“Let the sun beat down upon my face; stars to fill my dream…”

When Monika first suggested we head to Srinagar, Kashmir, for the Easter weekend, I have to admit I wasn’t entirely sure about it.  We’ve all heard about the continuing unrest, violence and protests, and even very recently (within the past few weeks) there have been disturbing reports of fatal attacks on the military in the city.  However, there is a constantly high threat of terrorism throughout India, so I figured that Kashmir probably was as safe as anywhere else.  I’m really glad we decided to go.

Monika had also persuaded Dave and Alison, a ‘newbie’ Scottish couple, to join us on our adventure, so we booked the flights, found a houseboat (a must in Srinagar) on TripAdvisor, and off we went!  The flight is only about 1h 20 mins from Delhi, and during the descent into Srinagar, Monika and I were sprawled over the neighbouring passengers, gaping in awe at our first close-up view of the Himalayas.

View from the plane.

Waiting for our luggage, we all switched on our phones, and realised very quickly that none of us had any network or 3G coverage at all.  Strange.  We found out later that the government effectively blocks all non-local SIM card coverage, in an attempt to restrict communication and reporting from within the state of Jammu and Kashmir.  Ah well, a weekend without internet and email is no bad thing.

The Indian army presence at the airport was very prominent, and approaching Srinagar through the military checkpoints reminded me just a bit of Belfast in the 1990s, and it didn’t feel at all uncomfortable.  We had booked a houseboat on Lake Nagin, adjacent to the larger Lake Dal, and we were ushered into a ‘shikara’ (a long, thin, boat powered by a man with a paddle) which ferried us, and our luggage, across the water to reach our home for the next 2 nights.  We didn’t have to pay the ferryman, either, and I even managed to restrain myself from treating my companions to a quick chorus of Chris de Burgh to mark the occasion.  Steph will be proud of me.

View from our houseboat across Nagin Lake.

Traditional houseboats on the lake. Really beautiful.

Snow-capped Himalayan mountains.

Rahim, the owner of our houseboat, was brilliant – he effectively acted as our tour guide for the weekend, and took us to the Shalimar gardens (I did ask if there were some Shakatak gardens nearby, but apparently there aren’t), and to the Indira Ghandi Memorial Tulip Garden, where we witnessed men in dresses dancing vigorously for the benefit of the media.  Scottish Dave felt mildly uncomfortable with this. The gardens were very Indian:  lots of half-finished renovations taking place, and a strange sort of randomness and incompleteness everywhere.  We also drove high up the hillside to a beautiful old Mughal fort, which now has army outposts complete with soldiers and guns, keeping lookout over the hills. I asked one of the soldiers if he would mind if I took a photo of him:  he said “No, not allowed”, so I said “smile!” and he posed for the camera.  So I shot him, but he didn’t shoot me, which was fortunate.

Another army post at Pari Mahal.

Pari Mahal: a gorgeous old Mughal fort high up on the mountainside.

On the way back down to the lake, I gingerly asked Rahim if he would mind stopping somewhere where we might buy a little (ahem) wine – this is, after all, a Muslim state, and we had heard that it was “dry”, so we had prepared ourselves for a sober weekend.  But, no, Rahim said it was no problem at all, and took us to what looked like an off-licence in Partick: a small, shabby shack with iron bars separating the customers from the booze.  The only difference was, there were no star-shaped neon price tags stuck onto anything.  I bounded up enthusiastically, snapping away with my camera, but realised quickly that 3 men were shouting at me, “No cameras! No photos!” so I smiled sweetly, slowed to a trot, and approached the grille.   The 3 men continued chasing me, now shouting “No women! No women!”, so I gave up and let Dave and Rahim go ahead into the scrum to find some alcohol. Dave emerged (relatively unscathed), pleased that he’d found not only some Australian white wine, but also a bottle of Indian gin which retailed at 263 rupees (about £3).  Armed with that, and a quick stop for some lemony mixers (no chance at all of finding tonic here), we headed back to the houseboat.  We chatted about some of the curious expressions that Indians use, one of which is the phrase “is it?”  We all come across this frequently, usually in response to a statement such as “I’m going to jump in the river”, or “Last night I watched an amazing lightning display”, so we concluded that it’s some sort of exclamation of surprise, where we might say “Really?”.  By the end of the evening we had named our new cheap gin and lemony mixer-thingy drink “Gin and ‘is it?'”, mainly because we were surprised at how palatable it actually was.

