Three Months in Delhi

Dear India

2006-12-17T10:07:00.000+05:30

Dear India

I'm off tonight but I just wanted to write you a quick note to say thank you for having me. Thank you for your passion, vibrance and energy. Thank you too for the amazing hospitality, generousity and kindness of your people.

You have inspired me to live in techni-colour.

I'll be back soon.

Yours in Hindianess

Lou

Delhi's Biggest Bash

2006-12-17T09:12:00.001+05:30

My birthday was so completely awesome. I was inundated by a multi-media barrage of phone calls, smses and emails from all over the world and I got spoilt rotten with the most awesome prezzies. The spoiling started with a cake special delivery from South Africa, continued to another cake and happy birthday singing knife from work which subsequently got smashed all over my face (apparently this is the Indian tradition) and it didn't stop. By the end of the party the lounge resembled a florist. One of the highlights (other than the 4 pounds of Twizzlers that Chanda brought back from the States for me) was my cake. Knowing my dream of going on the back of a motorbike, side saddle in a sari with no helmet, Elodie and Nic designed a cake with a picture of just that. I was blown away.

By all accounts the party in joint celebration of my birthday and farewell and Nic's house warming was a roaring success. It was the perfect mixture of the right music, right people, right venue, right food and lots of drinks. We organised the kebab guy from Kahn market to come and cook mutton, chicken and paneer romali rolls. Despite thinking we had grossly over ordered they were all finished by the end of the night (5.30am!). Thankfully we had the foresight to organise those big mushroom heaters as it was a very chilly December night - contrary to popular belief, Delhi is pretty frikking freezing here at the moment. Colder than Joburg I would venture to say. There was loads of dancing and Murray and Nic treated us all to an ambitious rendition of Impi. By the time the last stragglers left in the wee hours of the morning the booze had all been drunk, the kebabs were finished, the heaters were running low on gas and there was a general dirty stickiness all over the dancefloor. The sign of a good party.

Indian Aspirations: Progress Update

2006-12-14T08:38:00.000+05:30

Yesterday I went to Yamunanagar. Left at 5.30am arrived at 10.30am. We left Yamunanagar at 4.30 and only got back at 10pm. That's 10 1/2 hours in the car in one day! Part of the reason it took so much longer to get back was because of all the marriages (you say marriages not weddings before you correct me). There were 36 000 weddings in Delhi alone last night as it was the most auspicious day of the year to get married. I lost count of the number of scarlet and gold crested bands we saw marching along the road blasting their trumpets and heralding the arrival of their groom.

I unfortunately wasn't invited to any of these weddings which brings me to the progress I have made with my Indian Aspirations (see side bar) I set myself a couple of weeks after my arrival.

Ride side saddle on the back of a motorbike in a sari without a helmet
Status: In progress. I have just got the sari, I have the motorbike and driver and 2 artistic photographers. The one flaw in my cunning plan is that I have no idea how to drape a sari. There is however, a particularly sweet old hindi lady downstairs. She doesn't speak a word of English but I am hoping that if I go there proferring her 6 metres of cloth she will get the picture.
Go to an Indian wedding
Status: Negative ghostrider. Despite my best efforts I didn't crack the nod to an Indian wedding. I have however seen glimpses of what goes on behind the brightly draped pink and purple tents.
Get henna done on my hands
Status: check. The only thing is that the lady that did it didn't speak English very well and when she told me to wash it off after half an hour what she actually meant to say was don't get it wet for 12 hours and rub mustard seed oil in it to make sure it goes nice and dark. As a result my henna was an unimpressive light orange.
Learn basic Hindi
Status: check. That is if very basic Hindi counts. A few weekly lessons is just not enough to pick up this beautiful but completely foreign language.
Meet the Dalai Llama
Status: Negative. I did go to his home town though and was there for the marching and general outrage over the Chinese president's visit to India.
Have a kick ass birthday party
Status: In progress. Watch this space.

Mythbusters

2006-12-12T10:24:00.000+05:30

When I came to India everyone assured me that it was the perfect opportunity to save money because everything is so cheap. Let me clarify this for those of you that are planning on coming over for a spot of travelling. Textiles such as bags and clothes are quite cheap. Silver jewellery although not cheap is far more affordable than it would be in SA. Accomodation in small towns is quite cheap. Eating in small towns is quite cheap. Drinking in small towns is quite cheap. Delhi is very expensive.

To be more specific, going out in Delhi is incredibly expensive. Part of the problem is that a large portion of the going out places are in hotels and thus carry hotel prices: a large bottle of beer (750ml) (the Big Mac index for people between the age of 18 and 30) will set you back between 40 and 60 South Africans; a vodka, lime and soda costs about R50, a glass of wine (Indian) will cost you in the region of 60 to 70 bucks and for the budget breaking Mojito you're looking at about R90. More expensive than the Westcliff if my memory serves me correctly. Chanda reckons that it's more expensive than drinking in Washington DC! And that's without the non inclusive 20%VAT on drinks and the almost inevitably compulsory service charge.

