Home-style Hospitality, Hunting in Chandni Chowk, and Haggis.

I managed to escape to the UK over Christmas and New Year, and thoroughly enjoyed catching up with family and friends.  I was especially pleased that my wee sister, Annie, had kindly given birth a month before her due date, which meant that nephew Ralph and I could become acquainted: he’s a real cutie, and he didn’t seem to mind spending Christmas in the house with a bunch of rowdy, noisy, whisky-fuelled so-called adults.  Looks like he’s going to fit in just fine.

A night out with long-lost University pals on the eve of my flying back to India created the pinnacle of my accumulated festive hangover, and resulted in a frenzied and haphazard packing disaster the next day, leading to overloaded suitcases, the threat of an excess baggage charge (smiling sweetly got me off the hook, surprisingly), enforced Bloody Marys by sympathetic cabin crew, and my leaving critical items behind (thanks, Cat, for the emergency FedEx package, and also for doing the dishes and clearing out my fridge – I owe you one).  So, instead of arriving in India refreshed and recharged, I started my 2013 in Delhi with a foggy brain, a picked liver and a whisky problem: the problem being, I didn’t buy any Balvenie in duty free.  I’m also sans haggis, as nobody says, so I have some other good pals working out a naughty scheme to courier an illegal supply past the pesky customs bureaucrats in time for Burns’ Night.

I’ve spent the last week engaged in an amusing (for me, anyway) stand-off with the grumpy security guard in my apartment block.  Every second day he says to me “Happy New Year…gift?” and I pretend I have no idea what he’s on about.  He obviously wants a large tip, but he’s not blooming getting one, the cheeky monkey.  He does bugger all apart from some sleazy gazing and, besides, I’ve already contributed to the organised staff tip funds for Diwali, Christmas and other festivals.  Maybe I’m a being a bit mean, but I do enjoy saying “oh, do you have a gift for me?” and stretching out my hand in mock anticipation, just to see his bemused face.

Dinner in a Delhi home

Despite the over-indulgences of the festive period I, along with my UK-based ‘client boss’ (let’s call him James), was pleased to accept an invitation to dine in the home of a colleague on Friday night.  We’ll call her Ritika.  Ritika has a husband and a young son, and she has often spoken of her mother living with the family in their apartment; we looked forward to the promise of her mum’s wonderful butter chicken.  So, off we went on Friday night to Ritika’s family’s apartment in north Delhi. I remembered to bring my last back-up tin of Edinburgh Rock (I had read that one should bring a small token gift when invited to dinner), and a quick roadside stop for some flowers – and so that our driver could have a pee, of course – ensured we were fully prepared.  Finding the apartment was a problem, given that Ritika had looked at me blankly when, earlier that day, I had opened Google Maps and asked her to show me where she lived.  Zooming in on the map, I couldn’t see any street names (there aren’t any in her area, she told me), and this further supported my growing realisation that Indians have absolutely no familiarity with maps – navigating here is done by landmarks alone.  A bit like in Ireland, I guess (“just head down that road towards O’Reilly’s pub, turn right at the tree, and if you get to a phone box you’ve gone too far”. That sort of thing).  It took 7 phone calls between our driver and Ritika to finally reach our destination.

Ritika welcomed us into her apartment, and introduced us to her husband, son, and mother, and then busied herself fetching drinks. Kingfisher beer: hurrah!  So, it wasn’t going to be a dry night after all.  Almost immediately upon arrival, we were tucking into a plate of boned lamb pieces spiced with coriander and chilli, along with some wee, soft potato patties which had been fried and served with a chilli, coriander and mint dip.  Yum.  Things were looking good, and it was only about 7.30pm.  When the plate was licked clean, we were brought crisps, pistachios, and more Kingfisher beer, and we chatted happily with Ritika’s husband about banking and cricket.  OK, James conversed enthusiastically while I tried, unsuccessfully,  to steer the conversation onto Bollywood dancing and the price of handbags.  James texted me from the loo to warn me of the lack of loo paper – I’m not sure what he thought I would be able to do with that information, other than study the bathroom while I drip-dried, wondering how ladies usually completed their visit.  There was no apparent botty-hose, so I can only assume that one of the plastic buckets in the adjacent open shower would be filled with water and this then splashed upwards in order to ‘cleanse’.  But you’d still need to drip-dry!  I don’t understand it, and I didn’t try it.  Drip-drying works just fine if you have to do it.

An hour and a half later, we were still chatting, drinking beer and, by this stage, James and I had completely demolished the crisp and nuts – we’d assumed earlier that the lamb dish was a rather tasty starter, and our tummies were eagerly anticipating more scrumptiousness which didn’t look likely to materialise at this late stage.  Finally about 2 hours after our ‘starter’, and probably after our stomach-rumbling became deafening, Ritika called her mother to fire up the gas and serve the butter chicken.  Hallelujah!  We sat at the table, and Mum brought out various mouth-watering dishes, including a veritable production-line of freshly-made chapatis, which we attempted to tear and eat using the one-handed method – eating with your left hand is considered slightly offensive, as this is the hand which is used for, ahem, ablutions. The famous butter chicken was superb, as were the accompanying dishes, and our only regret was having stuffed so many pistachios down our throats earlier on.

But here’s the weird thing:  aside from a very polite introduction at the beginning of the evening, Ratika’s mum didn’t sit with us, eat with us or chat with us at any point during the evening; it was almost as if she was assuming the position of hired help, and it seemed really odd.  Even more oddly, on my way to and from the loo, I noticed an old-ish man sitting in an adjacent room.  Ritika had never mentioned her father, and we were not introduced to him at any point during the evening!  She happily pointed him out in her wedding photographs (sadly, trawling the albums with visitors is not just a British affliction), but why we would not have had at least a brief introductory ‘hello’ is something I really don’t understand.  And had mum and dad eaten earlier, or would they eat later on?  Hmmmm.  Very strange, but perhaps this is the norm over here.  We must have finished dinner (cardamom-infused rice pudding and an amazing sweet red carrot dish were the final treats) at about 10.30pm.  At home, this would be when we would all flop into some comfy chairs and start attacking the port and whisky, but in India, this is when visitors say goodbye to their hosts.  To be honest, I was still feeling a little weirded-out by the whole silent-dad-alone-in-another-room thing, so I was quite happy to leave.  Besides, I wanted a fag.

