You've got mail

A colleague sent me the email below because he thought I would appreciate it. He was right.

Sent: Friday, December 08, 2006 2:57 PM
Subject: Indians easy 2 identify!

1. Everything you eat is savored in garlic, onion and tomatoes.
2. You try and reuse gift wrappers, gift boxes, and of course aluminum foil.
3. You are Always standing next to the two largest size suitcases at the Airport.
4. You arrive one or two hours late to a party - and think it's normal.
5. You peel the stamps off letters that the Postal Service missed to stamp.
6. You recycle Wedding Gifts , Birthday Gifts and Anniversary Gifts.
7. You name your children in rhythms (example, Sita & Gita, Ram & Shyam, Kamini & Shamini.)
8. All your children have pet names, which sound nowhere close to their real names.
9. You take Indian snacks anywhere it says "No Food Allowed"
10. You talk for an hour at the front door when leaving someone's house.
11. You load up the family car with as many people as possible.
12. You use plastic to cover anything new in your house whether it's the remote control, VCR, carpet or new couch.
13. Your parents tell you not to care what your friends think, but they won't let you do certain things because of what the other "Uncles and Aunties" will think.
14. You buy and display crockery, which is never used , as it is for special occasions, which never happen.
15. You have a vinyl tablecloth on your kitchen table.
16. You use grocery bags to hold garbage.
17. You keep leftover food in your fridge in as many numbers of bowls as possible.
18. Your kitchen shelf is full of jars, varieties of bowls and plastic utensils (got free with purchase of other stuff )
19. You carry a stash of your own food whenever you travel (and travel means any car ride longer than 15 minutes).
20. You own a rice cooker or a pressure cooker.
21. You fight over who pays the dinner bill.
22. You live with your parents and you are 40 years old. ( And they prefer it that way).
23. You don't use measuring cups when cooking.
24. You never learnt how to stand in a queue.
25. You can only travel if there are 5 persons at least to see you off or receive you whether you are traveling by bus, train or plane.
26. If she is NOT your daughter, you always take interest in knowing whose daughter has run with whose son and feel proud to spread it at the velocity of more than the speed of light.
27. You only make long distance calls after 11 p.m.
28. If you don't live at home, when your parents call, they ask if you've eaten, even if it's midnight.
29. You call an older person you never met before, Uncle or Aunty.
30. When your parents meet strangers and talk for a few minutes, you discover you're talking to a distant cousin.
31. Your parents don't realize phone connections to foreign countries have improved in the last two decades, and still scream at the top of their lungs when making foreign calls.
32. You have bed sheets on your sofas so as to keep them from getting dirty.
33. It's embarrassing if your wedding has less than 600 people.
34. All your Tupperware is stained with food color.
35. You have drinking glasses made of steel.
36. You have mastered the art of bargaining in shopping.

Cellular

Indian Cell phone etiquette

1. Never put your phone on silent. Ignore requests to do so in conferences and movie houses. You have the latest tune as your ring so why not let other people enjoy it?
2. Don't use voice mail, noone does. Far more effective is to ring someone incessantly until they answer - they will either have become available in the interim or you will have cracked their resolve by the eighth try and they will answer.
3. Avoid the possibility of the person on the other end of the line missing important information. When you are saying something important take the phone away from your ear and move it in front of your mouth like a walkie talkie. They will be able to hear you much better this way.
4. Talk on speaker phone whenever possible.
5. If the latest caller tune ring tone isn't enough for you why don't you load another caller tune for when people ring you. While they are waiting for you to answer they will be able to tap their feet along to your chosen beats instead of being bored to death by the same old ring ring.

Shall we dance?

The one thing I will say about Indian men is that they can dance. They have both the rhythm (integral) and the undisguised delight in the sport that combine to make a good dancer. Most unlike many of their male South African counterparts who specialise in something more akin to a self concious shuffle. Often at parties there will be a group of just guys dancing together, having a ball and completely unphased by the lack of oestrogen in the group.

