Rich's Indian Odyssey

Coda

2007-02-11T23:50:00.000-08:00

India time played its final trick on the Odyssey and delivered me an abrupt return home. Actually, it wasn’t really abrupt - my internal calendar had merely warped from exposure to a system of time that stretched and spurted its way forward (which would also often stop to swing capriciously from the cadenced tick-tock of civilised periodicity). During the Odyssey, I had discovered better methods of measuring the duration of my stay: so after 7 personal drivers, 16,434 blogged words and 114 curries it was time for me to become the office’s latest ex-pat to re-pat.

Regardless of what my departure date was to be, my lack of preparedness for it was always going to effect an unwieldy return home. Lack of preparedness equalled a lack of further opportunity to travel before departing, and so I remained on client work until only hours before my scheduled flight out. Farewells to colleagues and friends were express but heartfelt.

There’s no single slice of my time in India that will hallmark my memory with a complete embodiment of the Odyssey, as the entire period is one single, large, organic experience in itself. Obviously, when retelling the story I will advertise those parts that are immediately identifiable to any audience: the majesty of the Sikhs; the nakedness of the poverty; the romance of the desert; the razzle-dazzle of Bollywood. I’ll talk about the pace of Bombay, the extravagance of temples and forts, the colours of turbans and saris. I might even hint at the Taj Mahal – which, by the way, is pure and perfect.

I will miss the Indian Odyssey because I won’t again live through that same collection of events and sensations. Indian bureaucracy has allowed me to uncover fury and frustration as emotions much more readily applicable than formerly thought; Indian culture and custom have compelled me to broaden my sense of wonder; and Indian folk themselves, I now know, will convince even the most wearied sceptic that warm-heartedness will always triumph over hardship.

I will miss the Indian Odyssey because I feel like I was in the country at a point when it had just cracked the shell of economic and social upsurge and had thrust out a tentative limb into a very interested world. India, unlike many developing nations co-habiting the global Petri dish, is not new to capitalism or democracy – but its latest reincarnation is still only newborn. To briefly witness the ensuing metamorphosis while still managing to behold India’s timelessness (as sustained in the monuments and traditions of its past eras) is an opportunity that will be cherished.

It was only recently that I was discussing the Indian experience with a friend who had moved back to India from the US. We were initially at a loss to successfully and succinctly put in a nutshell the India effect. The county’s mixture of offerings makes it difficult to sum it up in a single, all-encompassing sentiment. One’s experience of India will be a polar opposite of another’s - and I can understand those who travel for leisure will see a vastly different country than those who arrive for work. I know all these experiences will be astounding and not replicable. We finally came to a summation that covered all encounters (good or bad) while preserving the matchlessness of each traveller’s own feelings toward the country. India, we deduced, was simply magnetic.

This post concludes Rich's Indian Odyssey. I hope you've enjoyed it. I would love to hear from those who have dropped by to read about the experience. Drop me a line at richardhawker@gmail.com

The 100th Curry

2007-01-30T05:20:00.000-08:00

The curry-o-meter slipped into three digits last Saturday night, heralding a milestone few temporary visitors, I suspect, could achieve without as heart-strong a dedication as I have shown.

The road to the century was pot-holed with all sorts of character defining obstacles: garlic reflux, dinner sweats and an entire medical journal’s worth of humbling gastric complications. However I mustn’t dwell on the less edifying aspects as the experience has been as enriching as any. I believe only Indian cuisine - in its endless combination of flavours and styles - could possibly allow such an extravagant number of sittings in such a timeframe.

The actual 100^th curry was timed to coincide with the arrival of two friends from Australia – Debbie and Luke. We assembled a medley of colleagues and ex-pats within one of Delhi’s more authentic eateries. The curry itself was standard as curries go (some chicken arrangement, if I remember). Finishing the 100^th was met with jubilation.

Some highlights in reaching the 100^th…

Mughlai mutton – As with most Mughul foods, it’s lamb that’s usually cooked as a kebab, and is so tender and succulent you’ll want to conquer neighbouring countries just to get more of it.

Cardamom – While not strictly an ingredient spice in many curries, its presence in auxiliary offerings such as milkshakes and kulfi (non-diary ice-cream) is exotic and refreshing.

Methi Chicken – A take-away favourite. I don’t actually know what it comprises but it has a visually luminous quality that makes it quite appealing.

Biryani – Saffron infused rice, often with chunks of chicken, mutton or vegetables. Its downfall being that one will usually mow through a whole plate without looking up and then feel remorseful for not leaving enough room for other dishes, nor leaving enough biryani for other diners.

Garlic naan – pungent and powerful, and usually the demise of dieters, the garlic specie is the preferred bread of the naan family for the serious eater.

Buffalo milk – the liquid equivalent of smoking a Marlboro. Served steaming hot and left unsweetened in a terracotta mug, it makes one feel strong enough to wrestle anything to the ground. Real Men Drink Buffalo.

Kashmiri cuisine – when not shooting at one another, these northern folk do amazing things with dried fruits and coconut shavings.

…and some testing moments on the journey…

Chicken necks – Every so often one of these disgusting bird gullets worm their way into my food. I’ve no interest in the throats of any creature save for the one belonging to the smarmy chef who attempts to pass this off as food.

Curried pickles - Erroneously served as a garnish when it would better function as a bin-liner.

Street food – Nothing ostensibly wrong with it when adjudging against any taste parameter, but one does put their life in the unsanitary paws of the street-wallahs when braving this medium. Everyone promises not to eat from the street, everyone does, and everyone gets sick.

What I haven’t yet disclosed is the fact that this achievement could not have been done without the dedicated effort of an ever-present wingman. My time in India has witnessed much transience; ex-pat colleagues arrive and depart, staff are replaced and even loved ones are relegated to cameo parts. But there is one stalwart comrade who always keeps me company during the Odyssey – especially so on the road to the 100^th curry. A comrade who provides a sharp alkaline touch to stabilise the onslaught of ferocious Indian spice, a friend who stays behind to offer warmth long after the chai has cooled.

Ladies and gentlemen…

Interesting discoveries:

Curries, as we know them, are referred to over here as ‘wet’ dishes, or ‘gravies’. The term ‘curry’ will often be appended to Thai curries.
I’ve not had one hot curry. All are belligerently spicy, but none match the heat generated by some I’ve had back home. I believe this is because I’ve only really hung around the north, where the cuisine is not typically fiery. Infernos such as Vindaloo and Madras curries are native to southern India and as a consequence have not been suitably sampled by this writer.

Administrative facts:

Curry-o-meter: 108 consumed.
The curry-o-meter measures individual sittings when curry is present as part of the meal, not individual curries. Individual curry dishes consumed: probably close to 400. Before I’m nominated for any awards in gluttony, I’d like to point out that each serving is typically very small, and is designed to be shared.

Song of the moment:

Frontier Psychiatrist, by The Avalanches.

Farewells, in their various forms

2007-01-18T09:01:00.000-08:00

I took a couple of days off after the last Bombay trip to take Jen to Varanasi and Agra – two cities of sacred and cultural significance. In fact, they are dripping with sacred and cultural significance. So much so that the cities’ local merchants of tourism need only to rely on the pull of such significance, and not the push of adequate accommodation or transport, to lure curious visitors.

A public farewell

Varanasi shares with Middle Eastern Sumar the mantle of the oldest continually inhabited place on Earth. As Amritsar is the religious home of the Sikhs, Varanasi’s divinity is absolute as the holiest city among the Hindus – as their mythology narrates many important events as having occurred on the site Varanasi now stands. Moreover, the city sits on the banks of the Ganges - a mother river from which a suckling India draws spiritual nourishment. On top of the city’s attraction as a destination for Hindu pilgrims, Varanasi also offers an obscure option for Hindus to circumvent the cycle of reincarnation should they die there. It is believed that expiration within the city allows the soul to attain salvation, as immersion in the Ganges brings about the forgiveness of sins and the curing of ills.

Recent environmental and human influences have somewhat clouded the argument supporting the Ganges’ retention of its alleged healing properties. Unfortunately India has suckled too long and industrial waste and an extremely dependent overpopulation of river users has turned the river septic. This doesn’t seem to bother anyone. Despite a cornucopia of warnings and attempts to limit its use, the Ganges is still as populated, as social and as relied upon as ever.

We caught a plane to Varanasi from Delhi, and travelled into the old city by various means of transport that were dictated by how narrow the roads became as we approached our hotel (which was perched on the bank of the river). Even after using our rustic trek through Rajasthan as a yardstick, Jen and I were still appalled by just how dirty Varanasi was. Dirt and refuse seems to have had an uninterrupted renaissance during the 8,000 odd years of continuous habitation, and has covered the city in an odious veneer that would possibly require a flood to remove. Fortunately, we only spent a short amount of time in the city (about 20 minutes) as the real excitement happens upon the ghats – being the steps rising out of the river.

The ghats host all manner of activities, from the humdrum to the bizarre. They essentially serve as wide stone walkways that hug the Ganges upon which temples, hotels and large piles of firewood (I’ll get to that a little later) are situated – all attracting different collections of people with different motives for being at the river’s bank. There are the religious folk (sadhus and the like) who conduct all manner of dogmatic observations ranging from the auspicious incense burning ceremonies to the absurd ritual of staring straight at the sun as a form of meditation. There are the touts (the collective noun of which I’m going to coin as ‘a ubiquity’) who punctuate the bustle of ghat life with their squawk (“Helloooo…boat? Helloooo… boat?”). There are the young men and old women who use the water to wash young bodies and old clothes respectively - both of which then being stretched out in the sun to dry. Finally there are the onlookers - local and foreign - who simply come to the ghats to watch humanity at its strangest, most perfunctory and most intimate.

All this activity makes for difficult passage through the ghats. One is restricted to walking, and dodging, their way around – with the local city-folk, cows and goats providing excellent defence against one’s wish to progress in a straight line. Numerous urban mines proliferate the ghats, providing yet more things to dodge while walking: the squelch of slippery cow-pats, the stickiness of spat out paan explosions and the crunch of disposable terracotta chai mugs left on the ground to await their pedestrian demise.