Heading back down the road to Gurgaon took ages, as the Friday night traffic cops had erected multiple road-blocks to check for drunk drivers.  It got me wondering what the criteria might be for pulling over a driver:  in the UK, if you drive erratically a policeman might reasonably assume there was a good chance you were under the influence.  Here, you probably get stopped if you are driving at a steady speed and in a straight line.

Fun and fireworks in Chandni Chowk

I’d seen Chandni Chowk, the famous market in Old Delhi, a couple of times on early-morning cycling tours, but I hadn’t been back to explore it properly.  I finally went back on Saturday with Agnes and Ben (the hosts of the upcoming Burns’ Supper) as Ben desperately wanted to buy some fireworks for the party. Chandni Chowk apparently means ‘moonlit square’, but I have no idea why!  It’s a maze of crazy little streets, each one comprising rows of ramshackle, run-down little shops specialising in various wares.  There are literally hundreds of fabric shops, accessories stalls, electrical goods’ stalls, junk shops…you name it.  Outside on the streets, it seems that anyone with a skill to sell will claim a few square feet of pavement and set up a business.  I saw a man sitting on the ground with a little hand-operated sewing machine busying himself with minor garment repairs, and a guy with excellent ‘Ming the Merciless’ eyebrows providing old-fashioned gentlemen’s cut-throat shaves for those who fancied an outdoor barber’s experience.  I tried to persuade Ben to let Ming have a go at fashioning his beard into a ‘George Michael’ for my amusement, but he didn’t fancy it (and neither did Agnes, Ben’s girlfriend).  We rode on the cycle rickshaws and tipped the drivers handsomely, mainly because we felt sorry for these skinny Indians having to ferry around ‘large-boned’ westerners.  One rickshaw driver got his own back by making sure he hit every pothole in Old Delhi, each time ricocheting my head off an iron bar on the roof.  Ow.

We got lost in the fabric markets, ending up in what looked like an opium den (it wasn’t, but it smelt like it….not that I’ve ever been in an opium den), and ooh-ed and ahh-ed our way round the fabulous spice market, coming away with packages of dried spices and teas, and some killer chillis which might just melt your internal organs.  I’m considering whose tea I will put them in at work; there are a few annoying candidates who might just get this special treat.

At one point we thought we were heading into the middle of a protest march (there have been many in recent weeks which have been well-publicised globally), but it was actually a parade for Lohri – the bonfire festival – where the folks of northern India celebrate the harvesting of winter crops.  I have lost count of the number of festivals and holidays they have over here – there seems to be one every couple of weeks!  They are always colourful and noisy, though, so right up my street.

We ate some amazing samosas from the street-sellers (and can report no subsequent intestinal disturbances), and argued with stall-holders who wouldn’t barter with us. Boring! We even found the dodgy fireworks – a large bagload of ‘Cock’ goods for about £12 – I’d have paid £12 just for the branded bag.

I’m now just worried about the haggis.  My friends in Scotland have reported, via an Indian pal who has tried previously a similar illegal import of haggis, that there is little chance of success, and that I will probably end up with a rancid bag of grot.  However, given that the majority of attendees at said Burns’ Supper will be English, and most think that haggis is indeed a rancid bag of grot, I’m sure it will go down a treat.

Ming the Merciless playing Sweeny Todd in Chandni Chowk

Caught in the middle of the Lohri festival parade in Old Delhi

An enterprising seamstress. Or is that ‘seamster’? I’m not entirely sure.

Spice market. Do you think the stall-holders like having their photie taken?

Ben, with his back of Cock. Fireworks, that is, Cock Brand Fireworks.

Trying not to be be a big Jessie.

Dilli Haat market, Delhi.

 

The excellently-named ‘Momo Mia’ eatery in Dilli Haat market.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I went back to the UK in mid-November for a wedding (which was gorgeous – and congrats again to Emma and Adam!), and spent just over a week enjoying the things I had previously taken for granted: brushing my teeth in running water, walking the streets without having to rely on a driver, being able to buy basic necessities without having to work out what, if any, sort of shop might stock them.  People said to me, “it must be a shock to the system being back in the UK”, but I actually found it a bit of a relief to be back on familiar ground.  I knew, therefore, that it would be more difficult coming back to India, but braced myself for it!

My first week back had its challenges: firstly, I had managed to break a back tooth on a sandwich in the BA lounge at Heathrow (think they must have been using the old British Rail catering company) while waiting to board the plane for Delhi.  Nightmare!  I have never had much luck with my teeth, and knew that if anything was likely to cause problems during my secondment abroad, it would be dental-related. I tried to ignore it for a week, but gave up and went to a local dentist one evening last week.  The girl kindly offered to have a look there and then, so I settled into the chair of doom to await the diagnosis (not good – will eventually need a crown – well, there’s a surprise).  She offered to patch it up and fill it, and began assembling her drill bits.  I asked “May I have an injection, please?”.  “No, mam – it will not be sore. Just put up your hand if you feel any pain and I will stop”.  One minute later, I’m lying there waving my hands around, while Ms Dentist completely ignores me and carries on attacking my trigeminal nerve.  To enhance my Indian dentistry experience, a young boy of about ten was then brought into the room and plonked on a dental chair right next to me. A few minutes in and the blood-curdling screams coming from the poor wee boy made me feel rather ill.  So, instead of calming patients with tropical fish and soft music, the dentist here might as well stick ‘Marathon Man’ on a DVD player in the waiting room and be done with it.  Still, I can’t complain about the bill:  I had an x-ray and pretty comprehensive drilling and filling treatment, and coughed up only around £11 for the lot.

The next evening, I managed to cut my finger pretty badly, and cursed myself for not packing a proper first aid kit.  I had to brave the pain and the gushing blood (I’m not squeamish but there was a LOT of it all over the kitchen and, unfortunately, in my dinner…but I needed the iron so ate it anyway), and took myself off to bed with a makeshift wound dressing, feeling rather sorry for myself.