The City of Smells

2006-12-11T11:12:00.000+05:30

For all India's exotic spices, the pervasive smell of Delhi is of urine. This is especially true at the train stations where the scent of urine persistently pushes its way through the cracks in the windows of the train and invades the nostrils. But it gets worse. Every drain and river in Delhi vociferously exudes the same sickly sweet odour, a combination of excrement, urine, vomit, damp and rotting food. You learn to anticipate it's assault on your senses every time you drive over a bridge or a culvert.

In the beginning it puzzled me. I have travelled quite a bit around sub-saharan Africa and I don't remember ever being constantly assailed by these offensive smells. After 3 months of observation I have come to the following three conculsions:

People just piss everywhere. I've lost count of the amount of people I have seen just stop the scooters and relieve themselves on the side of the road. It's got so bad that the government has set up a committee to address the issue in time for the 2010 Commonwealth games in India.
The sewage system is inadequate and many roads do not even have drains (apparently the monsoon season is complete carnage). As a result, waste and water oftens stagnates in culverts and canals and does not get washed away.
For many residents in Delhi there are little to no facilities. In many of the slums there will be one running tap and no ablution facilities. As a result slum dwellers are forced to use the railway areas (to which the slums are almost inevitably adjacent) as their toilets. Coming into Delhi on an overnight train the surrounding area is almost crowded with people doing their morning ablutions.

Scary but true.

You've got mail

2006-12-08T23:41:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

Cellular

2006-12-07T15:32:00.000+05:30

Indian Cell phone etiquette

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

Shall we dance?

2006-12-06T09:42:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

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

Redemption day

2006-12-05T10:09:00.000+05:30

Thought for the day

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

Tony's Karaoke Etiquette, page 1.

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

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

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

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

Goa Goa Girls

2006-12-03T22:32:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

Guess who's coming to dinner?

2006-12-01T09:40:00.000+05:30

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

South Africa dinner party:

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

The Indian dinner party:

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

South African Louise at an Indian dinner party:

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

Treasure chests

2006-11-30T11:33:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

Heart: Should I get it?

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

Heart: But how often are you in India?

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

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

Mind: But I can't.

Heart: COME ON. You know you want to.

Mind: Ok.

I bought the chest.

Heart - 1.

Mind - 0.

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

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

The name is B A, MBA

2006-11-29T16:55:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

Economics 101

2006-11-28T13:32:00.000+05:30

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

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

Case in point:

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

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

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

How do you know when you have adjusted to India?

2006-11-27T12:15:00.000+05:30

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

Incomparable India

2006-11-26T20:16:00.001+05:30

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

The scourge of Delhi Belly

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

The land of servants and their assistant servants

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

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

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

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

The quest for sleep on the Bus of Death

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

The quest for the Tyger Part 1**

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

The quest for the Tyger Part 2 – Elephant Ennui

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

The quest for the Tyger Part 3 – A near miss

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

Agran Chagrin

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

*On the road

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

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

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

**Far from the madding crowd

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

***The Tiger Dance

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

****School Boy Error

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

A couple more Indian reads

2006-11-26T19:53:00.000+05:30

A fine balance by Rohinton Mistry
This beautifully written tales chronicles the lives of four individuals brought together by the circumstances of the state declared emergency in India in the seventies. It highlights the atrocities that took place during this period such as forced sterilisation and brings to light the discrimination that still characterises rural India as a result of the caste system.

A book well worth reading but not for the faint hearted as it can be incredibly depressing in parts.

Lou's Barry Ronge Rating: A Superlative Seven

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

Lou's Barry Ronge Rating: An Enigmatic Eight

Jungle fever

2006-11-17T10:38:00.000+05:30

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

Haryana happenings

2006-11-16T12:02:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

Haryana women

2006-11-16T11:36:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaipur

2006-11-14T23:39:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

Closing doors

2006-11-13T22:38:00.000+05:30

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

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

LOST

2006-11-10T12:39:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

High Infidelity

2006-11-09T10:58:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HECTIC.

Ode to Chanda's mom

2006-11-08T17:11:00.000+05:30

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

Chanda's mom

You are the bomb

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

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

All day long

Red Tape

2006-11-08T14:26:00.000+05:30

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

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

"To the Director Corbett Tiger Reserve, Raam Nagar

Dear Respected Sir

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

Thanking you

Kind regards

Louise B"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Couch calamity

2006-11-07T10:56:00.000+05:30

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

It was not.