It was dusk when we checked into the Alka Hotel. We had our first brief glimpse of one of the world’s most legendary rivers from the hotel terrace that hung over the top of the ghat. It was wide, still and eerily silent. A few boatmen slid across its surface, with one leaving a trail of floating candles behind it. We remained in our room long enough to conclude that the Hindu god of hotel accommodation had forsaken us, obviously having run out of patience at our extravagant overuse of his blessing in Bombay only nights before.

On our first morning we answered the touts’ call to the boats and took a dawn voyage down the Ganges. This trip catalysed within me a feeling somewhere between uneasiness and world-weariness that would remain for the duration of our three days in Varanasi. Through the gloom of predawn we made out the shapes of temples and bathing ghats, and as the sun glossed the bank in daylight these shapes sprung to life with people busying themselves with those aforementioned pursuits. But no matter how vibrant the river became, I couldn’t shake the apparition of Varanasi as a dark city emerging from a dead river.

I knew this had spawned from my knowledge of the macabre enterprise of two of Varanasi’s more famous ghats. The Manikarnika and Harish Chandra Ghats are different from the hundred or so others that dot the riverbank – for they are the burning ghats. If a soul is to make use of Varanasi’s ability to short circuit the rebirth cycle, the dead must be cremated atop one of the many open air funeral pyres that are built within these ghats. Only the ‘untouchables’ (the dalits falling below the caste system who perform society’s most unpleasant tasks) are permitted to touch the bodies and maintain the fires – which run 24 hours a day. While I knew what to expect from this aspect of the Varanasi experience, it’s still an unsettling enough event to leave one unable to fully prepare for.

According to Hindu custom, the soul leaves the physical body at the moment of death. This results in the treatment of the deceased becoming impassive and even clinical when attending to its destruction. The body is wrapped in a thin white sheet, placed on the pyre and set alight. Incense is heaped on the corpse as it burns to mask the smell of incinerated flesh. A body burned in this manner typically takes three hours. Accelerants (usually flammable gels) are applied to the corpse should there be a need to speed combustion. At some point during the cremation the oldest son (should there be one) will be required to break open the skull of the corpse with a large mallet to facilitate a more efficient burning of the brain. The ashes are finally scattered into the Ganges, and the soul is released into heaven.

We witnessed about a dozen souls reunite with their creator in this fashion. Unsurprisingly, this left us quite shaken up. However I found the most affecting aspect of all this not to be the ghoulish work of the untouchables, but the manner in which everybody else goes about their daily routines with such little attention given to this grim ritual. The pyres are metres from the water and the bodies are dragged through it one last time before being set alight. Only 10 metres away (and downstream) people will submerge themselves in the river and brush their teeth with this same water that just ran off a corpse. Kids will rummage through the ashes looking for salvageable valuables and the cremators will gossip and joke with one another while stoking the flames.

Once we made our way further along the bank, away from Manikarnika Ghat, I realised just how much infrastructure was in place to cater for the public farewelling of the bodies of loved ones. Giant stacks of firewood were impressively constructed adjacent to the ghat, and whole markets were set up behind the first tier of riverbank buildings where stalls supplied the ingredients for cremation (incense, gels) and weighing stations calculated the requisite amount of firewood needed for the pyre given the weight of the body. Next to the burning ghats were hospices, where the sick and elderly rent rooms overlooking the pyres and await their chance to escape their terrestrial ennui.

Varanasi is regarded as a totem of Hindu culture and vibrancy - and indeed it is. The city plays host to enormous religious festivals and its river has a magnetic quality among pilgrims. It’s crowded and colourful and enjoys an ever changing populace. Its ashrams and musical academies, its funeral processes and its ravenous tourist industry have combined to provide Varanasi its light-hearted moniker as “the city of learning, burning and earning”.

But regardless of its being a nucleus for festival and pilgrimage, I will remember Varanasi not for those who passed through, but for those who passed over.

The Ganges at dawn...

...during the day...

...and finally at dusk.

A celebrated farewell

We returned to Delhi with just enough time for an early night before a completely uncivilised 6am rise to catch the train to Agra.

Forming the eastern tip of the ‘Golden Triangle’ (a marketing instrument crafted to assemble Delhi, Agra and Jaipur into a palatable four-day excursion), Agra is yet another city whose historical importance and ancient buildings manages to generate healthy tourist footfalls. I’m unable to remember exactly what Agra’s historical importance stems from, but I’m sure the main culprits would be wars, forts, Moghuls and the British.

As we had just the day in Agra, we were restricted to visiting only the Agra fort and a particular marble mausoleum erected by a Muslim emperor to entomb one of his wives after her unsuccessful attempt to live through the birth of their 14^th child.

The Agra fort fell in step with other Indian forts by being large and fort-like. I believe I’m now fast reaching the point where the appeal of India’s garrisoned regal residences is facing rapidly diminishing returns. It did provide a nice view of the mausoleum though.

Emperor Shah Jahan’s marble celebration of his dead wife is much more impressive. Built in the 17^th century, his mausoleum remains unmatched as an example of Islamic Moghal architecture. With its large domed roof, skyscraping minarets and intricate adornment of Islamic calligraphy inlaid with black marble, the mausoleum stands out as a striking creation as it stands alone within the grassed plains of Agra.

The white marble mausoleum

A sad farewell

Our Varanasi and Agra tours were completed in haste, so as to ensure Jen was able to see both cities before she played out her own farewell (from the country, not this world).

Again I have been in Bombay the past couple of days for work, but this time Jen opted to remain in Delhi as she hadn’t yet explored it properly. I had to move heaven and Earth to ensure I landed back in Delhi with enough time to say goodbye to my beloved. Jen’s flight left this morning from Indira Ghandi International Airport at 8am. I bounded through the apartment door at 2am, after forcing my way onto the final, delayed, flight out of Bombay from the preceding evening. We had only two hours in the apartment before the 4am alarm of Satan chimed, heralding that aching feeling brought on by an impending farewell. It was time to once again drive back to the airport.

It was a sad farewell this morning for obvious reasons. Saying goodbye to my sweetie was tough as it signalled the end of a ripper month long adventure. Jen and I have navigated our way across China, French Polynesia and now India, and despite often conflicting views on the amount of luxury we should travel in, we’ve always loved these shared experiences. Saying goodbye to my sweetie brought tears because, right now, I’m unsure when next I’ll see her. While my return to Australia is possibly imminent, there is still a chance of the odyssey continuing beyond what’s currently planned.

Rich and Jen's Indian Odyssey: 2006-07

Interesting discoveries:

India’s interpretation of ‘first class’ train travel is quite creative
The amount of stuff Jen left behind

Administrative facts:

Curry-o-meter: 96 consumed

Song of the moment:

Alone Again Or, by Love

Bombay in Style

2007-01-15T08:23:00.000-08:00

With the holiday break over, and Rajasthan a pleasant memory, I plugged myself back into the Gurg’s bubble. But not for long. Client work again ramped up, meaning the past week was spent in Bombay. Not wishing to leave Jen behind, I packed her along with other travel necessities and re-installed myself within India’s capital of cosmopolitics. As this business trip saddled the weekend we thought it best to remain and look around Bombay. I’ve now travelled there about ten times for work but have not spent any meaningful time taking in the sights, so it was exciting to have a weekend at our disposal to properly explore.

Bombay proper is made up of one main and seven peripheral islands, and was once a coastal fishing town before commerce stampeded in, scaring the fish away and turning the anglers into stockbrokers and movie producers. Actually, commerce was invited by the British, who played patron by commissioning hotels, monuments and infrastructure for it to gorge on. Bombay, now, is India’s Manhattan. An island overweight from its population but still vain from its accomplishments. There are remarkable differences between this city and other, smaller cities in India. Traffic is held up by young fashionistas on mobile phones rather than cows, and the splutter of auto-rickshaws replaced with the grunt of large European cars. Bars and other nightspots adequately match anything in the West, both in terms of slick clientele and astronomical drink prices.

As with Manhattan, the best approach for visitors is to just dive in and experience the madness from a pedestrian perspective. The shopping is excellent, with the available goods being of much better quality than other places. Jen bought enough stuff to keep the State of Maharashtra’s economy afloat at least until something else sinks it. Actually, Jen settled into Bombay living extremely well, but that was to be expected given the circumstances in which she was travelling. As I flew down for work, Jen enjoyed business class air travel and five-star accommodation during our time there. While I was off during the day (and much of many nights) with the client, Jen had to make do with massages, high dining, limousines and a lengthy cocktail hour at the hotel.

The only purely touristy activity we undertook was a visit to the Mahatma Gandhi Museum. This was good but also very dusty. An annoying legacy of Mr. Gandhi was to have most streets in almost every city named after him.

Interesting discoveries:

Bombay has some impressive colonial architecture
Gandhi spent 21 years in South Africa
During the period when breakfast is served, in the ITC Grand Sheraton Hotel in Bombay, on the first floor dining room, in the corner behind the jams, one will find a jar of vegemite.

Administrative facts:

Curry-o-meter: 91 consumed.
26^th of January is India’s Republic Day – a day when it’s prohibited to buy alcohol. This is interesting as this date is shared by Australia Day – a day in Australia when alcohol receives the opposite treatment.

Song of the moment:

You and Whose Army? by Radiohead

The Rajasthani Sojourn

2007-01-07T10:19:00.000-08:00

Mehrangarh Fort: Rajasthan's sentinal

From Udaipur we travelled to Jodhpur, whose eponymous pants were unfortunately nowhere to be seen. I found Jodhpur to epitomise what I expected India to be like before arriving. Crowded, crazy spice bazaars, wailing beggars, sleepy-eyed camels and cows stopping traffic, and of course the ubiquitous eruption of colour against terracotta terrain and sapphire skies. In addition to its managing to live up to my expectations, Jodhpur has become a highlight in my Rajasthan sojourn for two other reasons – both to do with the city’s municipal design.

Mehrangarh Fort is the biggest thing I have ever seen. It is a megalithic creation, the size and impressiveness of which has left me straining for superlatives. I’m going to have to leave it to the experts’...

