India Episode III – Rain Rain, Go Away

Our last entry from the sub-continent has us reporting on a week spent with Geoff & Julie in the south of India. Re-acquainting ourselves with flight, we flew from Delhi to Cochin in the southwest with a brief stop in Hyderabad on the way. Upon arrival in Cochin, it was a quick dash through the airport to catch the first of two local buses that would get us a 150 km further south to Kerala where we would rendezvous with Team Caradai. The local bus option was a great one for the wallet and the driver kindly let Mat have a crack at the role of ‘door-wallah’ which involved him swinging open and closing the door each time we hastily stopped to pick up locals off the side of the road.

The ride did descend into a little chaos towards the end, as a prolonged argument broke out towards the back of the bus amongst a group of men. First thoughts were that a damming comment had been made about Sachin Tendulker’s front foot technique, but as the argument was sustained for 20 minutes, we wondered if something a little more controversial had happened (though a damning comment about the Little Master is pretty controversial in these parts). All was settled as the driver swung the bus into the car park of a cop shop and the police removed three men from the bus in a manner that bore no resemblance to Dabangg’s manly approach (see the last blog).

Once safely in Kerala, we met up with Geoff & Julie and made arrangements to hit the backwaters (a series of canals and lakes) in a locally built house-boat. Having perused a half dozen options we made a booking and boarded our seafaring habitation, ‘The Dream Boats’. A very relaxing 24 hours was spent plying the backwaters, with reading time interrupted by a couple of snakes in the canal, a visit to a fisherman’s stall and the incredible sight of hundreds of school children awaiting their boat ride home.

Julie at the helm.

It was on the backwaters that we also found time to read up about the climate in southern India at this time of year. The heavy and frequent down-pours seemed to sit well with the ‘monsoonal’ description given to October in southern India, and thus we realised that the week ahead would probably be a wet one. The rains on the backwaters did seem pretty substantial and a few days later we were not surprised to read that the rain in the 24 hours we spent on the backwaters was a record amount and had caused some relatively significant flooding and killed a dozen people.

With the backwaters ticked off, we ventured to the northwest to Munnar, opting for the local bus option again. The seven hour trip was an interesting one, though it was clear by the end that the safest way to get to Munnar was on the bus being expertly man-handled by the man sitting one row in front of Caroline & Julie. Munnar is a high country region near the Tamil Nadu border which is famed for its tea plantations. The last part of the bus ride to Munnar was superb and a taster for the scenery we’d immerse ourselves in the next day. The beautiful scenery was only interrupted by the heavy down-pours that would force us to pull down the shutters on our open air windows.

The first order of business was to find some accommodation and thus we went with a Lonely Planet recommended home-stay option just out of town. The picturesque setting and friendly welcome were promising, as was the Lonely Planet’s description of Mr Iype, the owner, as a ‘walking swiss-army knife of Munnar information’. Over the 48 hours we spent with Mr Iype we came to conclude that the description was probably accurate in 2009, but a more accurate description now would be ‘repetitive and slightly senile old git who’s good intentions can be reasonably annoying’. Still, he organised a good day out for us and was happy to bring us up to speed with Paul Henry’s latest gaf (heh heh, her last name was ‘Dikshit’).

Joseph Iype - a Swiss-army knife in need of sharpening (photo courtesy Julie Maslin).

We spent a day with a private driver checking out the Munnar countryside and tea museum which was great. It was the first time any of us had seen tea plantations, let alone a tea plant, and the pattern they make on the hillside is a special sight. The tea museum was a little ho-hum, though the lack of health and safety regulations did mean we could get very close to the tea production line and the information video would have made any communist in charge of video propaganda proud. And of course, there was plenty of rain to accompany us on our day out and about.

The rapid fire tour of the south then turned its attention to Cochin, the city we’d flown into a few days earlier and bypassed. A cosy wee place on the coast famed for its seafood, one of our first interactions suggested not everyone was as relaxed as the setting would suggest. Having arrived at our preferred accommodation option in Fort Cochin we found it booked out. So while Caroline walked the streets for another option, Julie found a good alternative and asked the guy at the reception of the lodgings we’d arrived at if she could make a phone call. No worries he said, and handed over his cell phone.

