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.

Halloween

So what do you do when you have to find an outfit for a Halloween party and there is a city wide strike across Delhi because the government is SEALING SHUT all businesses operating in residential areas (many of whom have been doing so for decades) and you can't buy anything?

• Grab your Lonely Planet and Learn to speak Hindi books, don your "I love Africa" T-shirt, stick Tabard, Valoid, Blackcurrant Rehidrat and suncream in your belt (me);
• Put lipstick all over your face and give yourself a really bad glasses tan (Lauren);
• Wear socks with your sandals (Chanda);
• Pull your pants up to your armpits, smash on a veld hat and hang your binocs around your neck (Nic);

and go as TOURISTS.

Check out the link on the sidebar for the pics.

Need a family vehicle?

Thinking of having kids? Need a family vehicle? Don't waste your money on station wagons and kombis. GET A SCOOTER on which you can fit your wife and not one, not two, not three but at least FOUR of your kids comfortably. What's more it's an economical ride. It's low on petrol and you don't need air-conditioning! What a deal.

Say good bye to sitting in traffic jams. Always wanted to travel light? Now you have no option. Who need's boot space anyway? What's more, your older kids can take it out on the weekend.
If you call in the next hour, not only will you get tassles to hang from your mirrors but you will also get a helmet ABSOLUTELY FREE (the rest of your family don't need one).

The real Delhi Belly

The contents of my breakfast are swilling ominously around my stomach like a washing machine on the wash cycle with a pair of tackies inside. I feel decidedly sea sick in this landlocked town. I think a bout of the infamous Delhi Belly may be coming on.

The car makes it worse. The sudden accelerating and braking and the smell of petrol fumes wafting through the window as we crawl along. It's a forty minute drive to the cool, crisp sheets of my bed and the fan in my face. I don't think that I can make it.

Testing the boundaries

Living immersed in a culture other than one's own constantly challenges one's perceptions of what is socially acceptable. Sometimes something happens that is so COMPLETELY off the charts in terms of what you know that you are at a complete loss as to how to react.

Such was the case on the train to Varanasi. The eight of us were playing cards, wiling away the time until we arrived at our destination. I was absently watching the wife of the family sitting next to us. As I watched, she shifted her weight onto her right butt cheek to face our direction, lifted her left butt cheek into the air and let out a steam-train-like fart that lasted for at least five seconds and would have made even the most well practised and enthusiastic teenage boy proud.

For a good thirty seconds we stared at each other in silence, completely dumfounded that such a little lady in such a pretty sari could possibly be responsible for the noise to which we had just been subjected. After our aghast silence we all collapsed into fits of giggles not knowing how else to react.

The family looked at us a little confused as if to say "whAAAATTttt???"

Different strokes.

Varanasi

Varanasi or Benares as it has long been called is on the Ganges and considered the most auspicious place to die since expiring here offers Moksha – liberation from the otherwise eternal circle of life and death. Millions of each people each year make the pilgrammage to wash away their sins on the ghats in the Holy Mother. These people bathe, undeterred that the water of the Ganges is so heavily polluted in this area that it is classified as septic – no dissolved oxygen exists. To be considered bathable, water must contain no more than 500 faecal coliform bacteria per 100ml of water. The Ganges contains 1.5 million!

OBSERVATION - We speculated that the original g-string may have been invented by the Indian men of Varanasi who bathe in these rather crude g-strings (pictured right) to preserve their modesty.

This weekend it was a group of eight of us. We were well represented with France, the Netherlands, Austria, the US and (of course) South Africa in attendance.

We fortuitously arrived on the weekend of the annual chat puja which meant that for sunset of Saturday evening and sunrise of Sunday morning women half submerged themselves in the water to pay puja to the sun. We took a rowing boat along the ghats at sunset and again at sunrise.

On Sunday morning, we were awakened long before our alarm clocks by the crackers that the children were setting off as their parents readied themselves for ceremony at sunrise along the riverside. Elodie was heard to mumble into her pillow at about 4.30am “What is this? Baghdad by night”. I think Elodie, like myself has had her fill of crackers after the madness of Diwali.