I too have been working on mastering the art of dancing to bhangra music. I was fortunate to have a tutor who took me for Bhangra Dancing 101. She made it look so effortless but essentially there are three components:

1. Pat the dog. This is when you put your hands at hip level face down and move them back and forth.


2. Answer the phone. Put your hand in the vague vicinity of you ear with your thumb and pinkie out and shake it.


3. Screw the lightbulb. Hold an imaginary lightbulb above your head and alternately screw and unscrew it.

Interchange the above three movement whilst moving your hips back and forth to the music. Now you're dancing. Sort of.

Redemption day

Thought for the day

"Don't come up unless you have been invited by the host or the performer. Everyone should have their own special moment in the spotlight. They waited your turn now you wait yours."

Tony's Karaoke Etiquette, page 1.

On Friday night we arrived in Goa pretty late and rather than mission anywhere we decided to go and check out the hotel bar. We arrived to discover that Fridays are Karaoke night at the Marriot. Still scarred from being tuned out of a rousing rendition of "You're just too good to be true" at the Colony Arms in Johannesburg (trust me when I say that this is a very bad sign as the other singers are not exactly brilliant - the Karaoke man just didn't go in for my "but it's the passion with which you sing and not the ability" argument) I adamantly refused to sing.

As the night progressed my resolve gradually weakened and I sang a duet with Chanda. It helped that we didn't know a soul in the place and were able to sing the songs from our seats at the bar. Boldened by the relatively good response to our duet I decided that it was time to redeem myself and sang "You're just too good to be true" on my own. Sucker for punishment some might say. I prefer to think that I've improved - the audience was enthusiastic and the Karaoke man let me sing the song through to the end.

Next to me was a man named Ravi. Ravi was patiently waiting for the Karaoke to start when we popped our heads into the bar before dinner and still there when we arrived threee hours later. Ravi DOMINATED the karaoke. I started chatting to him and he told me that he came to the Marriot every Friday for karaoke. He was very good but he was also incredibly serious about the whole thing. It was as if he was just waiting to be discovered by a talent scout - I guess the Marriot in Goa is a good a place as any to be discovered. Where most of us were just messing around he looked on disparagingly and when it was his turn (which was often) we all had to respectfully quieten down and listen to him. Now I haven't been anywhere else in Asia but from watching 'Lost in Translation' and speaking to other people who have I get the impression that people take their karaoke very seriously right across Asia. When Chanda was in Bangkok she saw Karaoke booths where you could go in and sing karaoke by yourself!

So this is for you, Ravi. If any of you are looking for a singer with a great voice in his late thirties who can sing an enormous range of songs from Whitney Houston's "I will always love you" to the latest Bollywood hits go to the Marriot on a Friday night and ask for Ravi.

Goa Goa Girls

This weekend was spent in the lap of luxury. Thanks to Chanda's weekly commutes to Atlanta and staying in a residential apartment owned by the Marriot we got to stay in the Marriot hotel, a far cry from the very basic backpackers I have been staying in up to now. Chocolates on my pillow, a bed so comfortable you wanted to stay in it the whole day, a sea view, water pressure that didn't erratically run cold and was strong enough to wash all the conditioner out of my hair; I was in heaven. We spent our days lazily sunning ourselves at the poolside on the sun loungers. The pool even had one of those cool bars where you sit at the bar in the water! Chanda was tickled pink by the flags on each of the loungers that when raised made the waiters come scurrying.

I rather naively assumed that the sun shone far more gently on India than harsh Africa (the effects of the hole in the ozone layer etc.) and was a little late in applying sunscreen. I was wrong as the peuce hue of the entire front side of my body attested. To make matters worse (and more comical for Chanda), it is a lopsided, afternoon burn significantly worse on the left side of my body. I should have taken the cue of the leathery brown, seasoned tanner on my left who we affectionately dubbed the lizard due to his habit of lying on his stomach on an upright lounger (I don't know if you can picture this but it looked incredibly uncomfortable". From the moment we woke up till long after sunset he religiously lay in the sun assiduously swivelling his chair every hour or so to ensure that he didn't make the school boy error of getting a lopsided tan as I did.