"From the bastions of the Jodhpur Fort one hears as the Gods must hear from Olympus…” (Aldous Huxley)

"The work of angels, fairies and giants" (Rudyard Kipling)

The fort is the first of the world’s great attractions that I have found to live up to the dimensions measured out by my mind’s eye. The Empire State Building, Big Ben, the Hope Diamond and so on are indeed amazing but were all unfairly assigned boots too big to fill by my imagination. The Mehrangarh Fort did not suffer this mis-calibration of expectations.

The fort’s size belies its delicate carved intricacies. Its courtyards, spires and even its ramparts are sculpted into beautiful crystalline features. Elaborate stone latticework entwines around coloured glass to transform windows into kaleidoscopes that turn colours with the arc of the sun. As the fort grows out of sheer cliffs several hundred metres above the city, it’s impossible to notice this elaborate detail until actually within its walls – a feat made much easier by the resident maharaja’s opening up of his fort to the general public several years ago. A massive renovation and the installation of museums and other tourist-friendly attractions within its edifice has secured Mehrangarh Fort (and indeed Jodhpur) a place on India’s must see list.

From the fort’s parapets one can easily see Jodhpur’s most unique attraction. Almost all of the city’s buildings are painted blue. Originally used as a method for identifying domiciles belonging to the Brahmin caste, the painting of a house blue has become the staple decoration throughout the city, thus making the view from the elevated fort quite spectacular. We spent an afternoon walking through Jodhpur’s old city, with the Rajasthani charm combining with the maze of cerulean buildings to effect a surreal impression of Jodhpur.

After remaining a fews days in Jodhpur, we drove through the Thar Desert to arrive in Jaipur six hours later. Jaipur is known as ‘the pink city’, as many of its buildings are painted a salmon hue – the Indian colour of hospitality. This is a deception that must rank alongside Erik the Red’s name-swap of Greenland and Iceland to attract hoodwinked settlers to Greenland’s desolate shores.

Jaipur is the capital of Rajasthan and is a mess of a city. It’s big enough to attract the grime and sleaze of an emerging metropolis, but too small to have the infrastructure to deal with it. It has amazing shopping if one is into buying grossly inflated tourist shit. Just outside of Jaipur, however, is another of India’s fine fortresses. The Amber fort is accessible by elephant, which is a pricey but worthwhile mode of transport. It is hard to fathom the immense size of an Indian elephant until perched precariously atop one. It’s odd to see the tops of buses from the elephant’s howdah as it heaves its way up the road.

The Amber fort cannot hold a candle to Jodhpur’s titanic equivalent, but it is of interest because of the state it’s in. Bereft of a promised facelift and consequent cordoning off of its more hazardous sections, the Amber fort is left entirely unrestricted to tourists to happily scurry over its features. I’m sure it will take only one footloose elephant to lurch through a fort wall and bring a turret down upon a busload of gawking holiday-makers before the structure receives the remedial attention it deserves.

We spent New Year’s Eve in Jaipur. Our hotel laid on an extravagant dinner gala that ensured an appropriate medium through which to drink spectacularly. Not knowing anyone else present, Jen and I managed to assemble an impromptu gala table made up of a few random travellers and locals who happened to be milling about the buffet. One local who we were sat next to turned out to be a producer for an Indian radio station, who was receiving live crosses from his studio during the evening. He asked us to go on air from our table to inform the listening public of a foreigner’s impression of the night. By the time this request was made, I’d drunk enough to believe this to be an excellent idea. My new producer friend went live and threw to me, and I began commanding the airwaves with a colourful but penetrating diatribe on the Indian New Year’s Eve scene. After an intensively brief period it was apparent that the producer didn’t have much faith in my ability to connect with the listeners and so cut me off, instead attempting to interview Jen. Unfortunately Jen hadn’t inhaled as much booze as her libertine other half and so wasn’t as verbally lubricated as I had delightedly found myself to be. She had a ‘deer in headlights’ moment when the producer asked her to sum up, in a couple of words, what the night – indeed what India – meant to her. With a mind frozen by the thought of a million Indians bent toward their radios in anticipation of her response, Jen broadcast her summation: “Kashmiri aloo”.

Scholars of Indian cuisine will quickly recognise Kashmiri aloo as a dish comprising potato with dried fruit and coconut. It’s a sumptuous dish that can function as an entrée or side, and is both filling and refreshing. Despite its many gastronomic merits, I would doubt it’s ever been used as a term to appraise an entire country in celebration – on live radio no less.

Interesting discoveries:

Walking through rancid Jaipur backstreets while nursing a New Year’s Day hangover is not pleasant.
Domestically made batteries do not work – especially when housed in a camera during crucial photographic opportunities.
Rickshaw-wallahs (the guys who take your money in exchange for frantic pedalling) are actually insane.

Administrative facts:

Curry-o-meter: 80 consumed.
Jaipur’s population: close to three million
Jaipur’s climate is dry but is subject to the extremities of cold and heat during the warm and cold months – with the mercury ranging from 3 to 48 degrees Celsius.

Song of the moment:

Gang of Eagles, by Jefferson Airplane.

Udaipur's beautiful Lake Palace

Jain temple: Ranakpur

Detail of Mehrahgarh Fort.

Jodhpur's blue city from the fort.

Jaipur's meloncholy transport.

Contemplation at the Amber Fort.

Jen's Arrival

2006-12-30T03:31:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas.

I remained in India for Christmas despite all of my ex-pat friends escaping the country for the holidays. This was because I was expecting the delivery of a very special present due to arrive in Delhi on Christmas Eve. However, as India time doesn’t honour Christmas, Jen actually arrived on Christmas morning after having to stay overnight in Bombay - as Jet Airways decided to pretend her connecting flight didn’t exist.

Given hectic yuletide deadlines both Jen and I had not managed to plan much for her month in India. Last minute pleading with my corporate travel agent had secured accommodation and a driver for a week’s travel through Rajasthan, which coincided with my week off for the holidays. This was a boon as time in ‘the land of the Kings’ during this cooler season is definitely a worthwhile way to fill up a week.

Rajasthan is a state south of Delhi but still in the north-western corner of India. It neighbours Gujarat to the south and Pakistan to the west. Its regal translation derives from the many kingdoms that still govern the region, albeit through peaceful administration these days. However Rajasthan’s history tells a more bloodied story, a narration of unremitting wars and skirmishes between both adjacent territories and against northern India’s historical common enemy, the Moghuls. Rajasthan’s bellicose history has been fuelled by a thousand year entanglement of feuds between the Rajputs – a collection of warrior clans who take as their creed a code of honour that insists on a violent death on the battle field over the shame of surrender. Violent relations between warlords assured many Rajput the chance to discharge this honour, yet whether they were greeted by their ancestors in the promised eternal celestial brotherhood is another argument.

Continuous battle has left Rajasthan bristling with fortified cities surrounding often excessively vast citadels. Given most of the state is desert, these strongholds are constructed from the stone that abounds the environment – producing the effect of their garrisons seemingly rising from the sand, thus making it difficult to determine at which point the terrain stops and man’s effort begins.

While many of the region’s former occupants were soldiers, it must not be forgotten for whom these wars were being fought – for Rajasthan is the land of the maharajas. The balance of manpower leftover from war effort was applied to the construction of the most magical palaces, mausoleums and cenotaphs. The most beautiful and decadent of which can be found in ‘the City of Lakes’ – Udaipur.

Udaipur was the first city Jen and I visited. We flew there from Delhi and were met at the airport by Bundi – our driver for the duration of our stay in Rajasthan. A morning flight and short trip to our hotel allowed for a full afternoon of exploration. Udaipur is like many other Indian hamlets that paint the countryside. Narrow undulating streets bulge with merchants’ stalls hawking both life’s necessities and outrageous tourist fodder. Everything is overwhelmingly colourful. Possibly the most amazing and baffling peculiarity of desert living is the townsfolk’s ability to maintain their saris’ and turbans’ unblemished iridescence. The men and women match the desert surrounds with their darkened leathery skin, yet their clothing is so brilliantly luminous that one would think a washing detergent commercial is perpetually being shot.

Udaipur is thankfully a little less dusty than many cities, chiefly because much of it is comprised of lakes. Possibly for either security or fanciful extravagance, many of the city’s palaces are built on man-made islands within the lakes. The most central body of water is Lake Pichola, which houses the appropriately named Lake Palace. Upon sundown the palace is floodlit and provides an utterly romantic vista from any of the abundant rooftop restaurants that dot the riverbank. We had a dreamy sunset dinner from one of the rooftop tables of the Jagat Niwas Palace (severely recommended). For the remainder of our stay in Udaipur we simply strolled around the city’s palaces and temples, and avoided (when we could) the rabid street vendors that were fanatical in their wish to divorce us from our money.

Interesting discoveries:

Reliving the tumultuous India acclimatisation process through Jen’s worry and wonder.
Indians dressed as Santa are frightening – truly frightening.
The colour of a Rajasthani turban is dictated by caste, marital status and occasion.

Administrative facts:

Curry-o-meter: 62 consumed.
Rajasthan’s population is almost 57 million. That’s almost 57 million people standing around in a desert.

Song of the moment:

Everyone’s a VIP to Someone, by The Go! Team.

Wedding Season

2006-12-19T05:43:00.000-08:00

This past week I’ve managed to get myself to three more Indian weddings. Two Punjabi and a rare treat - a Jain wedding. The first two weddings were (in a roundabout way) due to Bobby’s connections, which extend to some absurdly wealthy industrialist families. He received an invitation to attend a marriage ceremony between two such families last weekend. As the wedding was touted to display a level of extravagance and fanfare unusually excessive even for India’s elites, Bobby decided it best to invite a number of ex-pats to witness the spectacle. Prameet, Bart (a Dutch colleague) and I made our way to Delhi’s most blue-ribbon neighbourhood to attend the ceremony. I had already missed many of the festivities prior to the big day, but was eager to witness the Departure of Barat (that part of the ceremony when the groom rides to the ceremonial house on horseback – accompanied by much trumpet blasting).