I felt I was running the risk of turning into a Big Jessie, not helped by the fact that I was feeling rather cooped-up and reliant on others to do things (driving, cleaning) for me.  So, last weekend I decided to be brave and go adventuring on public transport!  I know it sounds really lame, but I had listened too much to people telling me to use my driver all the time, and that it was dangerous to go a-wandering on my own, and as a result I was going slightly mental.  So, I went into Delhi with one of the girls, and asked her to drop me off at a market, and see if I could find my way home unscathed.

The market, Dilli Haat, is a government-run crafts market, with loads of stalls selling scarves, saris, trinkets and food.  Stall-holders accost you as you walk by and try to lure you to their wares…it’s quite hard to get away once you are stuck with what must be some of the most persistent salespeople on the planet.  I’m usually quite good (and resisted that day) but caved in rather badly yesterday when I went off to do some Christmas shopping!  I loved all the colours and fabrics, but it’s hard to browse when you constantly have one eye on the goods, and the other nervously watching for over-enthusiastic sellers who are about to pounce.  I came away with a large bottle of Nepalese apricot oil and considered myself lucky.  Heading home, I found the nearest Metro station, and decided to buy the equivalent of an Oyster card to force me to use it again.  Indian folk don’t like to queue, so I was getting rather annoyed with 3 young girls who barged in front of me, and decided to push them out of the way and reclaim my place at the ticket window.  That felt gooooood.  I was then accosted by a security guard who didn’t take kindly to my attempts to photograph the “Come in one at a time for frisking” notice beside the scanner gates at the entrance to the turnstiles – he didn’t see the funny side so I put away my camera for fear of its getting confiscated.

The London Underground could learn a few things from the Delhi Metro:  the trains are new and clean with proper air-con, and they have “women-only” carriages: flowery pink signs on the platform direct you to where these carriages will stop – very girly!  It’s nice to be in a carriage which doesn’t stink of BO and cheese and onion crisps (c.f. London tube again), although the women have no problem trying to sit on your knee, basically, if they think they have any chance of perching their backside somewhere.  If there is approximately one-inch of seat showing, some large-buttocked woman will attempt to squeeze her gargantuan gluteus maximus into the gap, and harrumph loudly if you don’t try to shrink your own bum to accommodate hers.  There are signs in the carriage warning what will happen if you obstruct the doors (penalty could be up to 4 years in prison!), and thankfully all maps and notices are in English as well as Hindi, so pretty easy for visitors.  Best of all, the Metro takes you away from the awful traffic jams, and whizzes you back to Gurgaon in a fraction of the time.  I honestly can’t think why people don’t use it more!  From the local station, I then had to negotiate a fare with the driver of a ‘tuk-tuk’ (motorised rickshaw) to bring me back to my apartment in Central Park.  I had been warned that Westerners are always ripped off, and when I was quoted 100 rupees I effectively told the driver that.  It’s difficult to bargain with someone who says ‘do you want to get home or don’t you?’ so I agreed reluctantly and off we went.  When I realised that we’d actually overshot the apartment complex by quite a long way, I asked the driver to pull over, paid him, and then walked back instead.  So, not much of a bargain, but again, it forced me to brave the roadsides (it was daylight so I reckoned would be safe enough) and I made it home safely.

The famous ‘tuk-tuk’ transport. Windy, a bit mental, but the only taxis left in this world where you can sit in the back and smoke tabs like in the good ol’ days.

 

 

 

This way for the laydeeez, in the Delhi Metro.

 

 

 

At work this week, I was approached by a bloke bearing a tray of sweet treats and an ornate red envelope.  He introduced himself as Shirin, and explained that he would be ‘honoured’ if I would attend his sister’s wedding celebration next Friday night – wow!  Here’s where I am still astounded at the generosity of the Indian people.  I don’t know this guy, I don’t know his sister, but he took time to explain that he was inviting everyone in the department (I sit there but I don’t actually belong to the department) and that he would really like me to be there to celebrate the marriage!  Well, I decided I couldn’t/wouldn’t say ‘no’, so thanked him graciously and promised I would come in traditional Indian dress.  An excuse to buy a sari – yay!  So yesterday I headed back into Delhi to search for suitable attire.  I had no idea, really, what buying a sari entails – I just know they look great and I that I want one!  I had a recommendation for a good shop near Defence Colony, so off I went into the land of sumptuous fabrics and amazing colours.  The girls in the shop were great, and I selected a green sari (surprise surprise) and asked them what I had to do next.  Basically, a sari is about 5 or 6 yards of material, with one more-ornate end (this is draped over your shoulder).  What I didn’t realise was that the other end of the strip of material was effectively an extra yard or so which is used to make the midriff-revealing ‘blouse’ which is worn underneath. The girls patiently explained that I would now need to take the fabric to a tailor to get the blouse made, and that I would need a petticoat and pins.  Complicated! Nevertheless, a quick consultation of my bible – a book called ‘Love Delhi’, and I found a tailor near Connaught Place who could (allegedly) do a same-day tailoring service.  I told my driver he could head home, and off I went to the tiny tailor’s shop. The man looked shocked when I asked him for the ‘same day’ service, but agreed, measured Frank and George (I worried that he might say I didn’t have enough material to cover them), and told me to come back in a couple of hours.

During this time, I went off-roading around Connaught Place looking for unusual shops, but realised I was probably in a slightly dodgy area…not helped by men coming up and telling me it was ‘not safe’!!  I’m not sure why, but I sort of trusted one bloke who suggested I take a tuk-tuk to another shopping area.  He hailed one and told the driver not to charge me more than 10 rupees (nice!) – I did have one of those moments where I thought ‘where on earth am I going, and what did those two blokes say to each other in Hindi?’. I had visions of me being human-trafficked into Pakistan and other such things, so was pleasantly surprised to be dropped off at a craft place.

2 hours later (and wallet lighter) I headed back to the tailor’s and picked up my sari, blouse, petticoat and pins.  Blouse construction and sari ‘finishing’, plus purchase of said petticoat and pins….sum total of £12!  I think I need to investigate more fully this whole tailoring thing – I know people who have had leather jackets made for £45, suits and dresses made by folk who work for the Western design houses, so maybe after the new year I’ll get a new wardrobe.  Send your requests and measurements to me!