I've reached a temporary saturation point with my India reading and am currently reading 'Freakonomics'. The book inspired me to wonder what the total cost of a tan is for somone like him when you factor in the cost of his flight, his accomodation (clearly he had no cost for sunscreen, the potential cost of skin cancer and the opportunity cost of the hours spent tanning. Not cheap I would think.

The evenings were spent drinking Fenny Caju and revelling with fellow holiday makers.

Of all the places I have been so far, Goa is definitely the one that I could come back to for a month.

Guess who's coming to dinner?

The order of proceedings at an Indian dinner party takes place in a somewhat different order to a South African one.

South Africa dinner party:

7.30ish: Guests arrive; couple of drinks; maybe a few snacks
8.30/9ish: Dinner
After: More drinks; maybe a bit of dancing depending on how successful the dinner party is.

The Indian dinner party:

9.00/9.30ish: Guests arrive; couple of drinks; maybe a few snacks
After: More drinks; maybe a bit of dancing depending on how successful the dinner party is.
Midnight: Dinner.

South African Louise at an Indian dinner party:

9.00/9.30ish: Louise arrives already starving and descends on snacks
After: Louise has a few more drinks and maybe a bit of dancing depending on how successful the dinner party is
Midnight: Louise cannot eat any of the dinner that is served as she is feeling slightly ill from eating too many snacks and drinking on an empty stomach.

Treasure chests

I have chanced upon heaven on earth for furniture lovers and romantics. An enormous warehouse filled with rows and rows of the most exquisite old Indian furniture. Ancient latticed doors, teak bedsteads, beautiful armoirs and engraved tables compete for the gentle, dusty rays of sunshine that filter through the high set murky windows.

Best of all though are the boxes. The giant treasure chests, beautiful dowry boxes and intricately carved jewellery boxes had me completely enthralled. For each of the boxes I conjured up stories. I imagined a young women tearfully packing up her life's belongings in a carefully carved chest and leaving her family for the first time to get married. I imagined an old lady reminiscing over each of her pieces of jewellery housed in the tiny drawers of an aging jewellery box. For hours I whimsically trawled the room. And then I fell in love. With a chest of country wood with brass detail. What completely sold me is that when you open it up there are about ten little compartments ideal for treasures.

The staff started getting a little impatient with me as I sat having an internal argument with myself.

Heart: Should I get it?

Mind: But I don't know if I can afford to?

Heart: But how often are you in India?

Mind: Ja, Louise but you have been saying that a lot lately. How are you going to get it home?

Heart: Who cares, it was meant to be? Just get it.

Mind: But I can't.

Heart: COME ON. You know you want to.

Mind: Ok.

I bought the chest.

Heart - 1.

Mind - 0.

I'm still not entirely sure how I am going to get it home.

"Sometimes the HEART should follow the MIND. Sometimes the HEART should tell the MIND to stay AT HOME and STOP INTERFERING." Edward Monkton

The name is B A, MBA

So we went to the new James Bond movie last night. I loved it. We were just short of strip-searched on our way in. People's bags were searched and their cigarettes and any food/drinks they had on them were confiscated - apparently they have a big problem with people just lighting up during the movie under the cover of darkness. Just as the movie was building up and James was about to play his final hand of poker, the lights came on and the movie stopped. Half time!