As is now all too commonplace, India time kicked in with typical mischievousness and delivered us to the assigned street four hours late. I was annoyed as I thought I’d missed my second Barat in as many weddings, so I was happily surprised when we turned into the street just as the 200 drummers begin pounding their skins. We jumped out of the car (seconds before it became stuck in the procession) and quickly joined the assembly of hundreds of jubilant family members and friends surrounding the groom. Not personally knowing either the bride or groom, I was initially content merely to participate as a background spectator. However after receiving free drinks and having a beautiful cashmere sequined scarf placed around my neck I soon discarded this role in favour of much more central one. We all joined the throng of spinning Indians in front of the horse – that was decorated with the most incredible golden saddle and robes. As the spinning and drumming reached fever pitch I realised that we hadn’t spotted Bobby anywhere – after all he had most likely arrived on time and was probably situated in a much more subdued part of the parade. I stepped out of the fracas to call him, and after several attempts (owing to just how thunderous 200 drummers can be) we managed the following conversation:

Rich: Where are you?

Bobby: In the pavilion, where are you?

Rich: In the procession, it’s fantastic!

Bobby: What procession? The Barat finished four hours ago.

Rich: Oh.

Bobby: You’re at the wrong wedding.

Indian weddings, as one can well imagine, are infused with many religious and cultural features. Accordingly, there are many factors that dictate when the optimal time for nuptials falls. Much of this has to do with the positions of various stars and planets, but practicalities also play a role – it’s currently a popular time to be hitched because of the mild climate. This leads to a concentration of weddings around this period, with the month of December known as ‘wedding season’. This aspect of Indian wedding tradition is relevant as it goes some way to explaining how we managed to crash the wrong wedding (or, actually, the right wedding given the freebies we were given). On that very night there were an estimated 36,000 ceremonies taking place in Delhi alone. Boggles the mind.

We sheepishly untangled our car from the procession and drove a little way down the road to the wedding we at least had a loose invitation to. It lived up to Bobby’s superlatives. We arrived for the reception, having missed all formalities. One of the family’s mansions had been transformed into an incredible Aladdin’s cave – complete with waterfalls of candlelight and thousands of curtains made from jasmine flowers threaded together. The bride was festooned with enough diamonds to start wars.

Later in the week many of us from the office attended Deepak’s wedding – a traditional Jain ceremony. Jainism emerged around the 16^th century and is quite closely aligned to Buddhism. As a consequence, they hold the title of the fussiest eaters of any culture. They are super-vegetarian, and are further restricted from eating root vegetables in case insects are hurt during cultivation (how did such religions respond to the discovery of micro-organisms?). Despite this, Deepak and his family laid on a fantastic banquet for approximately one billion guests. During our attendance, we witnessed a number of ceremonies, the purpose of each being hard to decipher. I wasn’t able to pinpoint the actual moment Deepak and Neha were officially married. There were exchanges of floral necklaces, fireworks, cheering, photos of the couple, but no actual moment when I could definitively conclude that a marriage had taken place. I left the wedding at midnight, and discovered the next day that they actually tied the knot at around three in the morning.

Interesting discoveries:

Indians invited to weddings may not even acknowledge the ceremony – instead opting to linger around the buffet all night. This is totally acceptable, and the invited majority will do this.
Wedding film crews love singling out foreigners. There were several large screens positioned around Deepak’s wedding and quite often I’d take a look at these only to find footage of me and the fellow white folk broadcast while engaged in typically banal activities – such as eating, or standing.

Administrative facts:

Curry-o-meter: 49 consumed.
There are over seven million Jains in India.
The Fylfot is the most holy of Jain symbols – it’s also known as the swastika.
The proportionate split of weddings by culture that I’ve now attended in my lifetime: Australian (17%), Jewish (17%), Indian (67%)

Song of the moment:

I Am The Walrus, by The Beatles.

Neha and Deepak

Wedding henna

Bridal party
Photos courtesy of my friend Kurt

Dhoom Macha Le!

2006-12-17T11:01:00.000-08:00

Weeks of feverish anticipation finally paid off last night with my attending Dhoom 2, one of this year’s hottest Bollywood blockbusters. For over a month now I’ve almost combusted with excitement every time MTV has played a clip from one of the movie’s dance numbers. I bought the soundtrack a while ago and have become dizzy from overplay. I went with a friend from work, Karthik, who provided occasional but crucial interpretation of the dialogue. The film was astonishingly good and has secured a place in the pantheon of fantastic experiences so far from this odyssey. But before I further prostrate myself on Dhoom’s alter, some information on Bollywood…

The Hindi language film industry is prolific in its production of feature films, having pumped out roughly a thousand movies each year in the recent past. Most westerners will identify only the Bombay based segment of this industry which is popularly referred to as Bollywood. Most exported movies have their origins in Bombay, and all domestic box office juggernauts carry the Bollywood stamp.

Bollywood, and indeed the entire Hindi cinema industry, have several distinctive characteristics that quite markedly separate them from western film. To begin with, the industry is dominated by a few Bollywood family clans. This business is a nepotistic one, producing the effect of every single blockbuster made having only about a dozen megastars to choose from when assigning leading roles. And these guys are real megastars. Each commands a seven figure deal per movie which is on par with Hollywood, but each enjoys the adulation of a fan base a hundred times bigger than the States. The almost palindromic Bachchan family currently holds court among the megastars, with the Khan boys dominating among the younger movie going demographic. The leading man in each movie is referred to as a ‘hero’, and will always be paired off against a leading lady who holds equal supremacy in terms of star power.

Another possible reason for the scarcity of heroes and leading ladies is the immense spectrum of show business talent they must display on-screen. They must act, sing, dance and be disarmingly sexy. This dozen privileged silver screen luminaries have achieved such stratospheric stardom that their movies have become three hour glamour shoots, whereby plots and secondary cast merely facilitate situations in which they display as much flesh/pouts/muscular flexes as possible – and my God it’s breathtaking.

Perhaps the best recognised feature of Bollywood film is the inclusion of song and dance. Western audiences erroneously apply the ‘musical’ sobriquet to Bollywood flicks given the heroes’ propensity to burst into choreographed dancing and singing. This is only partially the case, as Indian audiences demand that each movie covers the entire gamut of film genres. As a consequence it’s unsurprising for plots to manufacture intense action scenes, powerful love stories, slapstick comedy and (of course) song and dance routines so extravagant that Olympic opening ceremonies look like school plays in comparison.

Dhoom 2 sticks to the formula and overwhelms the audience with three hours of phenomenal bombast and cinematic commotion. Creative use of gadgetry, weaponry and costume produce a series of events that includes impossibly precarious jewel heists and convoluted chase scenes involving helicopters, jet skis and rollerblades. Not to be outdone by the excessive action sequences, the film’s locations are equally remarkable – with most of the film shot in Bombay and Rio.

Of course the most impressive aspect of Dhoom 2 is the cast. The heroes are inflated with muscle and bravado, and the leading ladies smoulder with such breathtaking magnetism that they rival sirens for dangerous sensuality. Hrithik Roshan is Bollywood’s highest paid entertainer (as the term ‘actor’ would place an unfair limit on their requisite show business faculties) and heads up a troupe of Bollywood heavyweights. Hrithik resembles an amalgam of Sylvester Stallone and a robot designed to look like a perfect Sylvester Stallone. Interestingly he identifies Stallone as an inspiration. His body has been carved out of a gymnasium, and he wears a great bulwark of a jaw that could possibly stop bullets. He is extremely handsome and is a vigorous dancer.

Opposite Hrithik is Aishwarya Rai, a former Miss Universe and modern day Aphrodite. Ash, as she is affectionately known to her salivating fans, is painfully beautiful. She slides and salsas her way through the movie with such tantalising evocation that it seems she’s managed to weaponise lust and fire it directly into the pores of trembling movie goers. Despite the animal appeal of the leading cast, Bollywood movies do not include sex scenes. In fact, Dhoom 2 attracted controversy as it included Ash’s first ever on-screen kiss. Whatever Indian cinematic classification authority exists has entrenched an interesting double standard in a film’s licence to portray anything sexual in nature. On one hand, conservatism has won over the popular desire for steamy boudoir scenes; on the other, Bollywood has managed to thumb its nose at such traditionalist objections by incorporating almost volcanic displays of gyrating oiled flesh into each musical number. In the improbable case of Ash being insufficient for the ogling public, the producers of Dhoom 2 overcorrected brilliantly in casting Bipasha Basu (a former tiara holder of the excessively titled ‘Supermodel of the World’ contest) in not one but two character roles.

Interesting discoveries:

A love for Bollywood film.
Indian audiences will whistle, sing along, jabber into phones and dance at the front of the cinema – all while the movie plays.
Hrithik Roshan has two thumbs on his right hand – one just grows out of the other. This can be seen quite clearly in many scenes throughout the movie, especially close ups of his handling a gun.
One doesn’t need a grasp of Hindi to enjoy Bollywood. The plots are usually uncomplicated enough to follow, and important pieces of dialogue are usually delivered in English.
For reasons still unknown to me, halfway through the movie Hrithik and Ash begin talking about Adam Gilchrist and the virtues of Australian opening batsmen – all while dressed in ninja suits and stealing the British Crown Jewels.
Many Bollywood stars won’t actually sing their own songs, instead relying on back up singers.

Administrative facts:

Curry-o-meter: 46 consumed.
Bombay is the capital of Maharashtra, a western state that is second largest in terms of population (almost 100 million).

Song of the moment:

Crazy Kiya Re, from Dhoom 2 (surprised?)

Movie poster for Dhoom 2: Modest

Vignette number 2: India time

2006-12-08T11:26:00.000-08:00

India believes in deadlines, but they are a much different concept to what other cultures may perceive them to be. Indian deadlines are tricky because they seem to be dictated more by emotion, hunger or happenstance than by time itself. There are possibly historical reasons why these folk are not able to stomach time as a non-spatial linear continuum. Whatever these reasons, their manifestation is apparent in the psyche of the country.

To begin with India, in its perversity, has only one time zone. Secondly, India is unfinished. It always has been, and presumably will remain this way. Consequently Indian historians were unable to draw any point of reference against which a periodic interval between events can be quantified. Doubtless at some point they just gave up trying (this point of course would be unknown to them), and the notion of punctuality was shot into oblivion.