So, I now have my very own sari, and am wondering when on earth I’ll be able to wear it again after the wedding next week!  It’s quite tricky to put on (I opted for the traditional type instead of a westerner-friendly zipped version which I reckoned was cheating), but feels great once it’s been wrapped, tucked, pleated and pinned into place.  As I mentioned before, I fear my transition into Edina from AbFab is almost complete.

“Sari…is all that you can say…years go by and still…words don’t come easily…like sari, like sari.”

 

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

So, here I am at the end of my first month in India.  What have I learned so far?  I thought the easiest thing to do would be to summarise the good, the bad, and the ugly, from my perspective anyway.  Here you go:

The Good

1. Food (see also ‘The Ugly’).  This has to come in at No. 1 having just this week scoffed the best butter chicken I have ever tasted.  It surpassed even the yummiest offerings of the wonderful Mother India in Glasgow, and that’s praise indeed.  Natalie and I went for a proper local curry, and managed to binge on two amazing chicken dishes, all the trimmings, plus 6 Kingfisher beers (OK, that was between us – we are a pair of girls’ blouses).  Total bill was less than a tenner each.  We’ve also discovered an amazing sweet thing which we can only describe as ‘fried friediness’ – I think it’s basically syrup-filled batter which is arranged in an attractive roulade-shape, and then deep-fried.  Very tasty indeed, but probably a fast-track to type 2 diabetes.  In the paper this week, the India Times’ advice on staying healthy during Diwali (which is next week) included:  “Don’t eat all the sweets you are bound to receive during Diwali.  Instead, why not give them to children who have much more energy and will burn off the calories more quickly?”  Ha ha!  Love it.
2. Warmth and welcome.  This place is more like Glasgow than Edinburgh.  People (strangers) do come up and talk, and are really keen to know where I’m from, how I like India, and how I’m settling in.  I like that.
3. Climate.  It’s warm, but it’s not too humid and sweaty (much).  I’m hearing tales of snow, ice and storms elsewhere on the planet, and I feel like I am a world away.   I thought I would miss the Scottish winter, but – nah – I’m over that.
4.  Cost of living.  I’m not including the ‘essentials’ for which I have had to fork out in the last few weeks (including, this week, a kettle which actually holds enough water to be of any use); otherwise, I’ve been pleasantly surprised with the level of my outgoings so far.  Fruit and veg, particularly, are available at rock bottom prices, and it’s really only the imported stuff (decent ham, chocolate, etc) which will make dents in my moth-eaten wallet.
5. Monkeys!  Yes, I know they are pesky and pretty dangerous out here, but I still love them.  I have also seen 2 camels being ridden down the road, and today I saw someone astride an elephant beside the river.  Both beasts look like great forms of transport, albeit only slightly speedier than the Sinclair C5.
6. Clothes.  The office attire for women puts us to shame.  I trundle into work in boring, plain, Western clothes, while all the women around me are floating around in amazing ethnic colours.  I may have to give in and join them.  In fact, I have been instructed to come into work tomorrow in something ‘bright and ethnic’ as I am going to a lunchtime Diwali celebration.  This meant dashing to the local mall tonight and having lots of fun in the Indian clothes shops before returning with a shocking pink top and green scarf thing – yes, I fear I have actually turned into Edina from AbFab.  Fiona – you were right after all.
7. Cycle tours.  The best way to explore Delhi!  I’ve done two already and will definitely go back for more.  I really can’t recommend them enough, although I have had to buy new sandals as my old ones were somewhat ruined from landing in shit half the time.  Not sure if it was dog, monkey or human (or all three), but they smell baaaaad.  Here is a pretty rubbish video I made on my last cycle outing:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGYaVxUwgxc .  Don’t be put off by it – I promise you it’s much better than my film might suggest.

The Bad

1. Standard of driving.  I think I’ve gone on about this enough in previous posts to bore you to tears, but it really is ridiculous.  I decided on Day 2 it wasn’t worth worrying about as I have absolutely no control over this, so best to just chill out and block out what goes on as I am ferried about like Miss Daisy.  At least my current driver has a backseat seatbelt which actually works, so I’ve improved my chances of survival by at least 10%.
2. Proximity of Gurgaon to anything interesting.  Not good.  I’m a good hour’s drive from Delhi (Delhi is really interesting, Gurgaon is not).  I’ve realised that it will take some effort and good planning to make the most of my weekends here.  I’ve managed only two trips into Delhi so far, which really isn’t good enough.  I heard tales today of a fantastic white water rafting place about 4 hours north, so already trying to plan trips away after the new year.  Apparently, on the officially-recognised scale of “cacking yer breeks” in this sport, this place is mental.  Any takers? Johnny??
3. Working hours.  People work odd shifts here to align with the UK (obviously I’m working for a UK client so this is understandable) – many workmates come in from 10am-7pm, for example, but I am sticking rigidly to my rush-hour-avoiding 8am-5pm or 6pm schedule.  It takes me 15 minutes to commute at these times, but up to an hour during Delhi rush hour (6pm – 9pm!!).  No brainer.
4. Social life.   Most ex pats are either much older or much younger than me, in couples, and I feel I still haven’t got properly stuck into the ex pat networks yet, but that’s something I have to work on.  I have met a few really great people so far, but I’ve also met some oddballs!  I wonder if people think I am odd, being out here on my own?  Probably.  I haven’t even unleashed the full ‘Mo’ horror yet – I’m trying to be civilised and pleasant, but that can’t last forever.
5. TV subtitles.  These really are unbelievable.  All TV programmes and films seem to be subject to some sort of random censorship, with botties and boobs blurred-out and mildly strong language blocked completely.  Every time an actor lights a fag on screen, a massive health warning appears , obliterating half the picture. The funny thing is, English films are shown in English, with (get this) English subtitles.  This has actually proved to be quite a source of amusement, as what I hear on the soundtrack, and what I read on the subtitle, can vary enormously.  Here is a selection of my favourites so far:

Soundtrack                              Subtitle

‘Shit’                                       ‘Crap’

‘Crap’                                      ‘Shit’

‘Son of a bitch’                     ‘Rascal’

‘Whore’                                  ‘Dirty lady’