The Partick-inspired off-licence in Srinagar.

Rahim joined us for dinner on the boat, and he proceeded to get pretty drunk (we, of course, did not). I asked him about wildlife living in the lake, and at one point I was convinced there must be a Nessie-type beast lurking under the water as he described a native creature as this: “it looks like a cat, it’s the size of a duck, it eats only fish-heads, and it has leathery skin which you can make hats out of”.  Scary stuff! It took until the following day for him to remember the English name for this creature:  an otter.  Phew.  There are also scores of kingfishers, eagles and kites to be seen, and the lakes also attract flocks of migrating birds, so definitely a good hang-out for Bill Oddie, should he ever be passing.

Next day we lazed around on a shikara (not to be confused with the similarly-named annoying nasal popstress from Colombia) for a 3-hour excursion across the lakes, we pottered about in the local market, and Rahim took us to his family home for lunch and gallons more Kashmiri tea.  The houses in Srinagar are generally huge, and we were told that most people who live there are wealthy – we certainly didn’t see the sort of poverty-stricken sights common to most Indian cities, which was a bit of a surprise.  We had seen some farmers on the lake, tending to their ‘water plots’ (crops growing in and on grassy reeds on the water) and had assumed they were relatively poor, but Rahim insisted they were all pretty well off, and that they just choose not to lead an opulent lifestyle.  Strangers were keen to run up to us and exclaim a huge welcome, along with statements like, “See?  No fighting!”.  Everyone here seems very keen to convince tourists that it’s a safe place to visit, and they also insist that what is reported in the media is propaganda by the Indian army in an attempt to justify their presence.  It’s hard to know what exactly is the truth – Rahim went so far as to say that the Indian army and government feed absolute lies to the news channels, reporting incidents and attacks which just haven’t happened, but who knows?  It’s really hard to find a neutral view anywhere.

Shikara…Shakira…whatever.

We added to the local economy by splurging on pashminas and cushion covers – the handicraft industry is obviously one of the biggest exports and tourist magnets – and Dave & Alison even bought a carpet for their new flat in Gurgaon.  We were all tempted by the silk rugs but, bargainous as they may have been in comparison with a bland John Lewis effort, we resisted – just.  However, if anyone is looking for beautiful soft furnishings, I am now in possession of some good local contacts who will happily export to the UK!

Local farmers with no obvious irrigation issues.

I managed to crawl out of bed at 6.30am the next morning, which was a bit of a miracle as Dave had acquired some more of that dodgy gin (and ‘is it?’) for Saturday night’s entertainment, and I witnessed the sun rise over the mountains, casting beautiful light across the glassy lake.  Quite stunning.

Later that morning, we were introduced to a local saffron seller, and we succumbed (mainly because we were all now addicted to Kashmiri tea, which is saffron-based), and we also bought some ‘salageet’ – a sort of tar-like substance which is supposed to be the ‘conqueror of weakness’.  I think it’s used mainly by men as a sort of Indian Viagra, but the lure of ‘strength’ was enough for the ladies to get sucked in, too.  Rahim said that I didn’t need any, as I was “strong in personality”, and when I asked him if this was a euphemism for “loud” he didn’t deny it much.  I bought some anyway, mainly to see if I could get any louder, and you can judge the results for yourselves in a few weeks’ time.  I know you’ll look forward to that.