We all clambered into the boat half asleep swathed in grey tendrils of mist. The only light came from the warm glow of the candles lining the river. As dawn lightened the sky we watched in awe at the spectacle before us. All along the ghats, thousands of vibrant saris jostled up against one another in a melting pot of humanity. Drums and trumpets intermingled with prayers and the shouts of children to create a continuous wall of sound. Cupped hands faced east patiently waiting for the sun to make its appearance. As it quietly appeared over the horizon the noise crescendoed as all around us as everyone started praying

The atmosphere became more sombre as we passed Harishchandra, the burning ghat where the dead are cremated by the Doms or Untouchables. The Doms are one of the lowest castes but also conversely one of the wealthiest in Varanasi as they are the only people that are allowed to perform the cremations. Cremation here is not affordable to many people. The wood for each cremation is carefully weighed and the family of the deceased are charged accordingly. Only the rich can afford to cremate their loved ones with sandalwood, the most expensive of all the woods.

Lepers, pregnant women and children are not allowed to be cremated. They are tied to a stone and thrown to the bottom of the Ganges. Sometimes, the string holding them to the stone wears through and they rise to the surface as we realised when we saw the wrapped corpse of a pregnant women (according to our boatman) float past us.

We also had the great privilege of seeing (to Elodie’s delight) none other than the inimitable Amitabh Bach-Chan. Amitabh is perhaps one of the greatest Bollywood actors and is revered across India. If I had to compare him to anyone it would probably be Sean Connery but there really is no adequate equivalent in the western culture who holds the same demi-god status. He is making a movie in Varanasi at the moment and drove past us in his boat, also watching the ceremony. Elodie almost tipped over our little boat she was waving so viogourously.

Our lovely weekend concluded with a 19 hour train trip of which I think about 9 of those hours were spent playing a continuous game of asshole. There is still a great deal of speculation as to who held the greatest reign as president. Chanda, Clement and Laura/Lauren are the top contenders.

Nizamuddin's Qawwali

A thick, pea soup like fog has descended on Delhi trapping in the pollution. I can almost see the little pollution particles taking refuge in my pores in the absence of anywhere better to go. Like a good brownie I am prepared, armed with cotton wool soaked in rubbing alcohol which I brandish at the smallest opportunity. Does this herald the end of warm, summer days? For all my complaining about the heat, I hope not.

Last night we went to qawwali at Nizamuddin's tomb to watch the Sufis dancing and singing. Sufi devotional songs called qawwali are performed every Thursday evening in the open air in front of the 16th century marble shrine of Sufism's greatest saints, Nizamuddin Auliya. It's an unforgettable experience. Last night was especially festive as it was an Eid celebration. I was secretly hoping I would get to see a dervish whirl but alas there was no whirling to be had.

Kitchen antics

So the other night I decided to attempt a couple of the recipes I learnt in my cooking course in Udaipur. My logic was that I should try it at least once before cooking for others and the ultimate acid test, other Indians. So I started with a basic korma. I threw the onions and whole spices into the hot pan and looked at the recipe to see what to do next. Add the garlic, ginger and onion paste. Paste? I didn't remember making a paste at the cooking course.

And this ladies and gentlemen is why cooking courses continue to be so successful by giving people the (not necessarily true) impression that they can cook a dish when in fact they (the chefs/cooks) do a lot of the pre-preparation behind the scenes. I hurriedly did a search of the kitchen. I was in luck - there was a hand held blender in the bottom drawer. I plugged it in and plunged it into the ingredients to smoosh them into the required paste. The pieces of ginger, garlic and onion stubbornly remained in the same roughly chopped shapes in which they had entered the bowl. Oh well I reasoned, it's obviously because it is such a small amount. So I took them out and laboriously chopped them into finer pieces.

