of Ronald off of my lips. I did it again the next day, for breakfast. The day after I went in for more delicious punishment. And again the next day for lunch. I went 5 or 6 days in a row just eating dirty Rondalds in Mong Kok, either as breakfast or super. My guilt was such that I've written this blog. I just couldn't face crawling through markets for 'local' street food. However, all this time - the Fates were watching. Cultural karma was about to come round full circle...
I'd met a girl called Mary through my friend Kim from University. Mary was raised in the States but lived in Hong Kong and spoke fluent Cantonese. We found out we both had a day spare and she said 'I'll take you on a food tour of Mong Kok'. I gratefully accepted. The main reason I'd not eaten anything from Mong Kok other than McDonalds was because every time I asked for anything at the stalls it escalated into me repeating myself loudly in English and them doing the same in Cantonese until I either gave up or handed them money in the vague hope of not ordering a dog testicle. Having Mary with me would be great...yeah! Well... We met up and instantly headed for the stinky tofu. It was quite nice. A bit like cheesy greasy grilled tofu. Not half as bad as it smelled [which was horrendous]. Next - spicy fish balls. That's balls of fish meat....ok. It was VERY hot but I kept my cool and rushed off to get some fruit juice. Then came an interesting one.
'We'll go to a noodle place next' she said. Noodles....'I can do noodles' I thought to myself. We went to the noodle place, but she didn't order any noodles. We had a delicious soup with a kind of potato thingy [she couldn't translate into English so I'm doing my best] with a kind of giant radish and a sort of asparagussy thing and chopped shitake mushrooms, except that they weren't shitake. Then there was boiled octopus - surprisingly crunchy...must say I prefer it grilled or swimming around. Then there was a kind of jelly thing. 'oh that's pig's blood jelly' she said - 'try it, it's my favorite'. I did. I must say it was nice. Or I would have thought so if I didn't know what it was. Because I did know - I’d have to describe it as a kind of really creamy delicious version of that blood clot you get after a nosebleed that slips down the back of your throat. 'mmm' I said - 'it's like a soft black pudding'. Then there were squid rings. Oh wait, no. Having a small interest in biology I identified both circular and longitudinal muscle. 'This is intestine isn't it?' I asked. She nodded, 'pig intestine - try it'. So, with all the bravery and detachment I could muster, I ate it. I didn't like it and I told her. 'I don't like it either - I just wanted you to try it'. Thanks Mary...next time you're in England I'll introduce you to haggis - or maybe a dog turd sandwich - I don't like eating it but I like watching other people tuck in....
After that the tour was uphill. Fruit, cold tofu [a bit like crème caramel in texture] but really quite flavorless. The Chinese don't really do pudding [Look at the desert menu next time you go for a Chinese...]. We had some lovely sesame paste which was served in a huge bowl - a bit like runny peanut butter but sesame flavored. I finished that. Then we had a waffle with peanut butter and condensed milk. Delicious and filling. Finally we went for a 24 flavor tea. The main things I could smell were aniseed and black treacle, with a hint of marmite and gin seng. Mary had no idea what was in it - and I can only guess 4 so I'll leave the other 20 to your imagination. It was vile. My sister had told me to try it. On my blog/facebook there should be two photos [soon] - one before I try it and one after. I think the after photo face I pull has about 24 different expressions on it to match the taste of the tea - the overriding one being uncertainty. Mary made me finish it all as it was 'good for me'. Just as I finished the last drop, Kim texted us and said did we want to go out for dinner in about an hour? I was so full....
An hour later I'd finished my plate of Udon noodles and was tucking into Kim's. For now I was free of Ronald's spell and I'd beaten the karma...for now. India is my next stop and I have a feeling that Ronald might take on a whole new appeal....
[I am uploading this from Delhi. I had a dirty Ronald today. I'm sorry India]
________
Before I launch into this story, let me just clear something up. For most of my life I've said I'm a vegetarian. Generally speaking I just don't really enjoy eating meat. The taste, texture...all that. It's not an animal welfare thing - I kill fish for sport. But I eat those fish. So technically I'm a pescetarian. But no one says they're a pescetarian. If I'd have said that at my primary school I'd have got a punch - and rightly so. As it was, in 1989 my school's vegetarian option was a plate of grated cheese - every day - just a plate of grated cheese - in 1989. Then as I got older people were like 'I can't believe you don't eat bacon - you're missing out'. I tried bacon. I was missing out. So I'm a pescetarian who eats bacon. So what does that make me? The answer is fussy. But at a dinner party or an airline menu list there isn't a fussy option so I just say vegetarian and most people seem happy and move on. The truth is though- I'll try anything once. I've eaten steak, sausages [even kangaroo sausages called Kanga Bangers - which sounds like the Australian equivalent of a sheep shagger]. I've had crocodile, emu, a venison burger in NZ [called a bambi burger]. I've had scores of fish species and seafoods - I once ate a pizza with something from 5 different phylums on it. After all this experimentation - I can safely say I don't really enjoy eating meat, but I like bacon and love seafood. So there. Right.