Having made the 30 second call, Julie handed the phone back, only to receive a verbal invoice for the use of said phone. Julie’s suggestion that he should have made that clear when he gave her the phone drew a venomous tirade – “Nothing is free in India, blah blah bloody blah”. The dilation of his pupils suggested he’d left the reservation so Mat chipped in with some calming words to diffuse the situation – nothing more than a little misunderstanding and probably best just to ‘relax’. Well bugger me if that didn’t set him off again – “Don’t tell me to relax, I’m Indian, I can’t relax, this is not New Zealand, blah blah bloody blah”. Hence, ‘Relax-Man’ got his knick-name and we happily moved on once Caroline returned with news she’d secured us an apartment above someone’s house.

Our time in Cochin was pretty relaxed as we unwound ahead of Mumbai. We found a great cafe come art gallery that would not be out of place in Ponsonby where we left masala anything behind us for an hour and smoked through a number of paninis and coffees. The only sight we took the time to checkout was the fishing activity along the outlet of the Vembanad Lake. Huge Chinese fishing nets line the shoreline while in between these structures, locals hand cast nets for sardines. Due to the rains (which were still plaguing us in Cochin) there was too much weed in the water to see the Chinese nets in action.

Our final destination in India was the booming metropolis of Mumbai, an hour long flight to the north. The flight was a good one, but we all found the air hostess kits a bit of a giggle. The whole get-up was Fembot-esque with each hostess wearing a black bob cut wigs with little hats on tops. Julie & Caros got in a little trouble trying to get a snap of them during the safety presentation, but our readers demand a blog built around photo documentation.

In case of emergency, stand trance like.

Arriving in Mumbai, we realised we were back in real India – southern India now seemed like a wet oasis with more in common with the Lake District than India. Our ride from the airport was in one of the ubiquitous Mumbai taxis where the lack of space for our luggage was overcome with a 5 metre length of rope. The driving skills of the driver were a kin to those of a Delhi auto-rickshaw driver, so the ride through Mumbai was a little hair-raising in places.


With a couple of days ahead of us before we headed to Africa, the first order of business was banking admin and picking up final supplies. Thus, we made our way to the main HSBC branch in Mumbai, a place that soon became our second home. The first order of business was to locate new credit cards which were to have been delivered for us. An hour and a couple of phone calls later, we’d ascertained that the credit cards had been returned to sender and destroyed. Another fine example of the higher level of service HSBC offers to its ‘Premier’ clientele.

Meanwhile, across the floor Geoff had run into some issues cashing traveller’s cheques (apparently it is not enough to be a premier customer in an HSBC branch with HSBC issued travellers cheques, but you must also hold an Indian bank account) and was getting some local currency out of the ATM. The only problem was that Geoff only had 30,000 rupees on him but was sure he’d withdrawn 40,000. Having searched almost every possible hiding spot for the cash (Geoff was sure he’d remember if he’d put it there!), another hour was spent trying to determine the location of the mysterious 10,000 rupees. The advice from the bank staff was that he had withdrawn 40,000, but it would take 24 hours to determine if the machine had swallowed 10,000 of it.

Over the next 24 hours, we returned twice to HSBC, once for Mat to talk to someone in London about the credit card issue (a ‘sorry Mr Bartholomew’ being the conclusion to that discussion), the second time for Geoff to find out the missing 10,000 was in fact back in the cash machine and would be credited back to him. The only silver lining was that the HSBC branch was pretty swanky, made good tea and coffee, offered a generous bowl of chocolate éclairs sweets and had a good selection of magazines which we pilfered from for our onward reading pleasure. Following on from the photographic incident on the flight to Mumbai however, we received a similar telling off for taking a photo in the bank.

At home at HSBC India.

In amongst making friends with the staff at HSBC, we hit a mall and sorted out other pre-Africa matters, including the need for new passport photos. Being India, the one place that offered passport photos had battery issues with their camera. No worries mate, as we pulled out our own camera, took our own photos and then helped them print them out. After the mind-numbing fun of the first day in Mumbai, we found a dive bar in the back streets of down-town Mumbai and invested in some foaming brown ales in a dark, smoke-filled bar where the locals we’re quite happy to see us getting amongst it with them.