‘Brassiere’                             *bleeped out*

‘Bra’                                        ‘Bra’ (same programme as above)

The Ugly

1. Poverty.  There is such a huge gulf between the rich and the poor, and it’s sad to see such money-orientated guff emanating from the city when so many are quite literally in despair.  I had to go through Delhi today to another client site, and I was astounded at the number of homeless and poor sleeping everywhere and anywhere:  in the middle of the roads (on central reservations), parks, monuments, sculptures, pavements….you cannot go 10 metres without seeing a body on the ground, at any time of day.
2. Smog.  Now, I’ve been known to smoke a fag or two (yeah, ha ha and all that), but suddenly the air in Delhi has become so polluted even MY lungs hurt!  It’s horrible.  Folk keep referring to the ‘fog’, but I can assure you the haze is not caused by water droplets – it’s pure filth.  Dust and pollution in this dry weather just rise up and hang over the city, and it hurts to breathe.  I’m looking forward to a pack of Gauloise to clean out my alveoli.
3. Delhi Belly/Food.  I still don’t know the actual cause, but in just four weeks I have suffered two bouts of the infamous Delhi Belly.  First time was the full-blown ‘oh my god, how can this be happening both ends at once?!’ horror, which required some nifty yoga-esque poses to prevent full-scale bathroom devastation.  Thankfully the second bout was restricted to a ‘single-ender’ (as I’ve just christened it, and I’m sure it’s self-explanatory) which was infinitely more controllable.  By process of elimination, I still blame the ‘fresh’ milk, but after a week on soya milk my mind has conveniently erased memories of that first DB night, and I’m playing roulette with the fresh stuff again. I bet it hits me as I board a plane to London tomorrow night.  Wonder if BA will cordon off a loo for me if I pay extra?

I’m heading back to the UK tomorrow night, and I will return the following week with an extra suitcase full of emergency items – I have received requests from other ex-pats (exactly as expected – basically cheese, deodorant and tampons) – and some warmer clothes for the Delhi winter.  I believe the temperature might drop as low as 15C – not sure how I’ll cope with that :-). Here are some recent pics to add a bit of colour:

Me at 6.15am, ready for Cycle Tour No. 2 (during which we encountered lots of No. 2s).

A ‘haveli’ (old Delhi house) now, like many, converted to a temple

Sleeping bodies under blue blankets – didn’t even realise they were there.

5 minutes later: bodies awaken, blankets discarded, and ‘bed’ turns into a little ceramics stall!

Inside the Jama Masjid mosque (largest mosque in India), having been forced to wear a rather attractive housecoat-type-thing to cover up. Diana (Dutch girl beside me) naturally jealous that I bagged the orange one. We think we look rather fetching.

My first monkey! I’ll treasure him always.

Networking, food and sport; Frank-(and George)-might-go-to-Bollywood.

Three weeks in, and I think I have found my India legs.  The only thing which still really gets on my nerves is the incessant honking (in a noisy sense) traffic.  I find myself muttering sweary words under my breath throughout the day, whenever I hear it (which is all the time). I may have discovered a form of Tourette’s found only in India.

Since my last post, I haven’t managed to fit in any further sightseeing, but I’ve been concentrating instead on getting some sort of proper life in Gurgaon.  First thing to sort out is the social scene – being in Gurgaon is quite isolating, and you really do have to make an effort to get out and about to meet new people, so I decided to brave the ex-pat networking circuits.  Easier said than done, as there are quite a number of online groups to join, but difficult to know the predominant demographic of each without just getting stuck in and giving it a whirl. Last week, I discovered one group which had organised drinks in a local hotel on Saturday night, so I duly joined and registered my attendance.  Within a day, I had been ‘twinkled’ (according to my email alerts) by two other members, which horrified me somewhat.  What the hell is ‘twinkling’ when it’s at home? I can only assume it’s similar to being ‘poked’ on Facebook, a phenomenon which makes me feel rather uncomfortable to say the least.  I’ve ignored my ‘twinklers’ in the hope that I’m just going through some sort of Fresher’s Week experience, and that they’ll disappear off to Engineering or Philosophy lectures at some point.

Arriving in the hotel bar for the event, I realised I was first there, apart from the event organiser, whom I recognised from her online profile picture.  This European lady (and I’ll be no more specific in case I get accused of racial stereotyping) was perched on a barstool, so I walked up and introduced myself (with a smile) as a ‘newbie’ to the group, and waited for her enthusiastic welcome.  And I waited.  I’m not saying she was unfriendly, it just that her greeting style wasn’t what I expected from the organiser of an event for which the purpose is solely to make social introductions!  I continued blethering, and asked her lots of questions about what she did, where she came from…blah..blah…blah…and expected her to reciprocate.  Nothing!  It was as if she had absolutely no interest in finding out anything about any of the attendees! I heard plenty about how great she is, how many varied talents she possesses, and how efficient she is at organising things.  (Have I given too much away?  Oh dear.) Thank god a few others arrived after about 20 minutes (yes, twenty minutes – it’s a verrrryyy looonng time when you’re struggling for conversation) so I was able to move on.  I ended up chatting to some really nice folk, but there really doesn’t seem to be anyone of my age out here on their own – it’s predominantly older couples, and young twenty-somethings who are out here on work assignments and want to go clubbing all night.  I must be getting old, as this didn’t interest me in the slightest.  Oh no!

I did meet a really lovely couple who had an interesting proposition: one of their Indian friends is a casting agent for film extras (an Indian Alto – hurrah!), and he’s looking for lots of Caucasian ex-pats to fulfil extras roles in a forthcoming Bollywood movie about an Indian runner in the 1956 Melbourne Olympics.  Ha! Right up my street.  Many of you will not be surprised to learn that said casting agent received an email from me the very next day, so I’m lined up for a potential ‘audition’ at some point later in November, for possible filming in December. Thankfully the extras roles are mainly for crowd scenes, as I don’t think I would fool the agent into casting me as a 20-year-old female sprinter.  So, maybe one day my image will be shown in one of the cinema shacks on the banks of the Yamuna….or maybe not!  I’ll keep you posted.