______
At the time of writing I'm staying in Mong Kok. Mong Kok is not Hong Kong. Well, Mong Kok is technically in Hong Kong - but Mong Kok is mainland - Hong Kong island isn't. Ask anyone who lives on Hong Kong island [whether they are Asian or not] and they will describe the people who live in Mong Kok as locals. This basically implies all of the below. By being 'local' you are more tradionally Chinese. Hong Kong is almost actively not traditionally Chinese, or at the very least likes to maintain a distinct cultural identity. Hong Kong is, and has been for some time, a very international place. Many Europeans, North Americans, Japanese and Australasians call it home as well as many multi-nationals...all with their own towering sky scrapers marking their patch. The result of this mix is a city culture similar to London, Sydney, San Francisco or Vancouver. There are areas which are very Asian/Oriental but there is always that over-riding feel of 'Western' commercialism. Adverts and slogans are almost all in English and a majority of people working there will be able to give you directions if you're lost. The comparison between the other cities I mentioned really does seem to mostly end where the malls do. For example, a senior politician recently publically referred to homosexuality as a disease. They love Malls, but it might be fair say that on the surface the culture can seem very 'western' - but often only on the surface. In the malls though there will be lots of 'Western' outlets- Body Shop is huge here, as is Lush. [Boots was a giant in Thailand..!?]. Then there are the food outlets; McDonalds, Prêt a Manger and Ben and Jerry’s. There will also be, of course, the 711. Anyone who has never ventured outside of the EU will probably be quite unaware of 711 - perhaps they've seen it in American TV. Anyone else in the world will have noticed it's gradual march as it slowly takes over the world. It makes Tesco look like France [in a WWII simile] and Starbucks look like Belgium, McDonalds perhaps Britain while 711 is Mother Russia. Ok I need some help with this simile - who can do better...? The point is 711 are everywhere. If you've ever been to Leicester Square in London there's a point I like to stand at where you can see 5 Pizza Huts all at the same time. I've found places in Japan, Sydney, Bangkok and Hong Kong where you can count five 711s on a 5 minute walk. Last night I was walking home with a friend and fancied a chocolate milk. I popped into a 711, whipped out my magic Octopus card and *doot* it was mine. Five minutes later I'd finished and fancied another one. I'd passed three 711s in that time and I went into the fourth one and *doot*, with a waving gesture against the octopus reader it was mine. I try to support local business where ever I go in the world, but in Hong Kong especially I've found that hard. Which leads me very uneatly back to Mong Kok.
Mong Kok was full of anything but 'Western' commercial food outlets. There were restaurants, street vendors and stalls - all selling things which I could only guess at what they were, unless it was clearly a dead chicken/fish/squid/dog*. Every place was baffling and entirely void of any English [language]. [*Ok I didn't see any dogs but I have it on good authority that although it's not on the menu in some places, it very much is - if that makes sense. I don't know if it's 'bring your own and we'll cook it' - like a seafood restaurant but it certainly would be a good send off for Fido.] Now, as I said at the start - I like to try new things and be adventurous with my food. Who doesn't, right? That's how you find your favorite foods in life...[I'm thinking Udon noodles and soft-shell crab here people...who's with me?] But I think everyone will agree that once in a while you just want nourishment - something quick, cheap and tasty. Or fruit. Fruit is a different story.
Now, the first time I ever visit a new country I make a habit of going to a McDonalds as soon as possible. Don't gasp. It's never to buy food, but always to see how much they charge for a meal. It's pretty much the best way that I know of getting a feel for a strange currency. I did this in Hong Kong though and got very confused. I hadn't made a good start with the currency though. When I first arrived in HK I went to a cash machine for the first time I tried to get out 20,000 Hong Kong Dollars.- it refused. The maximum you could withdraw was 4000. Evidently, I'd got a decimal point wrong by two places place. [Thai baht is about 20,000 to twenty quid...I was jetlagged]. 500 Dollars is about 40 quid so I just tried to withdraw my non-existent life savings....
So I went into McDonalds in Mong Kok, just to work out what was going on with the currency. I did a double check - McDonalds in Hong Kong is almost exactly half the price of eating ANYWHERE else, that's including street food. For a semi-decent restaurant it's a quarter of the price. For a good one you're getting nearer to small fractions. Not only that, you could pay for it with a magic swipey octopus card. Suddenly Ronald had a new appeal about him, his luscious red locks blowing in the wind of my dreams and calling to me....
No.
I snapped out of it and went to an amazing Vietnamese with a friend instead.