Right, next. Add the tomato and onion paste. What! Another paste! Ha ha. Well this time I will be able to use the blender because the tomato is a far more smooshable ingredient. Once again I plunge in the blender. Nothing. I add a little water to facilitate the process. Reality slowly dawns on me as I watch the water bubble. I am trying to blend food with a milk frother!!! Oh the embarrassment. Mental note: we have a milk frother for cappucinos!

Despite this my korma came out quite well and my biryani was quite delicious if I dare so myself. I still have not put them to the ultimate acid test but I think that I will leave that for another day.

PS. Last night I was looking for something in the fridge and what do you think I saw innocently sitting in the fridge door? Yip, a big jar of garlic, ginger and onion paste!

Mystic Pizza

Indian culture is shrouded in superstitions and folklore based on both religion and customs being passed down from generation to generation. As in a lot of Asia, luck and good fortune are highly sought after.

Astrology is also a HUGE part of every day culture here. It is taken very seriously and regarded as an arm of physics. Before a marriage is agreed upon, horoscopes are carefully consulted to ensure that there is a match. Noone will dare to get married on any day other than the few deemed auspicious by the astrologer. As a result, hundreds of thousands of couples will get married on the same day – and we thought we had issues with wedding venues!

The guy that sits next to me at work helped me to put a list together of just some of the more bizarre customs and folklore (he even admitted that he doesn’t know why some of these things are done):

• Add a one to every price for luck. For instance, if you are bargaining with someone (particularly in the smaller towns), you will end up paying 101 rupees for an item rather than 100.




• Don’t buy anything metal on a Saturday including jewellery. My colleague wanted to buy a new car. The weekend was the obvious time to do it but his parents insisted that although he paid for it on the Saturday, he could not pick it up until the following day




• Don’t cut your nails after sunset (???). Also, grow your baby nail REALLY long for good luck.




• Don’t wear black, especially to weddings and other celebrations




• Don’t go out if somebody sneezed (I pity the person with hayfever!)




• Hang a shoe/sandal off the rear bumper of your car to ward off the bad spirits

How many consultants does it take to read a map?

Definitely more than two if it is Chanda and I reading the map. The other night we set off to join our friends Elodie and Lize at the Indian Dance Festival at the Old Fort. We asked the rickshaw driver to take us there but all we got from him was a very blank look (in hindsight we realised we probably should have known the Hindi name Purana Qila).

“It’s near Connaught Place” we confidently told him having both carefully examined the map. To be completely honest, I confidently told him this but Chanda did confidently support me.

We were running a bit late to start with and got stuck in some traffic on the way. By the time we got there we were seriously late but quickly discovered that the Old Fort was nowhere near Connaught Place but was in fact near the zoo and India Gate which we had passed about 5 minutes into our journey! Fortunately the concert was on India time (often worse than African time if you can believe this) and we made it just as the concert was starting.

Needless to say we whipped the maps out as soon as we could only to see to our great embarrassment that we were very much mistaken. In our defence though, it was quite a large picture of the fort on a very small map so it was kind of understandable.

Diwali - the festival of light

World War II veterans and domestic pets alike cowered in corners on Saturday night as Delhi simultaneously exploded with Diwali fireworks. We sat on the terrace awe struck as all around us the night lit up with the most phenomenal, continuous, 360 degree, 8 hour display of fireworks. Every single family came into the streets and lit an array of fireworks. Hotels vied to outdo each other in the magnitude of their displays. I was completely and utterly blown away (sorry, I couldn’t resist). We even put on our own display of rockets, flowers and the most gigantic sparklers you have ever seen. By about 10pm, a thick blanket of smoke blanketed the city from all the festivities. Unbelievably there were fewer fireworks this year than they have been for the last three years. I can’t imagine how there could possible have been any more!

For the last week the streets glittered with vendors selling diwali boxes and shops windows screamed out their Diwali specials as everyone geared up to celebrate the festival of light. Every corner of every household was lit up by candles this weekend to ensure that Laxmi, the Goddess of Wealth felt welcome to enter. Even at work we had a Pandit in who did a puja (blessing) over the accounting books of the company to ensure wealth and prosperity for the upcoming year. For many smaller companies, the financial year ends at Diwali because it is considered the most auspicious time to start a business. Nuts, sweet meats (not actually meat strangely) and dried fruits abound and Bengali sweet shops double their turnover for the year. Diwali, like Christmas, is a family time. In the absence of family a whole lot of us expats joined together for a huge potluck lunch followed by a massive party.