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

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

A couple more India reads

2006-11-06T21:35:00.000+05:30

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

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

Sari shopping

2006-11-06T15:00:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

Halloween

2006-11-03T18:03:00.000+05:30

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

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

and go as TOURISTS.

Check out the link on the sidebar for the pics.

Need a family vehicle?

2006-11-03T17:37:00.000+05:30

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

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

The real Delhi Belly

2006-11-01T11:27:00.000+05:30

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

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

Testing the boundaries

2006-10-31T17:35:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

Different strokes.

Varanasi

2006-10-30T12:56:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nizamuddin's Qawwali

2006-10-27T09:52:00.000+05:30

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

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

Kitchen antics

2006-10-26T10:46:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

Mystic Pizza

2006-10-25T10:19:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How many consultants does it take to read a map?

2006-10-24T09:59:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

Diwali - the festival of light

2006-10-23T16:02:00.000+05:30

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

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

I think I got the black lung Pop

2006-10-20T10:31:00.000+05:30

Cough, cough. Splutter, splutter. Sniff.

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

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

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

Pimp my ride

2006-10-19T14:02:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

Matrimonials

2006-10-18T12:25:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

Food for thought…

Amritsar and the Golden Temple

2006-10-17T11:10:00.000+05:30

Sadly I had to bid Coreen, my partner in crime farewell but Chanda who is equally cool has taken her place. I think the two of us cause a little confusion – the Caucasian South African and the African American.

This weekend our motley crew - Chanda, Nic, myself and Ravi the Super Sikh from the US - missioned off to Amritsar and the Golden Temple. Unfortunately Laura/Lauren had to pull out at the last minute because of a bad attack of Delhi Belly. This time we travelled by train in style – second class, AC. We were in Amritsar for all of 18 hours but we managed to see some awesome sights and eat the most delicious food for which the Punjab is famous:

The Golden Temple is the most sacred shrine in Sikhism. Sikh devotees, for whom the Temple is a symbol of freedom and spiritual independence, come to the Temple from all over the world and ritually dip themselves in the water that surrounds the building. It is inlaid with more than 750kg of gold and breathtakingly beautiful. Respectfully bowing turbans and prayers reverberating around the enclosure combine to create an indescribable air of reverence and an almost tangible positive energy. What amazed me was the sense of community. Everybody works together and everyone is welcome, no matter creed or colour. As we were standing on the edge of the water, a group of about 100 people came past us washing the marble. Everyone helps no matter how young or old they are or how much value they add. There is also a 24 hour kitchen serving a free, simple meal of ciapati and dal serviced by volunteers. The boys bravely slept at the temple whilst Chanda and I copped out and opted for the decidedly more comfortable hotel beds.

The changing of the guards at the India-Pakistan border was incredibly entertaining. The area gets completely packed and the atmosphere is set by school kids merrily dancing to the patriotice music blared over the loudspeakers. The guards, somewhat incongruously dressed with large fans protruding from their hats and chests swelled with self importance, nightly go to acknowledge the Pakistani border guards on the no mans land between the two borders. The atmosphere turned a little political when the guy behind me starting making machine gun noises!

The Amritsar orphanage houses many of those orphaned in the 1984 attack on the Golden Temple. Ravi raises funds online for them so we had an opportunity to go and visit them. It was a completely humbling experience. We arrived in the evening in time for their prayers and were invited to join them. I think we were more of a disruptive influence then anything as for most of them we were probably the first foreigners they had met. Nic gained instant favour with the cricket bats he had bought along as gifts. We also arrived laden with an enormous crate of bananas which we handed out with their dinner. The funniest part for me was trying to take a group photo. Every attempt was foiled as the kids repeatedly launched themselves up right in front of the camera just before the photo was taken. Some of the kids were even lifting up their friends by the pants (resembling a rugby line out) to ensure they were the primary focus of the picture. I also received my first marriage proposal! One little kid started with the question and then before long about ten kids had joined in. Although incredibly flatter, I suspect they didn't really know what they were saying.

Culture Shock

2006-10-13T11:17:00.000+05:30

There are a few things in India that I am taking longer to get used to than others:

Drinking water from water bottle without putting my lips on the rim. I am a spilly person at the best of times and those that know me well will corroborate that I have a chronic hand eye coordination problem when it comes to getting food and/or beverages into my mouth without spilling. You can just imagine the carnage of trying to get the water into my mouth from a distance. I have given up and now drink directly from the bottle. I figure I would rather run the small risk of getting amoebic dysentery then the large risk of dehydration
The pollution that caused such a bad break our on my forehead I was convinced I was having an allergic reaction to something. I now have to clean my face daily with rubbing alcohol. Somehow I don’t think the people at Dove would approve.
The hocking and spitting done by a lot of the men with great gusto. The pleasure derived from this national occupation appears to be directly proportional to its volume and the amount of time spent doing it.
The mandatory three spoons of sugar in every cup of tea or coffee. The sugar is added right at the beginning of the brewing process. Ask for no sugar (cini) and you will be met with a blank stare. Except of course for the very nice guy at work who brings our coffee round and makes me a no (more like low) sugar cup especially.
The dearth of beefy Bovril. No explanation required.
No Pick n Pay where you can go and do all your grocery shopping.

