LOST

Just once I would like to go to Elodie and Vivien's house in Defence Colony without having to stop to ask for directions six times. You can't blame the rickshaw driver because all of the colonies are a complete warren of illogically numbered side roads and cul de sacs.

The problems lies at the feet of the people we ask for directions. I have never stopped to ask someone directions and heard them admit that they do not know. No, no, far better to tell us something, anything rather than run the risk of losing face by admitting they don't know the way to our destination.

Thus ensues our [the rickshaw driver and myself] goose chase following one set of vague and incorrect directions after another in the vain hope that just maybe, this time they will be correct.

High Infidelity

I'm trying to pick up running again. I decided to try running with a running club. Someone told me about Hash. Hash it turns out are in pretty much every country with an expat presence.

After the run the club president got up on his soap box - literally a box with the words "soap box" written on it and proceeded to conduct a fines meeting. Completely surreal. A motley crew of half locals, half expats - pretty much all pushing their fifties - pretending to down beers and competing with each other for the crudest wise cracks.

We had to introduce ourselves. We had come with two Italians who had misread the SMS and pitched up dressed to the nines because they thought they were coming to a party. Whilst the one guy was introducing himself he mentioned that he was married. "But are you MBA?" the group bayed back with delight.

MBA as it turns out stands for Married But Available. "Yes, I am." the Italian responded. After the formalities, I asked him if he had understood the question. He assured me that he had and he was indeed married but available.

Now this is not the first time I have come across this.

Expat communities in Africa are notorious for their "white mischief". I know of a group of friends in Uganda who had been friends for more than fifteen years. The group was harshly divided in two when the one wife had an affair with someone else's husband.

I met someone who perceived himself to be single despite his two year long girlfriend because of the zip code rule. As long as you and your girlfriend are in different zip codes what happens doesn't matter.

I know of someone who is very open about having a long term girlfriend and a wife and a family because his was not a love marriage and now it is time for some passion.

I know of men that take off their wedding rings before going out drinking with their mates.

I know of people who regularly when hammered cheat on their partners.

I know of many strong, loyal and madly in love couples but are they the minority?

I guess I just didn't realise it was so prolific. I've obviously been walking around in a little bubble of naivete and obliviousness. And it's not just in countries with an expat presence. It's everywhere.

HECTIC.

Ode to Chanda's mom

(who included a family size pack of strawberry Twizzlers - the US candy to which I have been completely addicted since working a ski season in Colorado - in her package to Chanda)

Chanda's mom

You are the bomb

I've been-eating-the-twizzzlers-that-you-sent-to-Chanda

(say this bit very fast so that it fits in)

All day long

Red Tape

For the last two weeks I have been trying to book a night at the Corbett Tiger Reserve. I started off by emailing the contact us email addresses cited on the website. Both of them came back unsuccessfully sent.

I then met someone at a party who regularly goes to Corbett. He told me I had to book ASAP to secure a room. He suggested that I rather fax a letter to make the booking. He advised me that the content of the fax should read as follows:

"To the Director Corbett Tiger Reserve, Raam Nagar

Dear Respected Sir

I, Louise B from South Africa would love to visit your park from the 21st to the 22nd of November. I would be very grateful if you could book me a double room in Dhikala FRH for the night of 21 November.

Thanking you

Kind regards

Louise B"

I dutifully typed out the fax and attempted to send it. Attempted being the operative word here. Everytime I tried to fax the letter, a man on the other side would answer the phone.

Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Me: Please can you give me a fax tone?
Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Corbett man hangs up.

Attempt 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 followed a similar pattern.

I enlisted the assistance of one of the office assistants. Attempt 7 went as follows:

Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Office assistant (in Hindi): Please can you give me a fax tone?
Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Corbett man hangs up.

3 other office assistants attracted by our raised voices came to assist. Office assistant 2 suggested we phone Corbett man first to explain we are trying to send a fax. He phoned Corbett man and explained the situation to him. Attempt 8 went as follows:

Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Office assistant (in Hindi): I just spoke to you on the phone, please can you give me a fax tone?
Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Corbett man hangs up.