But onto today's more pertinent topic. Whilst Coreen was still here, she was sitting next to the HR rep at work. As she was working, someone approached the HR rep, stuck his hand out and introduced himself, "Hi, I'm MBA." Now before you ask, MBA is neither an Indian name nor a nickname. This gentleman was introducing (and probably defining) himself with his qualification! In India as much of Asia an enormous importance is placed on qualifications and degrees. More so on the results achieved within these academic pursuits. Almost everyone I work with has an MBA. Those who don't have at least 2 degrees. A new law regarding relaxing nursery school entrance requirements has recently received a lot of coverage in the news. Nursery school? What exactly are they testing? The kids' knowledge of calculus?

I can't help but think that in an effort to differentiate themselves in the workplace, job hunters have merely raised the bar. It's the slippery slope of Nash's equilibrium. If one person stands in a soccer stadium to see better, everyone else stands in order to see until everyone is standing and able to see the same amount as when everyone was sitting down. Even in South Africa you can see this. How many more people are studying for their CFA then 5 years ago?

So what is the moral of the story here? There’s nothing sadder than someone who introduces himself using his qualification; don’t stand in a football stadium; and move to a country with low standards so you don’t have to study hard and can still get a good job.

Economics 101

Perhaps as a result of the caste system, people's roles here are very well defined. Multi-tasking is not a commonly employed concept. The driver drives, the cleaner cleans, the sweeper sweeps, the cook cooks and the stair cleaner cleans the stairs. When William Dalrimple (of the City of Djinns) suggests to his landlady that he only employ one person to clean his very small apartment, she looks at him disdainfully and sniffs "That is very modern." I had a henna treatment on my hair. It took three people to dry my hair - one to hold the brush, one to hold the straightener and the other to hold the hair dryer. I kid you not.

This is obviously affordable because of the wealth of people in India and subsequent cheap labour. In Economics 101, one of the first things we learnt about was the relationship between labour and capital (technology). The more labour you have, the cheaper it is and the less capital you require and vice versa. Thus developing and highly populated countries are often a source of cheap labour and it can often makes more business sense for something in a developing country to be manually operated than automated.

Case in point:

On Sunday I took Chanda to the South African stand at the Commonwealth Milla for a sorely missed and rather delicious boerewors roll. She is now a fan. As we were wondering around the fair happily chomping on our rolls and sipping on our Appletisers we walked past a Ferris Wheel. On closer inspection we realised that it was manually operated! Three men were in the middle running to keep the wheel spinning. A little like a hamster on a wheel.

I can't help but notice that even the basic technology such as the processes that people employ here are are often very unevolved. For example, the brooms they use do not have handles so the sweeper has to double over in order to sweep. Surely a lever/handle would make the effort required for this chore decidedly less? I drove past a building site the other day where there was not a piece of machinery in sight. There was however one worker clearing out rubble in a container the size of a kitchen mixing bowl. A little like trying to move Table Mountain to the Cape Flats with a teaspoon?

The last thing I want to do is foist western ways of doing things onto a centuries old civilisation. Maybe I'm just being a typical management consultant and trying to make everything more efficient.

How do you know when you have adjusted to India?

1. You find yourself tapping your feet to the same Bollywood beats you didn't really like on arrival
2. You have spent the last three weeks drinking filtered (not bottled) water and eating food from roadside dhabas and your stomach has not even once swirled ominously
3. You know more gossip about the Bollywood stars than the international celebs
4. You end your sentences with yar instead of hey eg. "that meal was delicious, yar?"
5. You nod your head from side to side instead of up and down when indicating understanding in a discussion - I actually caught myself doing this the other day!

Incomparable India

Brian’s first impressions with the occasional foot note from me

The scourge of Delhi Belly

Since my arrival in the land of sensual assault (noisy views, loud tastes, riotous sounds and obnoxious odours), I have so far managed to stave off the lewd advances of Delhi Belly. Holding thumbs.

The land of servants and their assistant servants

Servants for everything. Servants to help the servants. Servants to stand around and watch the servants that help the servants. In comparison, rural Africa runs like a well oiled machine.