The Passport Guidelines don't say 'don't flare your nostrils'.

Our final day in India saw us blast round the key sights of which a few stood out. First up was Mahalaxmi Dhobi ghat which is probably the world’s largest human powered washing machine. Concrete tubs line the alley ways, giving way to line after line of drying washing which vanish into the distance. We looked but could not spy the washing we’d given to our hotel, but the odds were was that it was somewhere in the mix.

Train travel is something to see in Mumbai, given that the main train station is the busiest in Asia and an architectural gem. So we spent quite a bit of time people watching at a couple of stations which, when you consider that there are on average 7,000 people in an 1,800 person capacity train at rush hour (Lonely Planet 2009), was pretty interesting. People jostle for position on the platform as the train arrives and, at the earliest possible moment (and while the train is still moving), make a jump and push for the open carriage door. Presented the opportunity to use a local train (though not at rush-hour), we climbed on board in good traveller fashion.

Our final evening in India was spent on Chowpatty Beach, taking in the sunset and a few of the local treats before a final vegetarian thali.

Changing light bulbs at the cricket stadium.

Geoff after showing the lads behind him the photos of the sunset he'd taken.

So after three weeks in India, we’re now on our way to Africa where 2 months and 8 other countries await us. Our time in India has been both amazing and incredibly frustrating at times, and we suspect a little water under the bridge will provide us with a bit of perspective when asked our thoughts on the place. We did have one last moment though that summed up the place at Mumbai airport as we were making our way through security before our flight to Mumbai.

As Mat walked towards a security, a little old Indian lady muttered something. Mat asked if she was talking to him, which she most certainly was, infuriated with an apparent breach of queuing protocol on Mat’s part. It being 1am, Mat couldn’t hold back and responded “I lived in London, the land of queuing, for three years, and in the three weeks I’ve been in India, I’ve not seen anything that resembles a queue. The first time I thought I was in a queue, 100 pushy Indians pushed in front of me. I’m not in the mood for this, so it would be best if you didn’t follow me to this security check point where there is clearly, NO QUEUE!”.

Finally, a big congratulations to Gareth and Katho whose wolf pack has grown by one with the arrival of Amelia. Great news and look forward to meeting her in January.

India Episode II – Let The Games Begin

When we last wrote, we’d just spent a couple of days in Jodhpur (the Indian city and not ‘jodhpurs’, tightly fitting tan pants for the horsey inclined person that leave little to the imagination). From Jodhpur we made our way deeper into the Rajasthan region. Our next destination was Jaisalmer, a city in the desert and as close to the Pakistan border as these travels will take us. The region is known for the numerous royal families that controlled each different part of the Rajasthan and these days the major towns and cities all feature fortifications that were once home to the local Maharaja and his family. Jaisalmer’s fort is sandcastle-esque and distinctive in the way it rises out of the desert landscape.

No, she didn't fall asleep in a plate of butter chicken and rice. A little Hindu blessing on the way into Jaisalmer Fort.

On a walk up a small hill to take in the view over Jaisalmer (towards the fortifications), we mused about all the accommodation we’d used thus far on our travels, and how there had not been one night’s accommodation we regretted. At this time, it would have been wise to ‘touch wood’. While our digs in Jaisalmer were clean and spacious, both of us awoke at 3am in a terrible sweat. We each employed different strategies to combat the heat, with Mat taking up residence on the tiled floor to sleep on the slightly cooler surface while Caroline star-fished on the now spacious queen bed.

We each battled the elements until 4am when we both could take no more and headed for the roof of the guesthouse for some fresh air. Once out of the room, we noticed it was notably cooler, and as we made our way through the hotel in varying states of clothedness, it soon became apparent that any place other than our room was a noticeable few degrees cooler. So for just under an hour we sat under the desert sky with all portals to our room open and the fan on full tilt to move the molten hot air that had accumulated out. We returned to our humble abode just before 5am, moved all our valuables to the head of the bed, and proceeded to sleep with the door wide allowing anyone in the guesthouse to pop in and check us out. We don’t have the faintest clue as to why our room took on the characteristics of a Swedish sauna, but have refrained from musing about accommodations since, and will not dare discuss the good stomachs we’ve kept throughout the trip.