I also decided to make best use of the facilities here in Central Park:  despite the swimming pool having officially closed for winter a couple of weeks ago, it is still full of water and looks relatively clean, so I have been having a few clandestine dips at the weekends, and haven’t yet been arrested under some other bizarre Haryana law.  I’ll keep going until I’m apprehended, or until someone establishes a link between the pool and the bout of Delhi Belly I suffered a couple of weeks ago (not recommended).

Tennis lessons are advertised in the complex, so I’ve signed up for these, too, following my once-in-the-last-twenty-years knockabout with Annie and David at home earlier this summer.  I even bought a tennis racquet for the occasion only to discover, after unzipping the cover at home, that it had no bloody strings!  Is this normal?  I haven’t bought a racquet for as long as I can remember, but I do recall the last one being presented will all requisite components.  So, a few phone calls later, and I eventually found somewhere to do the necessary and complete the job.  Ravi, my instructor, seemed quite impressed with my first efforts last Sunday, although he did say, after an hour, “Mo, you have very red face”.  Yes, Ravi – I’m Scottish, unfit, it’s 30-bloody-degrees out here, and you’ve been making me run round and round the court Gregory’s Girl – style (“it’s only a quarter of a mile and should be treated as a sprint”, etc. etc.) – you’re lucky I’m not expiring on the clay demanding an ambulance. Apparently I’m not bad, though, so expect to see me in a few Slams in 2013.

On top of this, I had a free yoga lesson from a lovely lady called Rachita.  All seemed pretty good apart from the ‘Ohhhmmmmmmm’ chanting, and her inadvertently trumping throughout.  I can see that yoga will necessitate control of all sorts of muscles, which some might say is a rather good thing.  However (based on the fact that Rachita has been doing this for years), it doesn’t appear to facilitate control of these muscles, which is a pity.

I can’t say I’m really surprised about the wind issue, considering that all anyone eats out here is…you’ve guessed it: curry.  After trying a few dodgy lunchtime eateries in the vicinity of work, I found that there is actually a canteen on site serving free lunches on a daily basis.  Wow!  What’s more it’s pretty good – you can have anything you like, as long as it’s….curry.  I’m amazed at how much people pile on their plates at lunchtime, considering most go home to a full homecooked meal, and the Indians are so skinny!  I was in a different canteen today where food was served in those indented metal trays (similar to what one might expect to receive in a prison), so dining today I felt a little bit like Bea in Prisoner Cell Block H.  If anyone says I look like her, they’ll have Frank & George to answer to. A lovely custom here is for staff to bring in home-made foodstuffs at lunchtime, and share them among colleagues.  Today I was offered something sweet, so I took a spoonful and it was absolutely delicious! “Wow – what’s in that?”, I enquired.  “Special flour, sugar, and lots of ghee” was the reply.  Arrghh!  Ghee!  I can just feel the pounds piling back on. Never mind, I have Ravi and his torture-tennis-training to help sort that out.

I’ve also had a bit of insight into the driving issue over here – I was chatting to a guy yesterday about the crazy roads, and he told me that people do take driving lessons, but the objective of these is purely to teach one how to operate the car.  There is absolutely no instruction in road rules or behaviour, what road markings and traffic lights are for, and so on.  You are literally taught how to go forwards and backwards, with a brief lesson on turning the wheel and, sometimes, how to brake.  Indians can apply for a driving licence and receive it without ever having to sit a test: there are no driving tests!  So, I have to conclude, the Indian DVLA-equivalent is loosely based on the Irish system, which has been operating in a similar fashion for years.  Case closed.

Work, power cuts and ladies’, ahem, ‘things’.

Cyber City, Gurgaon

The lollipop lady must have met with a sticky end; it’s every man for himself! This is the so-called ‘pedestrian crossing’.

I don’t want to sound like Craig David, so I’m not planning on telling you what I did on each day this week: that would be dull.  I didn’t have a bath on Monday in any case.  Come to think of it, I’m not sure Mr David did, either.

So, my first few days at work. I thought I had experienced the most ridiculous road chaos ever experienced, but I wasn’t prepared for my first day of rush hour in Gurgaon. Picture some sort of weird mash-up of the Italian Job with Gran Turismo; add the obligatory animals, rickshaws and cyclists, and you are a small way there.  I can think of a few nervous passengers (you know who you are) back in Scotland who might just wet themselves if they came out here.

I was given a very warm welcome in the office, and I think having the name ‘Mo’ makes it nice and easy for everyone.  Unfortunately, I was introduced to about ten people within the space of 30 seconds, and I will probably spend the rest of my time here trying to work out their names – I’m struggling with the more unusual names and it’ll take me a while to get into the swing of it.  Bring back desk signage – I need it!  I think I called one lovely woman ‘Sweaty’ for the entire morning, before I finally sneaked a look at her security badge and revised my pronunciation to ‘Swati’.  I think that’s the way Invernesians say ‘sweaty”, actually, so she’s probably still offended (if she thinks I’m from Inverness).  There doesn’t seem to be a policy on incredibly annoying mobile phone ringtones in the office, and the bloke who sits behind me lets his phone ring for ages before answering, presumably because he loves, and thinks everyone else will also enjoy, hearing the intro to ‘Careless Whisper’ at full blast.  Sadly, he’s obviously a popular man, and this screeching interruption takes place at least once every ten minutes.  I think I might change my ringtone to ‘Enter Sandman’ and see if I can start a song-war in the office.  It’s funny; I thought there would be more ex-pats out here, but I am literally the only white person in the office!  It’s strange to be the minority (not ‘one of’ the minority, but ‘the’ minority) for once in my life, but that’s a good thing to experience.

I was told it would take at least a week to set up an email account, and two weeks to get a local Blackberry.  Me: “No problem!  I’ll just sit and connect to your wifi and use my own account.”  Them: “Mam, we don’t have wifi.” Me: “No problem! I will make clever (albeit expensive) use of my iPhone tethering function and connect to the 3G network”.  “There is only patchy 3G network coverage in here”.  That’s when I started getting major heart palpitations.  It’s amazing how little can be achieved when there is no internetting to be done.