We headed back to the airport on Sunday afternoon, leaving plenty of time to negotiate the TEN security checkpoints which were quite unbelievable.  At the first (on the road to the airport) we stopped at an army checkpoint, where we had to get out with our luggage, have it (and ourselves) fully scanned, before we were allowed to proceed to the terminal.  Rahim laughed when a soldier made some remark in Kashmiri, then told me he had said that I have “a beautiful chest”.  Indignant, I asked Rahim what he had replied, and he admitted he’d said “You’re telling me!” or words to that effect.  “IS IT?” Way to go, Frank & George: causing trouble AGAIN.  The nine subsequent checks were just arduous (Frank and George were subjected to a right good groping while other female security guards guffawed loudly), and one of the final checks (beyond normal security) included having to walk outside, airside, and re-identify each checked-in bag before it was loaded onto the plane.  Eh??  We were getting pretty grumpy by then, and were cheered only by the sight of a random cat within the airport which we had first spotted at check-in riding the baggage conveyor belts then, later, upstairs, hiding in a drinking fountain before it jumped out and crapped on the floor.

I managed to swap seats on the plane home so that I could again gawp at the Himalayas, and get excited about my forthcoming trip to Nepal: it’s only a couple of weeks until I fly to Kathmandu, and on to Lukla airport – help!

Work is now really busy (I have only one more week to go on the client contract) and not helped by 3 consecutive nights out since Wednesday, culminating in another visit to the illegal drinking haunt, Knightrider, last night (see previous posts).  It’s been renovated!  Whitewashed walls, comfy chairs, and that miracle loo is definitely still there, and still clean.  Mind you, we were on the Indian whisky again, so I may have dreamt it all.  Who knows?

Some non-houseboat watery dwellings on the lake.

Kashmiri street food in a poke! Fried crispy potatoey things with a really spicy carrot dip. No idea what it’s called, but it was yum.

Interesting scaffolding structure on this mosque!

Some non-houseboat watery dwellings on the lake.

Indira Gandhi Memorial Garden. I assume that sign reads “Get orf my tulips” or something.

The U2 shot in Shalimar / Shakatak Gardens.

Sunrise: I’ll have you know I was up at 6.30am to witness this, which was some feat considering the gin & ‘is it?’ shenanigans the previous night.

Wedding fever

I consider myself very fortunate to have been invited to two weddings recently – I know quite a few ex-pats who have been here for one or two years, who say they’ve never been invited to even one – so I accepted both invitations with enthusiasm, and wondered what they would be like.

The first, the wedding of a colleague’s sister, was a grand affair in North Delhi, although the journey north on a Friday night was absolutely hideous!  Rush hour here starts at about 6pm and continues until around 11pm, as so many people work late hours in the office to align themselves with the UK.  For me, this meant a 3 hour car journey, not helped by the fact that my driver had absolutely no idea where we were going, and kept stopping in dodgy run-down areas to ask directions…he would hop out of the car, leave the engine running, and ask anyone on the side of the road where to find ‘ID Hospital’ (the only landmark I had been given).  One such stranger was actually having a pee at the side of the road when Prem (my driver) accosted him!  I have copped more than my fair share of roadside pee-ers’ whatsits, thankyou, over the past few weeks – it’s just all too common.  Anyway, after bringing me round with smelling salts (because I’m such a prude), my driver eventually deposited me at the venue – a large colourful system of tents opening into a huge outdoor venue!  Thankfully I recognised a guy from work who ushered me in past the excited crowd, and explained what would happen:

The bride and groom had the official ceremony earlier that day, and the evening party was a huge celebration for 500 guests to wish the couple well.  The groom arrived in an elaborate costume (including a ‘garland’ of money around his neck), on horseback, and then joined in some traditional jostling at the entrance to the first ‘tunnel’.  Gifts are exchanged, and the groom is led through the tent to a ribbon barrier, with a line of girls waiting on the other side.  Here the groom exchanges some banter with the girls, who demand money to allow him past – they start by demanding some extortionate fee, and they joke their way down to about 1,000 rupees (about £12) before finally allowing him to cut the ribbon and get through.  Cue dancers, bongo drums and all sorts as the groom is led into the main arena.  Later, the bride is led in by her male family members – she looked stunning!

Once both the bride and groom are in the main venue, they ascend opposite sides of a platform and step onto a revolving pedestal, so that all the guests get a great view.  At this point, fresh flower petals were blasted out of tubes on either side, and showered the couple as they were turned around – it was quite a spectacle!