Indians have added a few idiosyncrasies to their methods of dealing with time that are very successful in protecting their ignorance of it and confounding those who abide by it. When attempting to solicit a commitment to any time based request, one may find themselves utterly bamboozled by an Indian technique of gesticulation that allows a simultaneous delivery of both a nod and a shake of the head. The most plausible explanation for this is the Indian’s development of an additional rotational axis in their skulls that permits such an action. This is impressive to watch but maddening to receive.

In case this first line of defence fails and the recipient has managed to draw a conclusion from the exchange, then an Indian may conjure further befuddlement. This is usually in the form of a somewhat loose verbal acknowledgement that resembles ‘ok’ (itself a nebulous expression). Even in English this idiom’s function can range from assent to dismissal, yet the Hindi language has taken this concept and engineered it into at least three separate versions – all with minute but crucial differences in implication. It’s difficult to know exactly when one version is more appropriate than another – presumably it’s dictated by emotion, hunger or happenstance. Of course to an outsider it’s all gibberish, but extremely powerful in its capacity to screen an addressee from any semblance of an explicit answer on anything.

Of course, even if one manages to wring a time commitment from one of these folk, there is still no guarantee that it will transpire as decided. India time is a mechanism with a patchwork of inbuilt countermeasures designed to ensure that meetings are postponed, flights cancelled and any other rendezvous scuttled. With notable regard to any international arrangements made that include India, it also seems that India time has the ability to trump any other conflicting treatment of time.

India time is a phenomenon that Chronos himself would find impossible to straighten out. However it does have one redeeming feature – you’re never late for anything.

Vignette number 1: Trucks

2006-12-02T12:31:00.000-08:00

An interesting thing happens to Indian roads shortly after midnight. The surge of hatchbacks and auto-rickshaws drains to allow the road’s more purposeful denizens to carry on their nocturnal journey. Given the chaos of India’s copious and profligate peak hours, it makes sense for trucks to occupy the roads in the dead of night. However sensible this may be, it does commit them to long voyages through an unlit country. In a defiant attempt to illuminate these otherwise blackened routes, each truck is painted in vividly fluorescent colours and garnished with streamers, tassels and other decorations. Some have psychedelic Buddhist glyphs splashed across their sides; others have indiscriminate advertisements fastened to them, the only criteria for the suitability of which seemingly the level of dazzle discharged. It’s an encouraging sight, and one that is a characteristic reflection of this country’s rambunctious spirit.

It is also a little eerie. Unlike the daytime Daytona produced by India’s usual commuting lunatics, these trucks – assembled into flotillas of up to one hundred - progress through the night almost at a snail’s pace, emitting a whale tone of one hundred low geared engines.

India’s growth is beheld in these trucks. Their payload is the lifeblood of a burgeoning economy, and as India sleeps these giant road centipedes ensure that factories are supplied, barges are filled and the produce of a billion people delivered – night after night.

Punjabi Visit

2006-11-26T10:39:00.000-08:00

I escaped Delhi this weekend. A group of us flew north into Punjab to visit the astonishing Golden Temple of the Sikhs in Amritsar, and to witness the sunset closing-of-the-border ceremony in Attari – a town on the boundary line between India and Pakistan.

The Punjab is one of India’s northernmost states, and acts as a precarious wedge between the disputed Jammu & Kashmir region and the other disputer, Pakistan. The state is the spiritual home for India’s 15 million Sikhs, with Amritsar the beating heart of the religion. Given its latitude and the time of year, the city is mild during the day but chilly once the sun goes down. It’s also quite small in comparison to the swollen masses of Delhi and Bombay, but no less chaotic (it’s still India after all). Amritsar is only lightly touched by the encroachment of globalisation and so makes for a much more traditional Indian experience. The streets are narrow and snake around temples, gardens and other municipal landmarks. There’s even less organised traffic than the big cities, with bicycles and auto-rickshaws winning the war of numbers over more modern methods of people movement. There are no large buildings save for the holy type, and what other structures there are seem to have grown of their own accord. Easily the most absorbing aspect of Amritsar is the locals. Given the overwhelming Sikh presence here, nearly all men wear turbans and sport bristly beards and moustaches. Many also carry large curved swords. The Sikhs are majestic in their appearance and are overwhelmingly colourful – both in the way they interact and their choice of adornment.

We arrived early on Saturday and made our way straight to the temple. We soon realised that unplugging ourselves from the bubble was an exercise requiring incremental steps. Our enthusiasm in wishing to experience the ‘real’ India meant that we had initially turned our noses up at the thought of staying in sensible accommodation. The Sikhs, with golden hearts to match their temple, offer a free bed to those making the pilgrimage to Amritsar. We thought the offer to be extremely appropriate given our self assessed fit as pilgrims. This assessment proved to be quite inaccurate.

The Sikhs have a number of peculiarities unique to their faith. On top of this, they apply another layer of dogma to those wishing to enter a Sikh temple. Only the most devout follow every one of these sacred encumbrances, yet all pilgrims are expected to observe a minimum application of the rules. This consists of covering one’s head and washing one’s feet to prepare for entry into the temple. These are quite straight forward, but severely detract from the appeal of the temple as an abode for the night. Headscarves are given out at the entrance, but are most likely soaked with mites, lice and other head scroungers that provide too much of a hurdle in wanting to wear one while sleeping. The other problem is the washing of feet, or should I say the dunking of feet into water that even bacteria would refuse to multiply in. This observation leaves many parts of the temple continuously marinating in the stench of a thousand pairs of pilgrim’s feet. After calculating the cumulative nausea we could expect from sleeping like a pilgrim, we decided that the price tag was probably appropriate, and that we would not be taking up the offer. We skulked back into our bubble and checked into a hotel. It was extremely basic lodgings and in reality not much better than the temple’s offer, but there is always a certain comfort in being solely accountable for whatever odours are present within one’s personal space.

Despite its limitations as a residence, the Golden Temple is a sight to behold. The entire complex consists of the temple itself positioned in the centre of a huge manmade lake. The lake is surrounded by an enormous fortified parameter building that is totally whitewashed and finished with delicate, seemingly colonial, architecture. The temple’s eponymous substance is fashioned over almost the entirety of the façade in the most elegant frescos detailing Sikh history and beliefs. What’s most impressive is the amount of gold required for this task. It’s estimated that over 750kg of it was used in providing the temple its precious coat. The grandeur and majesty of the temple brought about an inexorable awe. That it is also the spiritual seat of a major religion made for a very powerful experience. I doubt I’ll easily forget the visit.

Amritsar's Golden Temple by day...

...and again by night.

The afternoon’s journey to Attari provided a most comical contrast to the morning’s activity. We arrived in time for sunset, at which time the closing-of-the-border ceremony takes place between India and Pakistan – best of friends all the time. Whatever purpose this ceremony was once designed for has long been replaced with the need to create a daily stage upon which two neighbouring aggressors can act out all manner of pompous militarised buffoonery.

Let it not be said that each side doesn’t take the event seriously. There are two sets of gates that are erected almost flush with one another, representing the only thoroughfare between the two countries. On each side a troop of puffed up guards, in the most immaculate and ludicrous uniforms, attempt to out-stomp and out-glare each other for the amusement of onlookers – who by this time have been herded into grandstands on each side of the border. Both the Pakistani and Indian guards are dressed identically save for the colours of their uniforms, both sides sport steely glares and outrageous moustaches and both sides are equally in danger of being flooded by their own bluster. In erstwhile synchronicity, both troops will perform a series of yells, stomps and other pedestrian manoeuvres designed to get close enough to the gates to close them. A spectacular component of the performance is the procession of each side’s guards toward the gate. One at a time, the guards propel themselves forward using high kicks until they stand eyeball to eyeball at the gates. Should there ever be need for it, each of these guards could quite easily kick themselves in the face. I wouldn’t doubt that this could in fact be incorporated into the routine if ever interest in the ceremony begins to wane. The performance concludes with a painfully slow lowering of each country’s flag (it must be done slowly so that neither flag is ever lower than the other – a sign of inferiority). Then it’s a frosty handshake between the two head guards and the gates slam shut.

While the ceremony itself is a rather serious affair (despite its Monty Pythonesque elements), the behaviour of the crowd during its playing out is certainly not. Both countries are represented by hordes of screaming fanatics boiling over with patriotic fervour. Flags are thrashed about, chants are screamed (Hindustan! Hindustan!) and music erupts from enormous loudspeakers aimed directly at the eardrums of the neighbouring participants. It’s a wild occasion, one which resembles the conduct usually reserved for close sporting events between two traditional rivals. Except this isn’t cricket, this is the securing of a border pass between two nuclear states with some terribly bad blood.

Despite the seriousness of current Indo-Pakistani relations, we thoroughly enjoyed this circus of rehearsed brinkmanship. Overall, our weekend visit to Punjab was most worthwhile.

Interesting discoveries:

‘Paan’ is a form of chewing tobacco that includes saffron and types of incense. It’s sold in sachets at most street vendors. If you are new to chewing tobacco, do not attempt to swallow the whole sachet in one go. In fact, don’t even attempt to swallow it. You will become very sick, very quickly, and begin to retch on the side of the street. This is embarrassing and also quite distressing. I won’t do it again.

Administrative facts:

Curry-o-meter: 36 consumed.
Amritsar is known for the Amritsar Massacre (1919) and Operation Blue Star (1984) – both events bloody and terribly handled. The latter resulting in Indira Gandhi’s assassination during her prime ministry.
While there are 15 million Sikhs in India, some estimates place the number of Christians in India somewhere between 100-200 million.

Song of the moment:

Auron Dors, by Santo Bonacci.

Indian border guard: half peacock, half moustache.

Crowds on the Pakistani side of the border, awaiting the start of the ceremony.

Photo Update

2006-11-20T00:15:00.000-08:00

Below are a few shots of the apartment. It's currently an oasis within otherwise hostile terrain. We hope to change this. As with all my pictures, these are hi-res so you can click to enlarge...

The bar:
wooden

One of the loungerooms:
Dracula was unhappy about being turned into a lounge suite.

The most interesting of our available balcony views:
welcome to Gurgaon

...and a couple more of Dilli Haat bazaar in Delhi, the scene of Saturday's first round of reckless spending...