I had a wander round Cyber City, and decided to walk to the other client building in the area.  What should have taken 5 minutes took me 15 as I attempted for the first time to cross a road.  There was a ‘pedestrian crossing’ but there is absolutely no right of way for pedestrians, despite the notices.  Taking the first step was akin to Indiana Jones taking his ‘leap of faith’ in the Last Crusade, so after trembling on the grass for a while I just shut my eyes and stepped out into the traffic – it worked!  I shall use that technique religiously from now on. It’s been nice knowing you, folks!

My host for the first day explained a little more about the area and why it is the way it is.  It’s quite obvious, really:  when all the big UK and US companies invested in Gurgaon, it was to take advantage of the cheap labour, which is why the modern office blocks were erected in what had always been a poor part of New Delhi.  This has led to the rise of modern office blocks contrasting with the surrounding poverty.  The new Metro overhead rail system, which is still under construction here, has ploughed its way through the humble dwellings of the long-time residents.  In the UK, protestors would have sat it out for months when the diggers came; here, occupants were given a matter of hours (days at the most) to relocate their flimsy shacks to make way for the new rail system.  They seem very resourceful, however, and reconstructed dwellings have sprung up a few feet away from the concrete pillars of the Metro overhead.

I also experienced my first of the famous power cuts at 11pm the other night (and I’ve had plenty more since).  This happens a lot, apparently, when the massive power surges cause major outages across Delhi.  I think it’s worse in summer when folk come home from work and jack up the air conditioning, but the power supplies are pretty dodgy all year round, apparently.  My immediate thought when the power cut out was, “the fences are down! Hordes of marauding monkeys will invade my pan cupboards!”, but then I realised I was confusing reality with a simian-inspired Jurassic Park nightmare…I guess this Sula wine is stronger than I thought.

Now, here’s a thing which is driving me a bit nuts (and non-modern men of weak disposition may wish to skip the next paragraph, but lassies who intend to travel to India need to know this): I have been searching high and low for…er…ladies ‘things’.  OK, let’s just dispense with the euphemisms; I’ve been looking for tampons.  TAMPONS! There. I’ve said it.  Now, why on earth do pharmacies (or, indeed, any other shops), not stock such things?  They are happy to sell hair-removing cream, ladies’ moustache-bleach, all sorts of depilatory items and other ‘downstairs’-related effects (not that I’m suggesting anyone should use moustache-bleach down there), but no TAMPONS!  I managed to find 8 (and that’s 8 in total, not 8 boxes) after visiting around 6 separate pharmacies in the last few days.  What on earth is all that about?  Nobody told me this!  Looks like I’ll need to bring an extra suitcase with me from the UK next time I’m over, and fill it full…and then hope said suitcase isn’t left out in the rain while waiting to board at Heathrow, otherwise there could easily be a major over-expanded-cotton-related security incident.  Oh, and another thing – I went to a pharmacy today to get some deodorant, and the assistant said “No, mam” and sniggered!  So, entering a pharmacy is a bit like walking into a parallel universe (circa 1986 at boarding school) where certain things just cannot be mentioned.  Harrumph.

So, looking ahead to the weekend – I’m off to have dinner with Sue, Keith and another girl they know who apparently knows the best places for haircuts, nails and pampering, so I’m looking forward to that immensely.  I know, I know, I should just let it all hang out and dispense with the girly stuff, but I just can’t!  Not yet, anyway.  Give me a few months.

P.S. Struggling to transfer photos from my phone, for some reason, but I promise I’ll get some images up here soon. x

First weekend in Gurgaon

I landed in Delhi on Friday 11th October 2012, and fully expected to be overwhelmed by the madness of it all: this was, after all, what I had been led to believe by the guidebooks and general chat I had received prior to travelling.  Navigating the airport itself was a breeze, and the only hiccup I encountered was entirely of my own doing: in my haste when leaving the UK, I hadn’t got round to telling my bank I was relocating to India for 6 months. So, after one successful ATM transaction (giving me about £40-worth of rupees), my card was subsequently declined and blocked!  Clever me.

The journey into Gurgaon (south-west Delhi) conformed a little more to my expectations…I can’t say whether I was travelling on a motorway, but the 4 or 5 lanes of fast-moving traffic was much more in keeping with my preconceptions.  All manner of vehicle occupied the road: cars, trucks, mopeds, rickshaws, farm vehicles, pedestrians, cows!  There are no rules of the road, and road markings are irrelevant.  Vehicles just swerve and hoot, overtake and undertake, ‘straddle the white line’ (as my Granny Mary liked to do, but this was in a Honda Civic in rural Scotland, not a main thoroughfare in urban India!).  Many of the motorbikes appeared to carry entire families: dad, wearing the only helmet, in the driving seat, with a toddler sitting on his lap; mum (sar-clad) riding side-saddle behind him, and an older child hanging onto the back.  Apparently there are 5 road deaths per DAY in Delhi.  Hmmm.

Eventually we arrived at my new home for the next few months: Central Park in Gurgaon.  This is effectively a residential complex, with about 11 or 12 towers, each around 12 stories high.  I was pleasantly surprised with my 7th floor spacious apartment, but found it hard (after a long flight) to concentrate on checking the inventory with Ram, the nice bloke from the flat agency.  Ram wanted to go through every single item on the inventory (we’re talking cups and saucers here as well as beds and chairs).  I think he sensed my exasperation after a while and let me off as we approached the teaspoons.

The next welcome visitor was Monika, a lovely girl who arranged the flat for me – she’s from Poland but has lived in Gurgaon for about 10 months, so understands what newbie visitors need to know. For a girl, that means: ‘where can I get my hair cut without disaster?’ and ‘do any salons do Shellac nails out here?’.  OK, there was a more serious conversation about general safety, tipping, customs, healthcare, monkeys, business attire and so on.  Monika also kindly arranged for her personal driver to work for me for the next 2 weeks while she heads off to Singapore.  It seems that everyone out here has a personal car & driver to ferry them about to work, shops or play – I had naively thought that there would be at least some form of public transport (or walking option) but apparently not!  So, I have my very own chauffeur for a little while, and he calls me “Mrs Mo” – not sure how much I like that, but it’s sort of sweet.  Well, it would be if he didn’t burp constantly as he drives me around – I thought my family was bad, but he really doesn’t seem to care at all!