Our time in Jaisalmer happened to coincide with the end of the ‘Rickshaw Run’, a month long rally in which people have to navigate themselves from the base of the Himalayas in Nepal to Jaisalmer by an auto-rickshaw over a 5,000 km self determined route (see www.rickshawrun.theadventurists.com). For those unfamiliar, an auto-rickshaw is essentially a glorified ride-on lawn-mower featuring 3-wheels, a tight turning axis and 150cc of muscle under the hood. So after a month on the road, 60 odd teams of 3 or 4 people were now arriving into Jaisalmer in their rickshaws with some great tales from their time on the road.

Each team had to leave a short note on the finish line re-counting their best story, with one team recalling the afternoon they were commandeered by a policeman to hunt someone who’d killed a cow (a massive no-no in Hindu culture). It seemed like every team had managed to roll their rickshaw once (being three wheeled, this isn’t hard) and most had had narrow escapes with the holy cow at some stage of their travels. An interesting way to see a bit of India, though not the most comfortable way to cover the five thousand kilometres to the Indian desert.

While in Jaisalmer, we headed into the desert on camels with no names to take in the sunset. Having spent more time than is necessary riding camels in Morocco a couple of years back, the prospect of more crotch numbing fun on the back of a camel did not overly enthuse either of us, though the excitement levels of the two Germans we travelled with more than made up for our hesitation. Thankfully the journey this time was far more pleasant and the sunset from the sand dunes was very rewarding.

It was a little surprising when a man appeared out of nowhere in the sand-dunes selling bottles of coke and beer from a sack he was dragging. Noting that we were sharing the view with Germans and that a number of the Clapham mob were engrossed in the frothy frenzy that is Munich during Oktoberfest, we decided to share an ale. Being India, it was not surprising when the little man who had sold us the beer informed us that he did not have a bottle opener, but that did not prevent us from accessing the lukewarm and slightly off-tasting nectar that he’d made available to us.

Completing the trifecta of Rajasthan cities beginning with the letter ‘J’, we next headed to Jaipur to rendezvous briefly with the Caradai’s (Geoff & Julie) with whom we will be travelling through Southern India and Africa with. The strong advice given to us for our African travels is not to rely on local banking systems and to arrive in Africa with enough cold hard cash to see you through your travels (which for us will be 8 weeks so not a minor amount of cashish). Unfortunately, our initial plan to pick up the cash in Mumbai as we depart India had back-fired completely and thus Geoff & Julie had come to our rescue by smuggling several thousand US dollars with them from London. So the first order of business was to extract the cash from the numerous hiding spots in their packs (thankfully Geoff had felt safe enough that there was no need to stuff it down his Y-fronts). It was quite surreal picking up large bundles of consecutively numbered clean US$20 bills.

Show me the money!

We didn’t get up to a whole lot in Jaipur, and split our time amongst trading Indian travel stories with Geoff & Julie, booking up several flights and accommodation for the plethora of weddings we’re attending in the new year and taking care of some other admin. In the evening however, we headed to the Raj Mandir cinema which is rated as one of the best cinema’s in India in which to take in some Bollywood action. Thus, we forked out £2 for the best seats in the house and took our seats for the 6.30pm screening of ‘Dabangg’.

In Hindu and without subtitles, the scene was set for an awkward couple of hours of cinematic action. The movie however was great and really easy to follow, as an Indian Chuck Norris playing a bad-ass Robin Hood sets about kicking criminal arse, wooing a lady, making peace with his father and brother and ultimately avenging the death of his mother, intermingled with the odd song and dance in good Bollywood tradition. The Matrix inspired fight scenes were a highlight, as was the crowd’s reaction to any of the justice dispensed by the main character or the appearance of a beautiful woman on screen. Definitely check out the trailer (www.youtube.com/watch?v=aO6t9p1HoWI) and keep an eye out for it in next year’s Oscar nominations.