Dilli Haat bazaar:
iridescent

Decadence

2006-11-19T10:13:00.000-08:00

I’ve led a disgustingly decadent life this weekend. I awoke at 2pm on Saturday, after having spent all Friday night rubbing shoulders with Delhi’s well groomed and well heeled at the Park Hotel’s poolside cocktail bar, Aqua. I didn’t feel well enough to do anything save for making a substantial contribution to India’s economy. As a result, Prameet, John (another colleague from New York) and I began a search for exotic merchandise and artefacts. This campaign took us to Dilli Haat, a labyrinthine bazaar that honeycombed hundreds of stalls and souks together to produce a maelstrom of pashmina, artworks and other assorted treasures. I thought it appropriate to purchase all these things, along with a briefcase wrought from camel leather and hessian.

After the first dip into the inviting waters of retail expenditure, I decided to unleash the full extent of my souped-up purchasing power on a bespoke tailor a colleague had referred me to. I spent three hours (two of which were past the store’s official closing time) being smartened up by a phalanx of cloth surgeons. It was perilously fun. I became giddy from the attention and found myself being measured for things a man my age and standing just isn’t qualified to wear. Prameet was right next to me, being fitted for traditional Indian suits for his brother’s wedding. It soon got out of control. I had ordered two custom tailored three piece suits and ten shirts when I realised I needed to decelerate. I quipped to one of the tailors that I needed a break to eat. Immediately an underling was dispatched to investigate which local restaurants would be able to send food and a waiter back to the tailor’s shop.

We did manage to escape around 11pm, and the issue of dinner had yet to be resolved (despite having the food & groom service made available to us). We wanted to dine at Lodi Garden restaurant, yet another establishment floating in the clouds of severe exclusiveness. We knew the restaurant’s peculiar licensing arrangement prevented the serving of alcohol to its garden tables – and we really wanted a garden table. To overcome this, we had the driver facilitate a detour to a lounge bar that served as an important entrée to an amazing Lodi midnight dinner. The Lodi gardens are quite expansive, and we were not able to see much of them given the late hour. But we did experience enough to understand Lodi’s enchantment. Candles hung in the air like will-o'-the-wisps but were much less deceptive in their lure. The restaurant’s tables are located within the gardens – the precise co-ordinates of each known only to the waiting staff. Equally well hidden among the trees are pianos and other forms of tranquil music production that contribute to an ambience unmatchable in ethereal dining.

Interesting discoveries:

Lodi

Administrative facts:

Curries consumed so far: 24 – including a fiery Orissan curry from Dilli Haat

Song of the moment:

Lovely Head, by Goldfrapp.

Moving to Jan Pratinidhi and Arjun's Wedding

2006-11-16T02:02:00.000-08:00

I’m surrounded by staff. My staff. Hundreds of them. Bobby, Prameet, and I have become India’s latest top floor residents with our recent move into the penthouse apartment in the Jan Pratinidhi complex. We have four bedrooms, five bathrooms, five balconies, two lounge rooms and a bar. We are also housed within a décor that resembles something between a bordello and a mausoleum. Our family circle has also swelled to three house staff and two drivers. While all this help may sound exotic, in reality it’s exactly that – help. Assistance is required over here constantly because India is quite an inhospitable place. One cannot get around without a car, and foreigners cannot drive a car without a death wish. We have people to clean, launder and run errands for us - not because we won’t do these tasks, but because we can’t. We have no washing machine, no cleaning products and no means of tackling even the most basic chore.

Our five balconies are interesting too. Not from any architectural quirk but because of the views they provide – absolute nothingness. Gurgaon is an arid dustbowl punctuated with isolated office buildings, apartment blocks and the odd hyper-mall. Our 360 degree view is composed of a few shanties, deserted construction pits and sandy oblivion. I’m not going to let this get me down however, because this morning, while perusing this panorama, I decided that one does not often get the chance to have endless untouched earth at one’s disposal, with no supervision. In light of this, Prameet and I have started making some discrete enquiries into the price of dirt bikes and explosives.

As would be obvious now, our house in Vasant Vihar fell through – and perhaps mercifully. On reflection I was worried about the age of the house and the slipperiness of the agent. As my experience of Delhi traffic grows, so too does my relief that I won’t be spending a couple of hours a day in transit between VV and the office.

Especially as it’s been a very demanding week. Work is to blame for this. Over the past few days I’ve been bowing to deadlines conceived in London, Brazil and India. Given the time differences, this has meant my working roughly 36 hours a day. Purists of the solar day will point to this as impossible. Well, I can assure those who’ve restricted themselves merely to diurnal living that it is. All it just takes to achieve this is adrenaline, pizza and considerable disorganisation. The madcap week was topped off by our giving Delhi another opportunity to trumpet its restaurant scene. We attended Thai Wok, a rooftop restaurant adjacent to the Qutb Minar and with incredible views of this architectural marvel. The Minar’s 70 odd metre high spire is made from sandstone and marble. Its construction commenced in AD 1199 for the use of Mu'azzin to give calls for prayer. It’s on the site of India’s first mosque.

Despite the Herculean effort needed to get through this work week, I did find time to attend my first Indian wedding. Arjun is a friend and former colleague from Melbourne who is so serious about his matrimonial commitments that he decided to hold separate ceremonies in Australia, India and Malaysia. Although I only attended the Indian third, I would be confident in saying that this shindig would have to be the high water mark. The typical Indian wedding ceremony usually elongates itself over the best part of a week and normally invites most of the country. Arjun’s festivities stretched over a weekend, with the celebrations held at a family member’s residence in Delhi’s blue ribbon district.

Friday night was the Sangeet party, which I believe is more to do with the bride. It was a lavish but informal affair, so I acted lavishly and informally. Beside the groom, the only other familiar face was Adam – a senior partner at the firm I formerly worked for, who had travelled with his wife to attend the wedding. As the waiting staff supplied more and more liquor, Adam and I developed into a bizarre double act that eventuated in the most jaw dropping fusion of traditional Indian dancing and heretical boogieing. We made an impact, and certainly a big contribution to many guests’ wedding shots for the night. What made this scene more interesting was my attire. Prior to the wedding, Arjun had half jokingly asked if I would like to wear customary Indian garb for the occasion instead of a suit. I thought that a marvellous idea and organised a costume immediately. This comprised a kurta (a silk shirt that extends to the knees), pyjama (linen pants that have stovepipe legs but a circus clown waist, with a drawstring to keep them up - and once pulled makes the wearer look like a deflated pavlova) and jutti (elf shoes with upturned toes providing much discomfort - especially during dancing manoeuvres). What made this more hilarious was that most Indians were wearing very subdued suits. I certainly stood out.

A logistical hiccup meant my missing Saturday’s actual ceremony, which was a shame as Arjun arrived on horseback to much fanfare. Adam was reported to have been dancing in front of the horse during the procession. The party on the Saturday night was as raucous as the previous night’s. I’m unsure of this celebration’s title, but I presumed it was the reception. The pace at which drinks were served seemed to confirm this. Of particular note was a transaction that took place on the dance floor close to the end of the night. In hindsight, I’m surprised this event didn’t bring about an immediate coda - for me at least. I was on the dance floor happily defiling a thousand years of Indian musical history when the crowd parted to admit the barman onto the floor. He made a beeline for me and the party formed into an audience seemingly about to witness a Christian being fed to the lions. The barman had balanced on his tray a number of vials and instruments that I recognised immediately as being for the purpose of accomplishing rapid intoxication. He deftly mixed a brownish potion in a large martini glass and set it alight. He then thrilled the crowd with his dexterous display of pouring the burning liquid from head height into another martini glass held in his other hand. My excitement was significantly less in the knowledge that very soon he was going to force me to drink this. With a flourish, the fiery waterfall finished. The barman produced a metal straw and stuck one end in the still blazing liquid and the other end into my mouth. I drank and I burned. Even in my frantic state I realised that the amount I was consuming was more than the amount leaving the glass. This is what the crowd was really cheering at. At the time I had no idea that the barman was topping up the glass with vodka and tequila in equal measure. When he finally released me from this alcoholic hamster wheel he extended his hand. I shook it not because I felt any further need to bond with this man, but because I welcomed the stability of a sober frame. There was no more dancing for me after this. I discovered after the ordeal that the brown potion was a mix of Galliano and Absinthe, and that the barman had run out of vodka.

Interesting discoveries:

The standard birthday salutation in Hindi is ‘Janamdin mubarak ho’ – literally ‘wishing you a happy birthday’
Parcels sent to Australia take about four days to arrive. Parcels sent from Australia just don’t arrive

Administrative facts:

Curries consumed so far: 19 – including a few sumptuous Thai dishes
India is the world’s 4^th largest economy, and has an active space program

Song of the moment:

Crazy Kiya Re, from the Dhoom 2 soundtrack.

The movie hasn’t been released yet, but I’ll be the first in line for tickets when it is.

Sangeet party: Arjun's wedding

2006-11-10T03:05:00.000-08:00

ICC Champions Trophy, Brabourne Stadium:
seconds before the lightning storm,
hours before play resumed.

Restaurants and Bombay

2006-11-08T10:50:00.000-08:00

Over this past week I’ve had dinner at three terrific restaurants. I’ve reacquainted myself with the serene Olive, uncovered south Indian treasures at the Konkan Café, and over-ate rapaciously at a Mughal banquet laid on by Bukhara. I enjoyed all these gastronomic experiences despite having endured a whole week of the weirdness and irregularity that comes with one’s first scrap with the notorious Delhi Belly.

I can’t pinpoint exactly what I was that made me sick. It possibly resulted from the housemaid simply dunking our dirty dishes in water known to poison, or it could have been the street food I ate straight off a heated metal sheet that was situated close to where a group of dogs lay dying. Regardless of its mysterious origin, the effects were fairly easy to recognise. What started as mild abdominal discomfort soon evolved into a relentless purging of everything I ate (and some things I’m sure I didn’t). This sickness, coupled with business travel, meant my having to wage war on office bathrooms all over the country. That I got sick was unfortunate, but having to manage it while spending every waking hour in either aeroplanes, client meetings or my boss’ pressurised company made this last week a tortuous one. Quite often this week I’ve had to excuse myself from meetings to ‘take an important phone call’ – only to return half an hour later, four kilos lighter and exhausted.