The quest for the Dalai Lama and the subsequent discovery of the existence of the unfairly incarcerated Panchen Lama (16)

Many Tibetans now live in the seemingly futile hope of regaining their stolen land from China. Daramsala, a small mountain village, persists in an otherworldly bubble looking 40 years into the past. As it happens, our visit fell over the time when the Tibetan refugees were conducting a major protest aimed at the Chinese President’s state visit to India. Their protests seem to fall on deaf ears though, and despite the efforts of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, the fate of the Tibetans looks bleak, especially when you consider that most of the Tibetans in India were born outside of Tibet, ‘refugees’ from birth.

While we were there we also learned about the imprisoned Panchen Lama (16) untimely ripped from divine service by the enemy. At 6, he was the youngest political prisoner ever. Unfortunately for him, by being recognised as the 11th reincarnation of the Panchen Lama he and his family have been imprisoned somewhere in China for the last 10 years.

The quest for sleep on the Bus of Death

No rest for the wicked, good, and the indifferent in the “luxury” bus away from the mountains. *

The quest for the Tyger Part 1**

Searches for India’s Pride proved fruitless on Day 1 of the Corbett Park situation. The country’s 1.1 billion people have not left much land for the Tyger.

The quest for the Tyger Part 2 – Elephant Ennui

The crack of dawn sees us (unusually) wide awake to take a ride on Sonibala our leisurely elephant. We strolled into the valley and meandered through the wet grass at sunrise. Not quite “teeming with game”, but some deer and elephants were around. No sniff of our Tyger though.

The quest for the Tyger Part 3 – A near miss

A late start led to a near miss, but we spotted the Tyger! We knew it was around because the other two vehicles couldn’t stop telling us how many great views they’d just had, and how they hoped we’d get one too. I would have hated them if we had not ended up seeing it... But the Tyger crossed the road right in front of us, then allowed us to watch him stalk some nondescript buck (all brown). No point in going to the Tiger Park and without seeing a Tyger. So well done team.***

Agran Chagrin

The architectural masterpiece built by Shah Jahan in his grief for his lost wife ironically became a symbol of devastation for us too. It turns out that the Taj Mahal is closed on Fridays. Some tourism genius must have picked the first day of the weekend for the Taj’s weekly bath. It threw a bit of a dampener on our daytrip to Agra, which incidentally takes about 5 hours to reach from Delhi (200kms away) on India’s superb express train. Also, 5 hours back, of course. But we ended up in a restaurant that afforded us some moderately good views, and the other views we bought in postcard format, which is almost as good.****

*On the road

For guaranteed safety and comfort we opted for the deluxe bus for McLeod Ganj overnight rather than the far more temperamental and infamous municipal bus. It turned out that we needn’t have bothered. The bus careened down the windy pass from McLeod Ganj tossing its passengers and their innards violently from side to side. We tried to distract ourselves by playing cards but the lights were not working and we very quickly both started feeling a little car sick. Brian tried to lie down but bounced so high as we hit a bump in the road (of which there were many) that he rapidly sat up again.

Hair pin bends did not intimidate this driver. Nothing would slow him down. Slower traffic was pushed out the way with a disdainful hoot and a menacing air. Sleeping proved impossible with teeth clenched and body braced at all time for the inevitable collision. There were at least five times in the nights where I was adamantly convinced I was going to die. At one point we hit a bump and were airborne long enough for me to clutch the shout “Oh my God, we’re going to die.”

Efforts to sleep were not aided by the freezing draught pervading the bus due to the windows that stubbornly refused to stay shut. Fortuitously, Brian had relieved a grateful McLeod Ganj street vendor of half his stock of Tibetan blankets which prevented us dying of hyperthermia. This bus driver obviously had some sort of pressing engagement. Not only did we arrive an hour early (HIGHLY unusual) but on arrival, he gave us all of ten seconds to gather our wits and belongings about us and disembark before screeching off again.