A love story

2006-10-12T11:55:00.000+05:30

I always thought that Indira Gandhi, previous prime minister of India, was related to the great Mahatma or Gandiji as he is affectionately know here. The real story is far more romantic…

Once upon a time there was a man named Nehru. He became prime minister of India after the Partition in 1947. This was a very big task because the situation was fraught with political tension. West Pakistan and East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) had been separated from India. Although they tried to create the borders to encompass predominantly Muslim and Hindu areas, thousands of people found themselves having to leave the land on which their ancestors had lived for generations and relocate. Often they didn’t have an opportunity to take their belongings with them. A large number of the people were very unhappy.

Nehru had a daughter Indira. Indira fell in love with a Farsee. When her father found out, he was furious. He told her that marrying him was just not an option and it would just undo all the work he was trying to achieve. Distraught, Indira turned to her godfather and close family friend Gandhiji. Together they devised a solution.

The next day, Gandhi went to Nehru and said “I have had a brilliant idea. I think that Indira should marry one of my sons”. Nehru was very pleased and agreed immediately. But when he saw Gandhi’s son he realised what he had agreed to. “But this is not your son! This is the man that Indira wanted to marry. I cannot allow it.” He said.

“Aaggh” said Gandhi “But he is my son now as I have adopted him”.

And that is why Indira Gandhi has the surname Gandhi.

NOTE: I was relaying this story to a colleague and he took great delight in telling me that although a common opinion, it is in fact completely incorrect. Feroze Gandhi (Indira’s husband) had the same surname merely by coincidence. He was not the adopted son of Gandhi.

Damn! Why did he have to go and pop my balloon like that? I think I’m going to go with common opinion on this one. It makes for a much better story.

ANOTHER NOTE: My faith in romance has been restored! I spoke to the original narrator of the tale and is willing to bet his life on the fact that it is true. He apparently did a paper on it at Varsity with lots of research etc. etc.

Delhi Belly

2006-10-11T10:34:00.000+05:30

Everyone warned me about Delhi Belly but with all this good food the only Delhi Belly I have to worry about is the one of the more permanent affliction. This morning in the shower I composed a song about my favourite meals/snacks in Delhi

My favourite things
To be sung with gusto (preferably in a shower with good acoustics) to the Sound of Music hit sound track of the same name

Paneer (discovered in SA and still a hot favourite);
Mutton kebabs at the stall at the back of Kahn Market;
Dal at the guest house and sweet lime juice;
Chicken momos at the Gymkhana and pomegraaaanaaaaaatttte...

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sssssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaaaadddddddddddd, I simply remember my favourite things and then I don’t [rousing crescendo] fffffffffffffeeeeeeeellllllll sooooooooo bbbbbaddddddd.

PS. Jennifer at the Linksfield Netcare travel clinic, you were completely over exaggerating. The lettuce here is absolutely fine and I haven’t even cracked open my bottle of Milton yet. I even ate Pan Leaf from the side of the road (the original breath mint) and was fine. I only found out afterwards that they often wash the leaves in dodgy water.
PPS. Asian 2 minute noodles are so much better than the SA equivalent. I had a couple of Coreen’s old stock. They have the powdery stuff and then soy sauce, chilli flakes and this cool flavoured oil

The Midnight Express

2006-10-09T19:02:00.000+05:30

So it turns out the sleeper class on the train is neither AC first or second class nor the separate compartment that one might expect from the name. Coreen and I clambered onto the train only to realise that both the lights and the fans were not working in our very stuffy carriage. To make matters worse, a wallah leered menacingly at the window rattling a collection of dangerous looking locks and chains which we realised with horror were for the express purpose of securing our luggage to our beds.

As the thought "What have I got myself into?" reverberated around my head the train stuttered to life and with it the lights and the fans flickered on. Thank goodness. The light highlighted the fact that the bed covers had clearly seen cleaner days but it was nothing that an entire pack of Coreen's antiseptic wipes could not remedy. Coreen, what will I do when you go? The journey actually turned out to be relatively pleasant. At one point in the evening it got decidedly chilly and ill prepared for any cold weather as I was, I was decidedly relieved that we hadn't ended up in the AC compartment as I would have frozen my ass off.