But enough about my minor malfunction. I’d prefer to focus on the front end of this process, being the ingestion of amazing cuisine. Last Friday we went to Bukhara – an earthy, cavernous restaurant in the bowels of the Sheraton Hotel. This is the place that promotes itself as being among the top ten best restaurants in the world. It certainly charges as if this were the case. It’s fantastic for a number of reasons but it hasn’t dislodged Olive as my current favourite eatery. Bukhara reminded me a lot of Vlado’s Steakhouse in Melbourne because of its no-frills commitment to heart-stoppingly large slabs of exquisite animal flesh. The waiting staff look dangerous too. The men (and only men) who serve the meals are attired in medieval Afghani dress and all sport a moustache and grimace that appear carved out of wood. Their service was exemplary, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I mispronounced a menu item then they would surely rip out my heart and serve it to the other diners. Our table shared a feast of goat, mutton, fish and root vegetables. The table itself was also furnished with a naan that shared its size and dimensions with a small sailing boat.

I backed up the Friday night Mughal meat expo with a trip back to the placid Olive. Some Australian friends (Andrew, Anthea and Mooks) were travelling through Delhi and we arranged to have dinner on the Saturday night. Self-interest trumped any desire to showcase traditional North Indian fare so I lobbied heavily for the chance to introduce them to this divine institution. It was just as good as my first visit, and my lobbying paid dividends in the form of unanimous and gushing appreciation from the party.

Finally, while down in Bombay this week I was introduced to very good quality southern Indian cooking at Konkan. I’m probably off the mark here, but I believe it’s the south Indian stuff that most of us would associate as ‘typical’ Indian food. Hot and based in a gravy that’s accompanied by rice. Lovely stuff, even at 11 o’clock in the evening.

I was in Bombay for the first half of this week which allowed me to travel down there on Sunday. For those of you who share a particular sporting interest with ‘the Blue Billion’, you would have known that Sunday saw Australia face the West Indies for the ICC Champions Trophy. I flew down on Sunday morning to see the match. After getting the hotel to secure the most expensive last minute ticket they could (which wasn’t intentional), I hired a driver to speed me to Brabourne Stadium. This was a mistake, as the driver got lost in his own city and drove around mindlessly for about an hour. With a triumphant and ridiculous grin, he finally delivered me to a stadium – one that belonged to a South Mumbai primary school for the purpose of exhibiting field hockey matches. Enraged, I solicited the help of a passing taxi driver, who then got into a very physical conversation with my inept driver in an attempt to steal me as a fare. I would have gladly swapped drivers then and there but for the sequence of events that occurred next, at terrific speed. The problem was that this discourse was playing out in the middle of a rather major street. I got out of the my car; I approached the taxi; another car rammed the taxi; the taxi driver (who had been standing at the side of his cab the whole time) screamed and dived out of the way; I got back into my car; the ramming car rammed another car; I politely instructed my driver to execute a prompt disengagement; he did this.

Three smashed cars and an hour later I arrived at the correct stadium, seething because I’d missed the first three West Indian wickets. It went downhill from there, with a three hour rain delay fuelling my frustration. The Windies had disgraced themselves at the crease and the Australians were left with a shortened innings within which to play the most boring form of one day cricket necessary to achieve the required 2.5 run rate. They attempted to spice things up by removing their flagship batsmen (Gilchrist and Ponting) for 2 and 0 respectively, but even then the remainder of the game was a farce. It didn’t help that the overwhelmingly Indian crowd was utterly subdued given the absence of a home team in the final. As the delay had pushed the game past my bedtime I ended up leaving early in disgust, opting to watch the final overs while stewing in my hotel room. The highlight of the match was witnessing a spectacular lightning storm over the stadium during the rain delay. It illustrated very appropriately how I felt.

Interesting discoveries:

Bombay traffic is even more chaotic than Delhi’s
Most people think I’m English
Rolls of toilet paper in India are half the size – in that they contain only half the sheets as standard issue bogroll in the West. This caused me great consternation.

Administrative facts:

Greater Mumbai is the largest urban region in India, in excess of 20 million people
It’s getting colder here. Today was in the low 20s.

Song of the moment:

Back in Action, by Yash Raj Music.

Another spectacular Bollywood hit, from the Blockbuster Dhoom 2. I can’t wait to see it.

Bombay's Untouchables

2006-11-03T05:33:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I flew to Bombay for the day. As the trip was for work I didn’t see much of the place. I’m looking forward to spending a more meaningful amount of time down there as it’s regarded as the cultural (and entertainment) capital of India. It’s also the slum capital of the world. We went to dinner at the Hyatt, where the usual metal detectors and security guards were accompanied by bomb sniffing dogs and even more security guards. Just down the road from this five star hotel is a 1.75km strip that has the unhappy honour of being the world’s largest slum – known as Dharavi.

Most of the one million inhabitants of Dharavi are Tamil wayfarers who migrated to Bombay in search of employment. The slum actually has a flourishing leather industry but is bereft of the most basic infrastructural facilities like sanitation and health care.

Before writing more, I must apologise for weighing this blog down with frequent narration on India’s poverty. This is due to a few things:

It’s very eye-opening to an outsider
I believe it’s a very important issue
Given work, I don’t yet have much else to report on

I’m gathering many interesting facts and anecdotes regarding destitution in India, the most surprising fact being that many of those who live in slums do so out of choice. This is fundamentally due to the physical distance between the working class’ home and place of work. Essentially cab drivers, cleaners, hospitality staff etc will choose to live in urban shanties as commuting from their village would be out of the question. While many apologists for India’s state of affairs will point to this proportion who ‘voluntarily’ choose this way of life, it’s only really a lesser of two evils (if that).

The more unpleasant discovery I made was the relationship between poverty and organised crime. There is an Indian strain of the Mafia that is just as savvy in using cheap labour as the rest of the country. I’ve often had young kids tapping on my car window trying to hawk all manner of flotsam (typically woven crafts, magazines etc). Initially I presumed this was desperation manifesting itself commercially within the world’s largest free market. That’s still partially true, but there’s a more insidious layer below that. These kids, and many others in need, are recruited under duress to sell this crap on behalf of local crime-lords. The money foreigners charitably hand over does not benefit these vendors at all but instead finances a medley of the nasty undertakings India’s felonious underbelly is involved in. While this is a terrible scenario, part of me still believes in handing over money. Not because of what the kids can do with it, but what would happen to them if they didn’t receive it.

One last uncomfortable point on poverty: begging is lucrative, especially if one is a cunning and seasoned panhandler. Many realise this, but begging is still a market where competition exists, resulting in those who successfully promote themselves as being more in need typically reaping more in charity. This has led to the development of a service provided by unscrupulous doctors, whereby for roughly US $100 they will amputate a hand, foot or leg to make the unfortunate patient more likely to receive handouts. Sickening.

Interesting discoveries:

Despite its size, India has no time zones or daylight savings

Administrative facts:

Curries consumed so far: 11 (I’ve levelled out, thank Christ, after enduring my first attack of ‘Delhi belly’)
Flight time from Delhi to Bombay: roughly two hours
Total round trip travel time from my apartment to the Bombay office: roughly 17 hours

Song of the moment:

The Other Side, by the Scissor Sisters.

Arachnoid Agent

2006-10-31T01:34:00.000-08:00

I’m writing this while on my way back to work. I’ve just driven down to Vasant Vihar to inspect the house and curry favour with its owner. It seemed to go well, albeit in Hindi. The house was older than expected, but very big against Indian standards. It has two living rooms and a very large balcony. The bathrooms appear to have been fitted out from Ikea’s prisons catalogue. The previous tenant was a Ukrainian diplomat who - with regard to the stains in the bathrooms - might have been satanic.

But please don’t worry (Mum and Jen especially). Should we get the place I’m sure we will be very content. After all, it’s in a cosmopolitan suburb, it’s large and filled with natural light, and it has a Jacuzzi (that calves were ritually slaughtered in). Any misgivings I have about it are neutralised by the fact that I’m going to rent a house in a country whose population outnumbers Australia’s by over 50 to one – and does it with must less land. I will be blessed to have a house in a nice neighbourhood, as many others suffer small apartments in Gurgaon’s moonscaped boroughs.

With the house’s description complete, let me dedicate the balance of this post to spraying venom at the Indian real estate profession (and I use that term very loosely). They are carrion who feed on the dead hope of tenants. There’s no need to censor this rancour to account for any cultural relativism because the goodness in a man’s heart is a universal measure, and these swine have none. Our agent and the cabal he fronts have attempted to deceive and sting us at every juncture – giving us an asp-like smile in place of answers, and playing us off against each other like a malevolent puppeteer.

Today was a low watermark in the transaction, with my having to jump through the agent's hoops alone. I picked him up at his ratshop and drove to the house, during which time he barked directions at Pritam in the most obscene tone of voice. He spoke to me in such a slippery form of Hindi agent-speak that poor Pritam was at a loss to properly translate what this shyster was trying to sell me.

During the inspection of the house the agent decided it was time to see my credentials and attempted to help himself to my wallet. I slapped his hand away and yelped – not from fright but because I think his skin may have been poisonous. After that I removed myself from the building after quickly thanking the landlord for his time (he looked like Gandhi, I look forward to having him over for dinner). I jumped in the front seat of the car to force the agent into the back (he’d assumed the front seat on all our prior confrontations). I pushed my seat back as far as it went to remind him that cars weren’t made for giant spiders. The trip back to the agent’s stinkhole was dominated by my talking at this man using the most imaginative string of profane superlatives I could compose. Interestingly he seemed to understand a lot of it.