My first excursion was to the Galleria Market nearby – a cluster of small shops and market stalls on two levels – offering a wide range of goods and foods.  And ATMs – hurrah!  Having sorted out my mistake with Santander, they unblocked my card and I was ready to spend (I was hungry, besides anything else – no food for practically a day).  I thought I had pretty much familiarised myself with the exchange rate (100 rupees = about £1.20), but evidently I need some practise, as I initially tried to withdraw about £100 but realised, after several unsuccessful attempts, that 100,000 rupees is actually £1,200.  Thank god the ATM couldn’t dispense that amount, as I would have needed a wheelbarrow to get the notes home.

Off to the market, and I decided to buy a pile of fruit and veg and just do a ‘Ready Steady Cook’ job on it when I got home.  This involved picking up basketfuls of everything in the wee market shop – some of it recognisable (tomatoes, mangos, ladyfingers, pomegranates, potatoes, chillis, ginger, garlic) and some of it completely new to me (oranges which are green, things which look like courgettes but aren’t, weird lumpy fruit which looks like Patrick McGoohan in Braveheart).  A lovely touch by the market-holder is to cut a huge handful of coriander and an equally huge bunch of mint, and add it to the bag after payment.  Nice!  I’ll be going back there.

Wasn’t brave enough to try the meat shops just yet…I’ll work on that once I’m veggied out (i.e. in about 3 days’ time I think).  I did, however, find a tiny booze shop which delivers to my area – hurrah!  Have 6 bottles of the local, reasonably palatable, Indian wine – it’s called Sula and everyone swears by it – so am all set.

On Saturday afternoon I decided to laze by the pool, and met Sue and Keith, an English couple who live within the complex.  It was 34C outside, beautifully sunny, and we were the only sunbed occupants!  Sue and Keith have lived here for about 2 years, and explained that the majority of Central Park residents are actually Indians (I thought there would be a lot more Europeans), who prefer to come to the pool in the evening when it’s cooler, hence the lack of company during the day.  They (Sue & Keith) filled me in on a few more snippets and tales of life in Gurgaon – apparently there are notices posted for residents advising of important information, for example.  The latest one advises all residents to keep all windows and doors locked at all times, to prevent any unwelcome thieving monkeys who are invading the complexes looking for food.  Living on the 7th floor, I thought I would be safe from this sort of monkey business, but apparently not (a resident on the 12th floor was robbed recently by one of them!).  When I was wee, all I ever wanted was a monkey, so maybe if I leave my balcony door open my wish will come true…although upon hearing Keith’s subsequent tale describing how he was bitten by a monkey last year, and had to get a load of painful rabies jabs, I think I will restrict my monkey-viewing to the zoo.  I could leave a banana out on the ledge….no!  Must resist!

Keith also delighted in telling me how he found a large black snake in the pool last winter, and how the security guards chased it round the pool for ages before finally capturing it.  Apparently it is against Hindu religion to kill snakes on certain days (and it was one of those days), so they just threw it over the fence into the next compound and hoped for the best.  Bet that foxed him.  There are animals everywhere round here – Keith once described to a Londoner-friend what Gurgaon was like, and he’s probably right:  he said, think of Canary Wharf, and fill it with animals.  The office buildings are shiny and high-rise all right, but everything surrounding them seems totally incongruous – dusty tracks and roads with hand-painted signs, street-sellers everywhere, shacks, animals, dirt…it’s quite a weird scene.  Not awful by any means, just different.

Another odd observation I have made since my arrival is the weird way in which Indians explain a negative situation.  I was aware that this is a very polite culture in which locals do not like to say ‘no’, so expect that ‘yes’ can very well mean ‘no’, and so on.  I get that.  I expected it.  But there were two occurrences this weekend which I thought quite strange:  firstly, I was speaking to the manager of Central Park’s sports club, asking him why the swimming pool must shut on Monday for the winter (nightmare for me!).  He said that it is Haryana (i.e regional) law that swimming pools much close between October and March.  He couldn’t explain why, but insisted this was the case!  Later today, I went to a large western shopping mall to get some essentials (chopping knives for my vegetables, large mugs to take more than a teaspoonful of tea, etc), and went in search of some bathroom scales.  Having scoured some bizarre bazaar-type shops, I found one which seemed to sell homeware.  Enquiring at the welcome-desk, the first assistant said ‘oh yes, just go to the back of the store and you will find them’, but this was quickly folllowed by his colleague saying, ‘I’m sorry ma’am, but Haryana law says we must have a licence for selling those, and it is changing just now, so we don’t have a licence’.  Eh???  A law specifying a special licence to sell bathroom scales?  That’s a new one! I asked again, to be sure I hadn’t misheard, but he pretty much repeated the same strange statement (and further questioning by me didn’t elicit any comprehensible explanation).  I went for a wee look anyway, and couldn’t find them, so either the law-enforcers have come down heavy on their illegal Salter sales, or they have just run out of stock.  I know what I believe.

On the plus side, I have been very impressed with the speed of service, in this apartment, certainly.  Again, I fully expected to wait days or weeks to get things done, but I am happy to report that I requested a Tata Sky TV box to be installed in the apartment:  I confirmed the order to the letting agent on Saturday morning at 11am, and the engineers came round at 5.00pm the same day to do the installation!  Finding some dodgy cabling, then didn’t hesitate in drilling new holes in the walls to thread through the necessary wires, asking occasionally ‘Mam, is this ok?’ – obviously I just shouted ‘Yes!  Just make English things come on my telly!’.  OK, I didn’t say that, but that’s what I was thinking. There is only so much Indian ‘What Not To Wear’ (all saris), cricket (get enough of that at the McCaskills’) and Bollywood films (soundtrack to all sounds like ‘jobby selector’) I can take.  So, beat that, UK Virgin and your so-called customer service – give my Mr Puran Singh from Tata any day.

So, at the end of my first weekend here, I feel pretty relaxed and quite at home!  I haven’t seen or been bitten by monkeys (yet), I have survived several trips on the crazy road system and now don’t even think twice about it (probably not good to be complacent though), and I haven’t managed to poison myself into a Runny Biggs situation.

The real work starts tomorrow, of course.  Off to the office for the first time, and probably not much time to add to this blog-thing.