**Far from the madding crowd

My booking mission could well have been all for naught had I been following the news and seen that for the previous 2 weeks, Corbett had been closed due to strikes. Aside from being sent from pillar to post a few times on our arrival, it turned out quite serendipitously for us as the rest of the guests cancelled their reservations and we made up a third of the compliment of the guests in the camp and had the reserve completely to ourselves.

***The Tiger Dance

As I was resigning myself to the reality that we were not going to see a tiger, an enormous, dark brown and beautiful male across the road in front of us. I attribute this virtually unheard of sighting almost entirely to my tiger dance (much like a rain dance) with accompanying lyrics which I perfected during hours of patient tiger waiting.

****School Boy Error

We spent the morning trawling the perimeter of the Taj with the other losers that didn’t get the memo that it is closed for cleaning on Fridays. I felt better when we met a group of three Spanish guys who had arrived the day before but left going to the Taj to the Friday. Misery loves company.

A couple more Indian reads

1. A fine balance by Rohinton Mistry
   This beautifully written tales chronicles the lives of four individuals brought together by the circumstances of the state declared emergency in India in the seventies. It highlights the atrocities that took place during this period such as forced sterilisation and brings to light the discrimination that still characterises rural India as a result of the caste system.
   
   A book well worth reading but not for the faint hearted as it can be incredibly depressing in parts.
   
   Lou's Barry Ronge Rating: A Superlative Seven
   
   

1. The inheritance of loss by Kiran Desai
   An exquisitely descriptive story set in the Kalimpong district in the Darjeeling area in the mid 80's with a frustratingly unfinished ending. Winner of the Man Booker Prize 2006.
   
   Lou's Barry Ronge Rating: An Enigmatic Eight
   

Jungle fever

We went to a Bacardi Jungle party last weekend at the Lodi Garden Restaurant. We got to do a little celeb spotting with Mohammed Kaif in attendance. For other sport ignoramuses like me, he is the heart throb of the Indian cricket team. Chanda even cracked her way into the social pages of the Hindustani Times. The caption reads "THE KISS. Model Ani with friend Chanda. Check out his Abishek Bachchan hair band". The alice band has ARRIVED in Delhi. However many months after Becks started wearing it. Abhishek Bachchan (the even more famous son of Amitabh Bachchan who we saw in Varanasi) followed suit. Now everyone who is anyone is madly unearthing their sisters old alice bands and sporting them with panache.

Haryana happenings

The last 2 days have been SERIOUSLY lllllooooonnnnnnnngggggg. Up at 5.30 and off to the depths of Haryana and travelling up to 12 hours in a day. This may give you the impression that we travelled great distances. This was not necessarily the case. In India, your cruising speed averages at just 50km an hour. The way is constantly thwarted by trucks, top heavy buses and precariously laden, camel pulled trailers. At one point we hit 110km on an open stretch of road and I thought we'd hit 200km at least as my cheeks were being pulled back by the unaccustomed speed.

To preserve one's sanity, numerous stops at road side dhabas (truck stops) for a chai and a paratha (a kind of stuffed roti typically served for breakfast) are required.

At each NGO we visited everyone available would come to attend the meeting until there were 10 or 12 people all seated on plastic garden furniture crammed into a small head office. Piles of dusty paper files reigned with not a computer in site.

Going into the villages themselves was a little like stepping back a century. Women with water pots balanced on their heads gracefully weaved between idle buffalo on the dirt village roads. Without exception we were welcomed into the communities like long lost relatives. Food and drinks were showered upon us. Not accepting these delicacies is considered an offense I discovered when I did not drink my water because I wasn't sure if my Western stomach would be able to handle it. My camera was a big hit and produced much hilarity when they discovered they could see pictures of themselves on the screen.

Haryana women

Life for the women of Haryana is not easy. They are responsible for all the housework; working in the field and of course bearing sons. The productivity of the region is almost entirely a result of the efforts of the women.