Interesting discoveries:

I have a much shorter fuse than formerly thought

Administrative facts:

Curries consumed so far: 11 (shouted Pritam one on the way back to the office)

Song of the moment:

I Hate Real Estate Agents, by The Agent Haters

The Bubble

2006-10-30T01:04:00.000-08:00

The bubble continues, and is starting to weigh on the hip pocket. Last Saturday night was a colleague’s birthday party so many of us went to a club in Delhi after a house party. Bad night clubs are the same the world over, and paying the equivalent of AUD $60 to get in did not further enamour me to these venues. It's impressive to note that India subscribes to the international convention for naming night clubs, which requires randomly selecting words from Freudian textbooks - India enjoys such clubs as Climax, Elevate and The Red Light. The overall drinking experience in India though is a lot of fun, as it centres (at least for me) around the consumption of Kingfisher beer - an enjoyable and extremely good value brew. This Friday a group of us from the office will be dining at Bukhara, which apparently holds, among its accolades, the recognition of being one of the top ten best restaurants in the world. I can’t imagine this being a cheap night out.

Many people discuss India in terms of a dual economy system. According to Wikipedia:

Dual economy (sometimes also known as a 'dualistic economy') is the existence of two separate economic systems within one region; common in the less developed countries, where one system is geared to local needs and another to the global export market.

I’m going to add a further layer of precision to this definition. I’m going to call it the ‘local vs ex-pat’ economic system. It’s no secret that many things in India carry one price tag for locals and another for foreigners. This isn’t really a big deal, because despite the often 100 fold mark-up a foreigner is fleeced with, it usually amounts to only a pittance if travelling on a strong western currency. This doesn’t worry me at all, but it does irk some of my Indian friends. Consequently, when going out to lunch or dinner in one of the open air markets I’m instructed to stay back or hide behind something while our order is being placed, because if the vendor gets wise to any foreign consumption of his goods then the whole party gets stung with a price hike. I find this amusing. Others don’t.

Yesterday I discovered an interesting reversal of fortune in the local/ex-pat negotiation dynamic. The house we have applied for in Vasant Vihar has, up until now, been administered from our end by Bobby. This makes sense as the transaction’s being handled in Hindi. However, for reasons still a little unclear to me, our application as of yesterday was in jeopardy. While I’m unsure of the details of the problem, Bobby has told me quite clearly what the solution looks like. I am to drive down to see the landlord personally, shake his hand, smile and leave. That I don’t speak any Hindi is irrelevant. It seems in this strange dual economy the ex-pats have the advantage in the rental market. Unfortunately this is not due to any inherent domestic qualities westerners have over our sub-continental brethren. The more sobering answer is that ex-pats only require a finite tenancy, meaning they will get out of the house one day. Indian tenants, it seems, have surprisingly effortless recourse to a court order protecting their desire to stay in someone else’s house for an unlimited duration, regardless of rent default or any other misbehaviour.

On one hand I’m chuffed that I’m a valued point of leverage in rental negotiations, on the other hand I feel like I’ve been pimped for my pedigree.

Interesting discoveries:

As India’s Hindu, McDonalds does not sell any beef products – it’s all McRoti and McPaneer for these guys
Delhi has excellent coffee
India is one of the most terrorised countries in the world. As a result, any public area has airport level security that one must pass through. Malls, cinemas etc all have metal detectors and guards giving pat-downs to all folk who enter.
The newspapers run matrimonial ads every day. Most ads placed specify from which caste the suitor must belong.

Administrative facts:

Curries consumed so far: 9

Song of the moment:

Any Punjabi or Hindipop

I’m becoming addicted to Indian MTV.

2006-10-30T00:57:00.000-08:00

The Red Fort - Big. Red.

Human Help

2006-10-26T07:19:00.000-07:00

I live in a bubble. As I’m here for work, I have found that my life so far has been conducted within the confines of a corporate environment. I am still at the hotel - which is situated, along with my office, in a huge business park. The only available lunch and dinner options are those found in the food courts within the park. Globalisation’s hard at work here and is championed by Subway, Baskin & Robbins, Pizza Hut and the ubiquitous golden arches. My case work has prohibited me from exploring beyond the bubble.

There are a few things, though, which remind me that I am, in fact, in India. To begin with my office has a peculiar amenity called ‘pantry’. This is a euphemism for the superfluity of waiting labour here to fulfil any need the professional staff may have. Food (both purchase and preparation), laundry and any other menial tasks can be left to these guys and can be taken care of without leaving your seat. Another effect of the oversupply of cheap labour can be seen in the extreme cleanliness of everything. Hundreds of people are forever hurrying around with an assortment of cleaning weaponry, eager to buff the wall you just leant against. There’s even a whole team that pulled the short straw for cleaning detail as they’re permanently stationed in the john. You’re never alone in India…

The other ever-present reminder is the different worlds people live in. There is the bubble-like existence I’ve been plugged into, and then there is the impoverishment that exists on the doorstep of my office building. Every morning I drive by families washing themselves in the run-off from construction sites, who live on the side of the road in shelters made from rubbish. Perversely, India’s catatonic environmental awareness is perhaps the chief reason why the destitute have any available building materials.

I expect all this to change soon as Bobby, Prameet (another Sydney ex-pat) and I will be moving into a house next week in trendy Vasant Vihar, in South Delhi. Many of the other ex-pats have commended us on escaping Gurgaon, as they have all grown tired of living in a corporate wasteland. Despite the attractive suburb, the hour long morning commute we will be enduring is a hurdle they’re not willing to jump.

Hopefully this commute will be made much more entertaining by Pritam, my new driver. For the first couple of days I was in the chauffeured care of Vijay, who I’d estimated to be one hundred years old. The problem was he seemed to drive like he wanted to last another hundred. In the cut throat world of Indian automotive travel I’ve discovered that one needs to drive like a hellcat just to get from A to B. Additionally, we had a language barrier that made many trips to and from work frustrating and repetitive. I’m afraid to say that this barrier also meant Vijay sat in the car all day outside my office as I couldn’t get it across that I didn’t need him to wait for me while I was at work. The poor man ended up sitting in his car for about 16 hours until I left the office to finally meet him. My colleagues have told me that drivers are used to waiting, and have pointed out that they are at their employer’s beck and call 24 hours a day. That said, Vijay has a family so regardless of his job I’m sure he would rather spend time with them than sleep in a car in a business park.

Pritam, on the other hand, does not need to be told twice that his services will not be needed until called upon. He has an excellent grasp of English that one could be forgiven for thinking was acquired from television commercials. Pritam’s an excitable man who floods the car with spurts of jocularity and extremely personal inquiry. Much of his conversation is peppered with enriching terms of speech such as “no doubt about it” and “you better believe it”. He is also insane in his interest of cricket – even for and Indian. As soon as he discovered that I am Australian he besieged me with an incredible command of cricket statistics. I started to panic when he almost managed to settle himself next to me in the back seat to talk cricket while he was driving. Once I’d calibrated my nervous system to better handle his company I was extremely pleased. I’d found my hellcat.

Interesting discoveries:

My office fridge is stocked with cardamom and rose flavoured milkshakes – they’re actually very good
Indian men hold hands as a sign of friendship
As an ice-breaker, Indians will typically ask whether you are married, and will always follow up with ‘why not?’
Last Sunday I visited the Red Fort, which is possibly the largest red thing on the planet after Ayers Rock
Indians defiantly refer to Mumbai as Bombay

Administrative facts:

Curries consumed so far: 5 (including one for breakfast)
Gurgaon (where I work) is one of India’s special economic zones – being an area dedicated, politically, to accelerating export commerce
Equivalent cost of a standard lunchtime meal: ~$2. This is grossly inflated as the food courts know they’ve got a captive ex-pat market

Song of the moment:

Venus, by Air.

An apt soundtrack for my drive to work.

2006-10-23T20:39:00.000-07:00

The Olive Restaurant. Go there to play maharaja for a day.

Culture Shock

2006-10-22T08:28:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my blog.

It’s day one in India. I arrived late last night via Singapore and was picked up from Delhi’s airport by a gentleman who spoke as much English as I do Hindi. Interestingly, when asked, he advised me that we were to arrive at the hotel by ‘eleventy’. This language barrier actually proved welcoming as it absolved me from having to explain myself after accidentally tearing the seatbelt from the car upon buckling up.

The ride from the airport to the hotel took about half an hour. During this time I saw no more than five streetlights. Delhi, typically, is not very well lit at night. However I arrived during the five day Dilwali festival and so every building was blanketed in fairy lights. From what I have gathered, these lights (as well as fireworks) are to show Rama (a popular hero from Hindu mythology) the way home from exile. Dilwali is as important to Hindus as Christmas is to Westerners.

My office, along with the hotel, is based just outside Delhi in an area called Gurgaon. I’m currently staying at the delightful Lemon Tree Hotel which is an oasis within the 50km long industrial dustscape that is Gurgaon. There is nothing here for miles, except featureless shacks and factories.

Today I experienced both extremes of human inhabitation of Delhi. This morning I witnessed a level of desolation and poverty that broke my heart; and then this afternoon I undertook a visit to one of the most beautiful and decadent restaurants on the sub-continent.

For lunch I met up with Bobby, a colleague from our Sydney office who grew up in various parts of India. As the irony of international transfer plays out, Bobby has found himself transported back to his native country to live a sort of weird ex-patriot/local life. He took me to an establishment filled with wealthy ex-patriots and aristocratic locals. While the experience of being treated like a god over lunch is novel, it was difficult to reconcile after having beheld the sickening mass of starving and deformed people in Old Delhi, only hours before. Against advice from others, I had spent my first foray outside the hotel gates in the older parts of Delhi – where the aristocratic money does not penetrate. There is nothing there except desperation. The quality and relative value of life here will take some getting used to.

Tomorrow I start work with my firm’s Delhi office. The case I’ll be working on involves a client and an industry that’s fascinating and exceptionally unique. I’m looking forward to it.

Interesting discoveries:

There is nothing that can prepare you for the poverty that surrounds you
A shared birthplace with the Australian Cricket Captain makes me instantly likable among the locals, given the sport’s likelihood of displacing Hinduism as the religion of choice
Indians play cricket all the time, everywhere
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t cow’s milk in my cereal this morning

Administrative facts:

Time difference: Delhi is 4 ½ hours behind Melbourne
Today was overcast, but remained around 27.C
Delhi is referred to as a ‘hypermetropolis’, and it’s only the third largest city - population: 12.8 million