In true style, I had demolished all my padkos before we had even left Delhi. Oh for the day when I haven't finished my popcorn and coke by the time the movie starts.

Highlights of Udaipur

2006-10-09T18:09:00.000+05:30

The jewellery shop. We arrived a little drowsy but ready to hit the town. We dropped our bags off at a guest house situated right on the edge of the lake and ventured out only to be lured almost immediately into a jewellery shop about 10m up the road by the jewellery seductively glistening in the display case. Magpies that we were we couldn't resist. THREE HOURS LATER we reemerged completely exhausted from painstakingly deliberating and ineffectually bargaining over the equisite pieces. Needless to say we completely blew our budgets.
The Crystal Gallery at the City Palace houses the rare crystal Maharaja Sajjan Singh ordered from England in 1877. The maharaja died before it arrived, and all the items stayed packed up in boxes for 110 years later to reveal excess such as a crystal table, couch and even bed!
The Rajastani Dancers at the Bagore-Ki Haveli reminded me of bright parakeets with their bright colours and graceful moves
The biggest turban in the world is vaguely reminiscent of a large piece of pink boerewors
Dinner in a cuppola overlooking the lake with Octupussy playing in the background. The movie was filmed here more than twenty five years ago and today it is still played nightly at all the rooftop restaurants. The full moon joined us for dinner. This is possibly the most romantic place I have ever had the pleasure of eating dinner. I would have quite liked to have swapped Coreen with Brian for the evening although she still made very pleasant company
The cooking course at the Spice Box. I can now cook chai masala, paneer, aloo ghobi and biryani with the best of them
Learning to play the tabla

Dengue fever

2006-10-05T13:22:00.000+05:30

Anyone heard of Dengue? I hadn't before I came over here but this morning 2 of the prime minister's grand children were diagnosed with this potentially fatal disease. Like malaria, it's carried by mosquitos and rife after the monsoon when there is a lot of stagnant water around. YIKES. Apparently they only bite during the day. More than 400 people have been treated at public hospitals for Dengue - nearly double last year this time. This doesn't include the statistics from all the private clinics!

Dussehra

2006-10-05T10:14:00.000+05:30

Monday was Dussehra; the day that Ram rescued his love Sita from the evil Ravana in Hindi mythology. It was also a public holiday and Gandhi’s birthday which was great. We went to watch the festivities in one of the markets. Had I been 10 I probably would have wet my pants. I’m 24 and I was completely frightened. Dance companies acted out the story of Ram and Sita impressively covered from head to toe in adornments and face make up. At the end of the show, they burned enormous 10 metres effigies of Ravana and his brothers. They were stuffed with straw and strained at guy ropes holding them in place. I was fully prepared to watch them burn gradually to the ground. I was not however prepared for the 16 million fire crackers secreted in the chest of each of the effigies to go off simultaneously. I think the locals found the height I jumped from fright far more entertaining than the burning of Ravanna.

Lou’s Top 5 Indian reads

2006-10-04T09:46:00.000+05:30

I hope that some of you will be joining me in India in the next few months. I have not had too many confirmations thus far but I remain optimistic. With this in mind I have included my top 5 India related books.

Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts
A crazy but true auto biography of an escaped Australian convict. You’ll be booking your ticket as you finish the last page.
Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Noteworthy Nine
Q&A by Vikas Swarup (the deputy high commissioner of India in SA incidentally)
An illiterate and uneducated boy from the slums wins the Indian show “Who wants to be a billionaire?”. The outraged show organisers accuse him of cheating. The story unfolds as he explains why he knew each of the answers. A delightful* read. *I’ve always wanted to say that – does it sound like something Barry would say?
Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Superlative Seven and a half
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
The auto biography of a women in her mid thirties who escapes the claustrophobic pressure of real life by running away for a year. She spends four months in Italy eating in Rome, four months in India praying at an Ashram and the final four months in Indonesia - yes, you guessed it – loving.
Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Scintillating Seven
Shalimar the Clown: Salman Rushdie
A harrowing tale of love and betrayal set in the foothills of war-torn Kashmir [hey, I am really getting into this].
Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: An Enigmatic Eight
City of Djinns; a year in Delhi [from whence this blog name comes]: William Dalrymple
A beautiful portrayal of Delhi and its history. This is the man that helped me to understand Delhi traffic. I’ve included my favourite passage.

“Balvinder Singh [Dalrymple’s taxi driver], son of Punjab Singh, Prince of Taxi
Drivers, may your moustache never grow grey! Nor your liver cave in with
cirrhosis. Nor your precious Hindustan Ambassador ever again crumple in a
collision – like the one we had with the van carrying Mango Frooty Drink.