Our next destination was Udaipur, a beautiful city set beside a man-made lake in the south-west of Rajasthan. Our time here was a little more laid back given the three day stay we had at our disposal (you have to be a special place to get three days of our time!). The sights followed a now standard formula – City Palace plus Hindu Temples divided by Holy Cows and a Crumbling City Wall equals a Rajasthan city. The setting by the lake however set Udaipur apart from our other destinations thus far and provided a more serene experience, even though the touts pervaded our every move.

Holy cows blocking the only foot-bridge across the lake.

Following a recommendation from Geoff & Julie, we booked in for a cooking class with a burgeoning local legend, Shashi. The lesson is provided within her very modest home which comprises a kitchen and a lounge/bedroom which she shares with her two sons. In the first part of the class we got a great insight into the Indian caste system as Shashi tells the story of how she came to run a cooking class. Widowed 8 years earlier, unable to re-marry and without the financial support of her husband’s family, life was pretty rough as they lived hand to mouth on a pittance of an income washing clothes in the lake.

By chance, one of her son’s brought some Irish tourists home who wanted to learn to cook some Indian food. Impressed with the class she provided (despite Shashi not being able to speak a word of English) word spread as it does between travellers, and the cooking class became a little more regular, with tourists helping Shashi out in return by teaching her some English, typing out the recipes and even setting up a website. Now in 2010, she hosts a class every night, usually booked out in advance, and taught in a reasonable level of English. The class was fantastic, covered everything from chai masala, through chapati, making paneer cheese and a good curry.

The other notable outing in Udaipur was our visit to the city palace which, on the day we visited, was overrun with film crews. At one end of the palace, a future Bollywood blockbuster starring Akshay Kumar (gauging by the reaction of the ladies, this guy is an Indian Brad Pitt) was being filmed. In another annex, an Episode of Indian ‘Master Chef’ was underway. We got in a little trouble for photographing the contestants, given it has not gone to screen yet, but we think Joe looked a good chance for the title – looked calm, collected and the waistline suggested he’d tasted a fair amount of food in his time.

Escorted by a dozen security guards, this guy is the shiz-nitch in India.

The final destination in the north of India was the nation’s capital, Delhi. Again, based on other people’s Delhian anecdotes, we weren’t too sure that Delhi would be our cup of tea, so we arrived expecting the most vigilant touts, dirty streets and dire traffic. The timing of our arrival in Delhi however meant we got a very different experience – a city locked down and under pressure to prove to 70 other countries that India was a good choice to host the Commonwealth Games.

We arrived on the Saturday (coincidently the Big M’s birthday – Mahatma Gandhi) with the Commonwealth Games to open on the Sunday, so an especially heavy though not menacing military presence. The streets were clean, traffic light and people few and far between, mainly as an outcome of all shops being forced to close for the weekend and new laws in place that restricted access to public spaces that would normally be teeming with activity. Those parts of Delhi that didn’t fit the image to be portrayed were blocked off by road blocks and temporary fencing to advertise the Games. So while we didn’t get a true Delhi experience, the sanitised experience did us just fine.

We kept a lid on the sight-seeing, limiting it to a few landmarks including Humayan's Tomb, the Raj Path (the Indian equivalent of the Strand (London), Jefferson Drive (Washington), the Champs Elyse (Paris) or Market Street (Blenheim)), the spot where Ghandi was cremated and the impressive Jama Masjid mosque. In a bit of a paradox, the one place where access was easy and the military presence light was Jama Masjid mosque where a fortnight earlier a gunman had gunned down a couple of tourists and in a country that a few days earlier had received a court decision about the birth-place of Ram, a hugely important decision in a nation where Muslim and Hindu tension runs strong.