The next day however, I wondered out of my hostel and decided to try some street food next to my right outside it. This included something that smelt like a ham sandwich that had been left in a plastic bag on a hot coach all day [which later turned out to be stinky tofu] and tentacles on a stick [I never found out if they were squid/octopus]. It tasted bloody lovely. Just as I was finishing it some English people from my hostel appeared next to me with disgusted looks. After selling them the idea of squid on a stick I convinced them all to try it. They liked it - victory! I wasn't a freak! Then I thought they were about to invite me for a drink and they said something strange. 'Do you want to come and do the happy meal challenge?'. I didn't know - did I? The happy meal challenge, if you haven't guessed or didn't know involves stuffing an entire McDonalds happy meal into your face in under 3 minutes. You only win once you've assembled the toy. The whole group was so lairy in the McDonalds that they drew a crowd. I'd gone for a Fillet-o-Fish double - just because I could. It had been a while since my last McDonalds - and after all my recent cultural food experimentation...I will admit it tasted bloody lovely. The next day I was hungry and needed food - fast. You could say, I needed fast-food. I looked around Mong Kok. Everywhere was this impenetrable Cantonese and strange foods and 711s.
Then - in the middle of all this confusion shone the Golden Arches of Ronald's open legs. 'Come on in' he whispered, his red wig playfully brushing my shoulder, 'I'm dirty but I'm cheap...and you LOVE it'. I surrendered to Ronald. I'd have been less ashamed if I'd accidently gotten a happy ending than a happy meal.
Afterwards I walked out, head down low - licking the salty grease of Ronald off of my lips. I did it again the next day, for breakfast. The day after I went in for more delicious punishment. And again the next day for lunch. I went 5 or 6 days in a row just eating dirty Rondalds in Mong Kok, either as breakfast or super. My guilt was such that I've written this blog. I just couldn't face crawling through markets for 'local' street food. However, all this time - the Fates were watching. Cultural karma was about to come round full circle...
I'd met a girl called Mary through my friend Kim from University. Mary was raised in the States but lived in Hong Kong and spoke fluent Cantonese. We found out we both had a day spare and she said 'I'll take you on a food tour of Mong Kok'. I gratefully accepted. The main reason I'd not eaten anything from Mong Kok other than McDonalds was because every time I asked for anything at the stalls it escalated into me repeating myself loudly in English and them doing the same in Cantonese until I either gave up or handed them money in the vague hope of not ordering a dog testicle. Having Mary with me would be great...yeah! Well... We met up and instantly headed for the stinky tofu. It was quite nice. A bit like cheesy greasy grilled tofu. Not half as bad as it smelled [which was horrendous]. Next - spicy fish balls. That's balls of fish meat....ok. It was VERY hot but I kept my cool and rushed off to get some fruit juice. Then came an interesting one.
'We'll go to a noodle place next' she said. Noodles....'I can do noodles' I thought to myself. We went to the noodle place, but she didn't order any noodles. We had a delicious soup with a kind of potato thingy [she couldn't translate into English so I'm doing my best] with a kind of giant radish and a sort of asparagussy thing and chopped shitake mushrooms, except that they weren't shitake. Then there was boiled octopus - surprisingly crunchy...must say I prefer it grilled or swimming around. Then there was a kind of jelly thing. 'oh that's pig's blood jelly' she said - 'try it, it's my favorite'. I did. I must say it was nice. Or I would have thought so if I didn't know what it was. Because I did know - I’d have to describe it as a kind of really creamy delicious version of that blood clot you get after a nosebleed that slips down the back of your throat. 'mmm' I said - 'it's like a soft black pudding'. Then there were squid rings. Oh wait, no. Having a small interest in biology I identified both circular and longitudinal muscle. 'This is intestine isn't it?' I asked. She nodded, 'pig intestine - try it'. So, with all the bravery and detachment I could muster, I ate it. I didn't like it and I told her. 'I don't like it either - I just wanted you to try it'. Thanks Mary...next time you're in England I'll introduce you to haggis - or maybe a dog turd sandwich - I don't like eating it but I like watching other people tuck in....
After that the tour was uphill. Fruit, cold tofu [a bit like crème caramel in texture] but really quite flavorless. The Chinese don't really do pudding [Look at the desert menu next time you go for a Chinese...]. We had some lovely sesame paste which was served in a huge bowl - a bit like runny peanut butter but sesame flavored. I finished that. Then we had a waffle with peanut butter and condensed milk. Delicious and filling. Finally we went for a 24 flavor tea. The main things I could smell were aniseed and black treacle, with a hint of marmite and gin seng. Mary had no idea what was in it - and I can only guess 4 so I'll leave the other 20 to your imagination. It was vile. My sister had told me to try it. On my blog/facebook there should be two photos [soon] - one before I try it and one after. I think the after photo face I pull has about 24 different expressions on it to match the taste of the tea - the overriding one being uncertainty. Mary made me finish it all as it was 'good for me'. Just as I finished the last drop, Kim texted us and said did we want to go out for dinner in about an hour? I was so full....
An hour later I'd finished my plate of Udon noodles and was tucking into Kim's. For now I was free of Ronald's spell and I'd beaten the karma...for now. India is my next stop and I have a feeling that Ronald might take on a whole new appeal....
[I am uploading this from Delhi. I had a dirty Ronald today. I'm sorry India]
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