Although during my first year in Delhi I remember thinking that
the traffic had seemed both anarchic and alarming, by my second visit I
had come to realize that it was in fact governed by very strict rules. Right of
way belongs to the driver of the largers vehicle. .. On the road, as in many
other aspects of Indian life, Might is Right. ”
Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: An Evocative Eight

Moving house

2006-10-03T12:23:00.000+05:30

I'm moving house. I've found this great little place in Old Delhi. I've included a picture.

Just kidding! Hee hee.

Monkey business

2006-10-02T14:06:00.000+05:30

I had my first experience with Indian textiles. I bought a beautiful brocade bag from the Paragang market. Coreen warned me that it might not be colour fast but I stubbornly ignored her. My water bottle was in my bag and leaked a little and now there is a large and indelible red mark on my cream linen pants. The experience reminds me of a floral overdyed top I bought at Green Market Square in Cape Town about 10 years ago that dyed my skin blue everytime I wore it. Lesson learnt: No matter where you are in the world, market merchandise is never colour fast.

We went to check out the monkey dance at India Gate yesterday afternoon. Two monkeys act out an entire play in full costume. Unfortunately they were nowhere to be found. Apparently they have been banned because the monkeys (!) were pick pocketing the audience.

We went from there into Old Delhi to the Jama Masjid mosque which is the biggest mosque in India and can hold up to 25 000 people. We arrived there just before evening prayers so we weren't allowed in. Undeterred, we sat on the stairs to soak up the atmosphere and almost jumped out of our skins when the cannon sounded announcing sunset - typical paranoid tourists. It was an awesome experience to be surrounded by people praying and the voice of the muezzin booming over the loudspeaker. We watched as all around us people broke their fast. I don't know how Muslims cope in India in the month of Ramadan. It is so hot and humid during the day (which is why my running training is going so incredibly badly) and nothing is allowed to pass their lips, not even a sip of water. RESPECT. I can't even go half an hour without drinking about a litre of water.

Lost in translation

2006-10-02T11:39:00.000+05:30

Did you know that Laura pronounced in the Italian way (Low-ra) means penis in Hindi? European Laura that is staying in my guest house did not know that small but relevant piece of trivia either. She figured something was up by all the tittering every time she introduced herself. It was left to the owner of the guest house, a very proper women in her mid 60s to enlighten Laura. To add insult to injury her surname is Kok which bilingual English/Hindi speakers find hysterical. Laura is here for 3 years as a refugee protection officer. As you can imagine, 2 weeks ago she changed her name to Lauren.

No one can understand me on the phone no matter how slowly and clearly I speak. Last week I was speaking to a woman from an affiliate organisation. I had to repeat myself about 6 times and she still didn’t understand what I was saying. Eventually I got in the car and drove all the way across Delhi to meet her in person. The meeting took ten minutes and she didn’t ask me to repeat myself once.

It would be more accurate to say that I was driven. I have a driver; Nerinder. We have a special way of communicating. He speaks Hindi and I speak English, neither of us understands what the other is saying but we both smile and nod. We use lots of charade type hand movements. He picks me up in the morning and takes me the hour to work in West Delhi. He sits and waits for me the whole day (he does not leave the car) and then when I am ready he takes me back again. It’s more affordable to hire him for the day than for the two separate trips to and from work. As you can imagine, this gives me serious working class guilt.

Yesterday I found myself in a situation that highlighted the challenges of not speaking the same language. Before I went to work I moved back to my old guest house - October is a very popular tourist month and my lack of foresight means that I didn't book far enough in advance thus have to move around a bit. Another driver took me to the guest house in a beautiful old Ambassador and then Nerinder picked me up and took me to work. When I got to work I realised that I was without my phone. Why do I always have to be so loskop? I retraced my steps and realised that I had probably left it in the first taxi. However it was on silent which is a very unusual concept in India. Caller tunes are HUGE here and noone wants to go unheard. So, try explaining this to someone that does not speak English. Not easy. It took me about 2 hours to hunt down the original driver and then search his car. To my great dismay, it was nowhere to be found. As I was about to resign myself to the fact that it was gone for good, I felt a vague but distinct vibrating under my hand. It was my phone! It had slipped into the seat lining.

What I learnt in London

2006-09-27T13:59:00.000+05:30

Heeled shoes should never be worn to work. No matter how comfortable they may seem in the morning, thanks to commuting they will be killing you by the end of the day and you may have to walk home barefeet
Don't allow yourself to day dream because you will mislay your handbag with credit cards inside causing a good hour of panic and running between pub and office to locate it and in the process scraping all the skin off the fourth toe of your right foot and making already uncomfortable work shoes unbearable
It doesn't matter how long it has been seen since you have seen your best friends. You know each other so well that when you see each other again it is as if no time has passed at all. I miss my best friends.