In amongst the sightseeing, we suffered the first major injury of the trip when Mat went over on his ankle in a deep street gutter. While it has been anything but a rare occurrence Mat stumbling in his cheap, one size too big grey flip flops, this time a precipice was crossed and judging by the swelling, ongoing pain and bruising, we think a bone in the foot was broken. Have soldiered on though and sticking with the grey flip flops before they’re retired in Africa. Another notable aspect of our time in Delhi was our recurring visits to Sam’s Cafe, a rooftop restaurant with a very affordable and tasty Indian menu. In what must have been Groundhog Day for the waiting staff, we ate lunch, dinner, lunch, dinner and lunch again at this place. And to really enforce the déjà vu moments on the friendly staff, our order remained exactly the same each time – one butter chicken, one Afghani grilled chicken and three chapatti.

These dishes really hit the spot, and given the other dubious restaurants near our hotel, we decided not to break with a good thing. The good times were such that we even forgave them the cooked maggot we found in the last chapatti on our 5th visit as a statistically insignificant event. When planning our travels, we altered our itinerary slightly once we realised we would be in India around the same time as the Commonwealth Games and thus we spent the first day of competition taking in some women’s hockey and the first swimming finals.

Given all the criticisms leading up to the Games, it was good to get a first-hand experience and now to offer our views on the Games, the views of what Indian newsreaders keep referring to as ‘the common man’. Quite noticeable to all is the lack of spectators. At the hockey we were amongst a crowd of probably 30 people within a stadium with 19,000 capacity. Unfortunately security was such that we weren’t allowed to move from our seating section to another one where there were 2 other Kiwis in attendance who humorously quipped when we bumped into them later that they’d seen us amongst the crowd at the hockey. This made us an easy picking for the TV crews looking for supporters each time New Zealand scored a goal and meant we were able to get an electoral message to the voters of Selwyn aided by a particularly dodgy looking celebratory dance.

A snapshot of the TV footage and a electoral notice to the people of Selwyn!

Security was being taken very seriously which you can understand given India’s recent history. This did make things a little annoying though as the closest we could get to either of the venues was about 1.5km away each time. The armed personnel were generally friendly and happy to assist with directions, but the security clearance into the stadia was inefficient, inflexible and a little puzzling at times. Amongst the long list of things you couldn’t take into the stadium was coins, pens, flags and video cameras (try finding a digital camera these days that doesn’t record video).

A commando keeps a close eye on the huge crowd at the hockey.

A military post at an intersection outside one of the venues.

Once inside the venue, you could only access the area for which your ticket applied, so despite Bay 12 of the aquatics arena being 50% empty and it being a cheaper section of the stadium than that which we were ticketed for, we were not allowed to cross the Bay 12 line to take a photo of the medal ceremony. We’re not sure what additional security risk was posed by us entering a different seating section, but the ‘computer said no’ and the man holding the gun was not prepared to break from the inane security briefing he had.

There was obviously a lot of concern in the run up to the start of the Games about venues being ready. While all venues have opened their gates on time, within the venues it is pretty clear not all is ready. At the hockey stadium, we were informed that there would hopefully be food available for purchase ‘tomorrow’, whilst the arrows to the merchandising stand at the swimming led nowhere. Keen to get a piece of memorabilia, the helpful staff gave me an address for the Commonwealth Games headquarters where they should be able to arrange something for us.

One of the good things about our time at the hockey and the swimming was that we met a couple of parents of competitors (parents probably made up 50% of the swimming crowd). At the hockey, we chatted for some time with the father of Blackstick Ella Gunson, whilst at the swimming it was the mother of British swimmer Michael Rock. It was pretty cool to see her at the end of the swimming as her son had moved up from 7th qualifier in the 200m butterfly to grab silver (an event we’d hoped to see Moss Burmeister compete in).

Mens 4 by 100m frestyle relay. Another gold for the Aussies.

No Kiwis on the podium on the first night unfortunately...

Our final note on Delhi is a good one, where 16 days after crossing the border we found an ‘honest’ auto rickshaw driver. To be fair, we’re not suggesting all rickshaw drivers are crims, but by honest we mean one that will put the fare on the meter and not try and take us to some dodgy overpriced silk shop to get a free petrol voucher. So it was with great excitement that we climbed out of Ashish’s rickshaw with a fare that was 80% cheaper than the one we’d negotiated going in the other direction. A generous tip was in order which Ashish hesitantly accepted. That man deserves a DB!