Chanda arrived at the office to see 6 of us crammed into the fax/printer room. The room was all fogged up with the steam coming from my ears.

Not the most patient person at the best of times I decided to abandon my efforts for the day. I phoned my friend from the party and he assured me that he was going that weekend and would personally deliver my fax.

He rang me on the Monday only to tell me that his attempt had been unsuccessful. He suggested I go to the tourism office in Delhi.

Off I trotted during one of my lunch breaks. After three false starts I eventually found the building - the office had moved. I explained my situation to the staff at the tourism office and they were very sympathetic but regrettably informed me that they only booked package tours. They must have noticed my look of complete despair because they made a couple of phone calls and managed to pull some strings. 2 HOURS LATER we had filled in the booking form and paid my deposit.

1 night at Corbett Tiger Reserve booked. Success after a mere 2 weeks, 58 million fax attempts, 6 emails, 14 phone calls, 1 personal delivery and a very nice tourism office!

Couch calamity

It was just another normal night in GK 1 Enclave until the long-awaited couch was delivered. The mammoth four seater did not fit up the narrow stairwell and there was absolutely no way that it was going to make it all the way up to the third floor. After much head scratching and speculating a decision was reached. We would hoist it up by rope from the terrace. This may sound quite simple.

It was not.

The first issue was securing enough rope around the couch to ensure that it the force of the pulling was spread across the whole couch. We needn't have bothered. As the couch hovered around the balcony of the first floor, it got caught. The more they pulled, the faster it stuck. The rope securing the couch gradually slipped off until the whole couch was hanging upside down from two tenuous attachments.

Neighbours below us were enlisted to push the couch outward as we passed their balconies to ensure that it didn't get caught again on the remainder of its ascent. It took the combined strength of six men and a number of small boys to hoist it up. I opted to take pictures.

A couple more India reads

1. City of Joy by Dominique Lapierre
   A heart wrenching yet inspiring account of a Polish priest's experience in one of Calcutta's most destitute slums ironically named the City of Joy.
   Lou's Barry Ronge Rating: A Terrific Ten






2. Yoga School Drop Out by Lucy Edge:
   An enjoyable read about a London girl that gets fed up with marketing margerine and decides to go and find herself in India. You know the drill.
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Frivolous Five

Sari shopping

On Saturday I joined Elodie for a bit of sari shopping. She has a wedding to attend on Wednesday and has been told specifically to wear traditional Indian dress. I thought that this would be a good opportunity to achieve the first half of one of my Indian Aspirations (see side bar) of riding side saddle on the back of a motor bike in a sari and decided to tag along. With the added expertise of her Indian friend Anju we confidently hit the three story sari emporium.

Well, that is not entirely true. Anju was a little late so Elodie and I decided to start on our own. Anju rescued us from a poky little shop with about 100 saris in front of us, all of which we were being assured were a very "good colour, good colour" and "nice price, nice price".

From there Anju guided us to the sari emporium. Thank goodness she was there. We were completely surrounded by saris of every colour, style and fabric imaginable: chiffon (good if you're slim); crepe (flattering if you're not); georgette; valkalam; kanchipuram; kanthowork; sungidi cotton; bandhini; silk; and more. One also had to look at the fall of the fabric and whether there was extra fabric for the matching blouse. This all has to be taken to the tailor who makes it up for you. The sari underskirt is all important. This is not a normal skirt that can be worn without anything over. Some westerers in Delhi have been seen committing this fashion faux pas.

Elodie at least knew which colour she wanted. I, on the other hand, had been thinking about green or pink but didn't really know. Needless to say, Elodie walked out with a sari and I did not. I have come to the conclusion that shopping for saris is a little like shopping for perfume. Once you have smelt about four you can't really tell the difference between them anymore.

I think that I will have to go back another day.