High voltage

2006-09-26T22:10:00.000+05:30

This morning I sat in the departures hall of the Delhi airport and watched all the foreigners going home swathed in India in an attempt to take a piece of it home with them. I think developing countries do that to you, like malaria they get into your blood and awaken a part of you that often lies dormant. It’s a part of you that overlooks the smells and the chaos and sees something much bigger; the energy.

I was trying to explain to someone what it is about India that reminds me of South Africa and I came up with the following analogy. The differences between South Africa and India can be likened to the differences between the plugs of the two countries. To start, both countries experience frequent power cuts! The Indian plugs are also three pronged but slightly smaller than its SA equivalent so that the SA two prong “fits” in the bottom two holes leaving the apex of the plug ominously empty (if I dust off the cobwebs of my Std 8 Science knowledge is that not earth?). It’s not an exact fit and you have to be careful you don’t knock it or risk a barrage of sparks but at the end of the day it’s the same voltage running through the wires.

Pride comes before a fall

2006-09-20T14:17:00.000+05:30

Now that I am a bona fide blogger I should probably only tell you stories that paint me in a good light but I just have to tell you about my first training run. I set off to Lodi Gardens for my first Indian jog. Lodi Gardens is conveniently about 1km from my place. Of course I walked there. I haven’t really seen anyone else jogging on the streets and I didn't want to stick out like any more of a sore thumb than I already do (to be completely honest, it was more because I did not want to be too tired to carry on running when I got there). On my way there, I narrowly escaped death at least twice. The first time was when a motorbike popped out from behind a bus as I was walking past it. The second and more life-flashed-before-my-eyes time was as I was rushing across an intersection where the robot was red. **Note for the future: they don’t wait for the green light here. They go when it is orange for the other side.

That at least got the adrenalin pumping and the first (of hopefully many) training runs was relatively successful. I didn’t have a watch so I managed to convince myself that one loop around the gardens was at least 5km. I was quite cheered when I ran past a guy who remarked “You’re coming round again? But you only just came past!” until I worked out that he must have been dreaming because I only did one loop. I felt pretty cool running along with my iPod (thanks B2 team). But typically pride comes before a …. YIP.

I was running home and I decided to take a short cut. Suddenly I was in an area I did not recognize. It is a very bizarre setup here; I live in a very nice area but the roads alternate between huge sprawling properties and jam packed and completely run down blocks of flats. All the people jam packing the afore mentioned flats watched me curiously as I came running up the road trying to look professional but probably more closely resembling a crippled hippo or some equally ungraceful animal. When I realised I had come to a dead end, I tried to turn around as nonchalantly as possible and as I headed back I tripped. Not just a little trip mind; a huge arms flailing, 10 metre consuming trip. In front of about 30 highly entertained onlookers! Luckily I caught myself just before I planted my face into the tarmac. The most embarrassing part was that I didn't actually trip over anything. I just stumbled.

Oh well, if nothing else I think I at least put a smile on a good few faces that evening. I aim to entertain.

Does a cow have calf muscles?

2006-09-20T13:21:00.000+05:30

This is the poster above my desk at the client. I don't know. I assume yes. What I do know is that I have a problem. Aside from the high fliers, I have made only one acquaintance here. He always seems to be at meetings so has not been unable to join me at the buffet style canteen for lunch as yet. It seems pretty straight forward

Take a tray
Take some food

But not for the unitiated such as myself. You see, there is one plate and 2 little bowls next to it. There are about 5 dishes to choose from. What to do. I can't ask the canteen servers because they don't speak English very well and I can see the amused look in their eyes as they watch me flounder. Instead I quickly smash a bit of each dish into the closest receptacle and rush to sit at a table with my back to everyone so they can't see how wrong I got it. On my way to the table I try to surreptitiously look at how everyone else does it. Fordsburg friends, please save me from the mortification!

Old Delhi

2006-09-18T20:25:00.000+05:30

On Tuesday I met the South African Deputy President. This morning I met the leading actor of an Oscar winning movie. This street kid played the lead role in the short film The Little Terrorist.

Today I went on a tour of Delhi with a difference. The tour was run by the kids of Salaam Balak (salute the children). Salaam Balak is a shelter for the street kids that lived in and around the New Delhi train station. The kids that took the tour guided us through the lives they lived before they came to the shelter. They explained to us in broken English how each train platform was run by a different gang of street kids. They relayed stories of physical and drug abuse. Mind blowing. Our main guide was in his early twenties with a rakish air and a devilish grin. He is currently studying dance and drama through correspondence and aspires to be an actor.