I think I got the black lung Pop

Cough, cough. Splutter, splutter. Sniff.

Being in India has not deterred my body from developing it's biannual changing-of-the-season cold. I maintain that it has been bought on by the air conditioning. Air conditioning is a status symbol in this incredibly tropical climate and the attitude is very much if you've got it, flaunt it. The better the establishment the greater the velocity and lower the temperature of their AC.

The trains are the worst. By the end of the 5 hour train trip to Amritsar I must have resembled the abominable snowman as I gradually layered myself with every scarf and item of clothing in my bag to prevent myself dying of exposure in my thin summer shorts and t-shirt.

The concept of seeking refuge inside an AC room is so foreign to me as I am conditioned to take advantage of every day of nice weather by spending as much time outside as possible. I tried that a couple of times but I quickly realised that it is actually REALLY hot - and I wasn't even here for summer! Sadly, I think I am going to have to bid farewell to my dream of coming home as brown as a berry.

Pimp my ride

I finally worked out why there is so much hooting on the roads. Every truck and bus has "horn please" beautifully hand painted on the back. This, from what I can work out is so that they know when someone is driving up beside them. Side mirrors are not big here. They have either been knocked off by a motorbike that drove too close or are bent in to prevent them from getting hit. There is no fear of missing someone in your blindspot however, as they will very loudly declare their presence, often with a hooter that plays the motif of a popular tune.

It's all about the customisation of your vehicle here in India. Every truck and a large number of the rickshaws compete for the most intricate and colourful paintings on their chassis. The hipper rickshaw drivers even have paintings of popular icons on their mudguards. There is no branded signage on any vehicles. Nowhere will you see a truck with "Woolworths. Quality for life." branded on the side. Everything right down to the number plate is hand painted.

Talismans swing from every rearview mirror and India flags are the order of the day. The cars on the Cape Flats are given a serious run for their money. One taxi I went in even had a picture of Shiva on a clear plastic screen attached to the dashboard that flashed variations of blue and red for the entire four hour journey. I kept thinking we were being followed by the cops! My personal favourite though is the plastic wrapped sun shields. Without fail, every second vehicle's sun shields are wrapped protectively in plastic. Some cars even wrap their headrests and seats in plastic.

Matrimonials

“Son of a top-notch ultra rich Rajasthani Brahmin family of international fame having multifaceted business of reputed companies maintaining very high tastes in life, having a palatial residence in Mumbai and abroad.

He is non-manglik 1984 born/167 cms in height, handsome, smart, intelligent, social and with broad outlook towards life, convent schooling, widely travelled, wishes to hear from vivacious very beautiful girl hailing from Brahmin families well established in India/abroad. Exceptionally beautiful is the main consideration. Reply in confidence with attached Bio-Data and horoscope. Photograph a must.”

This is a matrimonial I saw in the newspaper on Sunday. Word for word. I kid you not. You may not believe me but if you take a closer look at the slightly blurred picture you will see that it is true.

Marriage is a HUGE deal over here. I would go so far as to say that you are defined by your marital status, especially if you are a woman. If you are pushing 26 and still not married eyebrows will be raised and it will be assumed that there must be A VERY GOOD REASON why you have not tied the knot. For instance, I work with an amazing and phenomenally successful women in her early thirties whose mother weekly laments that she allowed her to pursue her career because of where it has got her (unmarried in her thirties).

Matching prospects is also very important. Matrimonials take up a good twenty pages of the daily newspapers not unlike job vacancies I can’t help but think. It’s a 180 degree mind shift from the western ideal of being passionately swept off your feet by someone myterious you know sweet nothing about but somehow, it seems to work. Perhaps also because divorce is often not an option and there is no other alternative but to make it work.

Food for thought…