A son is of utmost importance. He continues the family line. A daughter on the other hand is a liability. Dowries have to be paid to get her married (a motorbike if the prospective grooom has a year 11 education and a Maruti car if he has a year 12 education) and then there's the cost of the wedding (minimum 50 000 rupees) that is borne by the family of the bride - not exactly affordable for people predominantly engaged in subsistence agriculture. Strange that in Africa it is the other way round and it is the groom that pays lobola for the bride?

There is a strange paradox here between technology and thousand year old mind sets. Foeticide is a HUGE problem here. Women will use technology available to determine the sex of their unborn child and terminate the pregnancy if it is not a male. A colleague that has spent a lot of time working in the area speculated that the average rural women has up to three terminations during her lifetime. As a result Haryana has one of the most disparate men/women population ratios.

A concept unique to India and incredibly effective is that of Self Help Groups (SHGs). NGO driven groups of rural women create a savings scheme together. Monthly they contribute anything from 10 to 100 rupees (about R15). This money is reinvested in financing income generating activities such as candle making or stitching. In addition, the fund provides collateral for women to get loans from microfinance institutions. Women can also take loans from the fund thus circumventing the need to sell their soul to the rapacious village money lender.

The SHG provides morale support to the women but also a high level of accountability - the average default rate for these loans is less than 2%! You may have read aboout SHGs recently as the founder of Grameen Bank, a microfinance institution in Bangladesh, won the 2006 Nobel Peace Prize.

As the structure has proved successful it has garnered the all important support of the village men and the rest of the community. SHGs have empowered women financially but more importantly allowed them to become decision makers in their communities.

It is to these women that we are providing further income generating opportunities. We took two phone prototypes with us. Many of the men in the communities have used mobile phones but up to now, the women have been denied access to them. The look of complete delight when two of the women spoke to each other on the phone (a mere two metres apart!) was the highlight of my day.

Jaipur

Jaipur is known as the pink city because in 1876 Maharaja Ram Singh had the entire city painted pink, the colour of hospitality, to welcome the prince of Wales. The tradition has been maintained and they still have very strict rules about keeping it this colour. It's more of a burnt orange in my opinion.

Jaipur is a bit too much of a big city to really fall in love with as I did with Udaipur. Lucky for me I was adopted by Jannu who nominated himself as my official tour guide for the weekend. He is an incredibly charismatic rickshaw driver that has great business savvy. He has differentiated himself from the other guides and drivers through a guest book of sorts in which he has the business cards and comments of his customers.

I was blown away by the Janta Manta, an outdoor observatory of instruments developed by Jai Singh in 1728 that do anything from accurately telling the time to charting the annual progress of the sun through the zodiac.


I went to all the tourist hot spots but my favourite was Hawa Mahal (the palace of wind). Hawa Mahal is a fairy tale palace of icing topped turrets. At the time women were expected to observe very strict purdah. The turrets with the trellised windows were designed to allow them to watch the goings on in the town without being observed from outside.

At the city palace (home of the largest silver receptacle) a pigeon decided to leave an enormous 'welcome to Jaipur' present all over my shorts. I decided to quell the rising irritation and rather take it as a sign of good luck for things to come!

Closing doors

I decided to do a spot of solo travelling this weekend and booked myself a ticket to the pink city of Jaipur leaving at 6am. There was a fatal oversight in my otherwise flawless plan. I had noone to make sure that I woke up at 5am as planned and didn't pull the battery of my cell phone off in my sleep (a useful trick that my body picked up at varsity to cope with one too many late nights).

Running more than half an hour late, I arrived at the station with just 1 minute to get all the way to the opposite side of the station. As I started running, the second flaw in my plan was, shall we say, exposed. I had invested in a pair of Indian balloon pants - perfect for travelling and quite trendy if I dare say so myself (all the backpackers are wearing them). The elastic holding them up was not doing a very good job. The faster I ran, the more stubbornly they slipped down. I hurtled down the stairs and managed to jump on the train as it was slowly chugging away pants clutched in one hand and my bag in the other.

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