And then they plunged us into the heart of Old Delhi upon whose streets they roamed. Old Delhi is wild, dusty and chaotic and in sharp contrast to the wide and leafy avenues of New Delhi. I met a potter who has been moulding clay at the same stall for 90 years. I saw a goat serenely assessing his surrounds like a Maharaj from atop an abandoned car. We were invited into the court yards of buildings where royalty used to live; where ornate paintings and inticate mouldings have been superceded by heavily burdened washing lines. We took bicycle rickshaws through the narrow streets and narrowly missed knocking over a wallah pushing his water barrow.

Lastly we went to the shelter where the kids seek refuge and where I met the Oscar nominee. On the way there we crossed one of the busiest and most chaotic intersections in Delhi where even most taxi drivers fear to tread. I took a video of it but my blogging skills are still very underdeveloped so I can't work out how to post it.

First impressions

2006-09-18T04:48:00.000+05:30

Imagine, if you will that every car in Joburg was driven by an aggressive taxi driver that frequently used his hooter. Imagine all the roads were half as wide and there were double the amount of cars. Imagine that instead of robots there are circles at which there is no yielding either to the left or to the right. Add in a bit of healthy gesticulating.

Welcome to Delhi.

Well it's been 5 days and I am coming to the end of my first week. I am gradually feeling less overwhelmed and finding my feet in this crazy but phenomenal city. I have thus far successfully avoided Delhi Belly (thank goodness) and eaten some delicious food. My limited knowledge of Indian food has quite impressed my colleagues over here (thanks for the education Fae, Amantha, Zaheer, Pradeep and Ash (sort of)) and my efforts to fit in and drink my coffee out of a bowl are appreciated.

I am staying in a lovely guest house till the end of the week. The rooms are quite small but the pool is beautiful and considered quite a luxury here where water restrictions are common. As of next week, I move to a different guest house where the living arrangements are more spacious but there is no pool. Everywhere is very jacked and all the guest houses have wireless which is awesome. I have recently discovered Skype (where have you been all my life?) which means that I can talk to Brian for free albeit with an occasional delay. For those of you that are on Skype, please send me your user name. For those of you that aren't, get with the programme! Go to www.skype.com and download it ASAP.

Delhi, like Joburg is a very big city and getting around on foot is not really feasible. The easiest and cheapest option is rickshaw. My rickshaw driver on the first day was very friendly and after the obligatory cricket discussion (BTW. My being at the world record Australia-SA match impresses enormously over here. Thanks Standard Bank) we got to chatting. It turns out that his brother lives in Laudium. Yes, the place on the way to Pretoria! As you can imagine, we are now fast friends and he only tries to take advantage of me every now and again.

The offices are in a very beautiful building in town but the whole Delhi office is crammed into the space equivalent of one wing of one floor of our JHB offices. In addition, there is only one ladies loo which I find very bizarre. They are all pretty friendly although things seem to be done a little differently over here. When I asked the receptionists to organise me an access card they laughed as though I had made the most hilarious joke of the year. Apparently you have to ORDER them! OOOHHHH, now I get it ???

My colleague who I like to call Coreen-the-Machine is an embodiment of efficiency and awe-inspiring in her ability. She has really been great in showing me around and helping me to find my feet. I got launched into the deep end of the project and given my own client . I had to present a workplan on my third day of work. No pressure. The meeting went really well though and it looks as though things are about to get really exciting. [Quick recap: I am working on a project which is focussed on creating job opportunities primarily for rural women through mobile pay phones. That is the summary. Let me know if you want more detail.] For now, I will be based in Delhi.

There is so much to see and do here. Delhi is such a sensual city. All of the senses are constantly assaulted (with sometimes less than pleasant smells). Already on my first day, I had drunk chai in a market whilst stray cows wandered past (a mouse also scurried past but luckily I didn't see it) and had sun downers at the western and very expensive Lodi Garden Restaurant. This was thanks to Nic, my Delhi guide extroadinaire who has already been here for 2 months and still has 2 years to go. Also courtesy of Nic, I attended a drinks evening held by the South African embassy. We got there and it turned out to be a full on banquet in honour of our own Deputy President, Ms Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka!!!!!!!!! She started off the dinner by saying "I am not here to talk, we have done enough of that today. I am here to PARTY." As you can imagine, it was a very fun night. I met some incredibly cool people including the wife of the high commissioner, Mrs Maloyi.

For those of you that have asked me about lucrative marriage proposals, I have not had much time to investigate this but the good news is that education has recently become more important for the eligibility of a woman than looks so for those of you that are well educated and want to pursue opportunities overseas…

BTW. I am going to be in London next weekend for training. I will be staying at the party palace of Effra Road and all UK people can expect to be hearing more from me shortly.