After this the couple then sit on a gold-embossed seat, and have to stay there for ages, with fixed perma-smiles, as various family members join them for the official photographs.  I felt extremely sorry for them at this point (although they did very well), and was embarrassed to be ushered up for a photo with them, but duly obliged.

All around the sides of the venue were long stalls serving hot, spicy food, and cold (non-alcoholic!) drinks.  It’s the first wedding I’ve been to where I have arrived, and left, completely sober, and still had an enormous amount of fun!  Same can’t be said of some of my male work colleagues, who arrived late, completely hammered, and set about throwing shapes on the dance floor in quite an amusing fashion.  I have photo evidence and I will use it against them.

Three days later, I donned my sari again for the wedding of my tennis coach’s brother: this was a much smaller do, but equally colourful and enthralling.  I was ushered in as some sort of celebrity guest (being the only Westerner at both weddings I was a bit of a novelty), and was directed to sit beside what turned out to be the local MP equivalent!  Had a very interesting chat with him about the difficulties of tackling poverty in the neighbourhood, and he introduced me to some really intriguing guys (a lecturer in Hindi, and an astrologer).  They tried in vain to teach me some Hindi (I am hopeless at it) while I tried not to splurt curry all over my sari.

Again, I found myself being led about as a star attraction, with the mother of the groom insisting I walk her out in some sort of grand parade when she left to go home!  At this point, about 15 children (who’d been watching me for a while) all came rushing up and started touching my knees and feet – this is an Indian custom whereby children are taught to touch the feet of family elders and ‘important’ people as an act of reverence.  It was the weirdest thing (again, quite embarrassing) but also quite touching.

Strangers kept coming up to me and asking to be photographed with me and, yet again, I was shooed into the official family photographs – when I protested, Ravi, my tennis coach, said ‘but Mo, you ARE part of the family now’.  Bizarre, but sweet!  At both weddings, the families were delighted that I had arrived in a sari, even though I have to admit I am still very much an amateur when it comes to putting it on – when one aunt offered to ‘fix’ it for me, I knew I had a lot to learn.

At both weddings, I found I was getting chatted up by really young guys – now this WAS weird.  Most Indian men marry by the time they are 26 or 27, so the singletons were most definitely in their mid-twenties.  One guy actually said to me, ‘So how old are you?’ (they are very direct over here).  I said ‘too old’, to which he replied ‘what, you mean like 30 plus?’  Well, I don’t know if he was just really chancing his arm, or if he had absolutely no idea how old I am, but I revelled in the flattery for a minute before scarpering!  When I was in Mumbai a couple of weeks ago, a guy ‘guessed’ my age as 29, but he had had a lot of whisky and was probably just trying his luck.  Well, whatever, I’m happy to receive the compliments, no matter how insane or obviously ridiculous they are.  Ladies, if you want some flattery, get your butts over here – I can guarantee a lot of attention from younger men.

When I was in Mumbai for a 2-day work event, aside from getting eaten alive by mozzies (I counted 51 bites), I had some really interesting (albeit whisky-fuelled) conversations about arranged marriages vs. ‘love’ marriages (as the locals put it). Arranged marriage is still very much the done thing, but more and more younger folk receive the blessing of their parents to choose.  They think it will take several more generations to become the ‘norm’ but times are changing.  For couples who don’t receive their parents’ blessings, there are places they can move to and live safely in communities which accept them and their choices, and society seems pretty tolerant.

On a completely different note, I learned recently just how shocking the rift between rich and poor really is:  apparently the minimum wage in India is a paltry 28 rupees per day. This is not much more than 30 pence, and wouldn’t buy so much as a loaf of bread.  Also, only 2.5% of earning Indians actually pay income tax!  There are all sorts of loopholes for people who work in agriculture, etc. to avoid tax, and they take advantage of it.  Apparently one of the top Bollywood stars (he earns millions) states ‘farmer’ for tax purposes as he owns some agricultural land, so he contributes zilch to the government. I don’t know how on earth this tax system is supposed to fund education, healthcare, infrastructure, etc., and apparently it just doesn’t.  Anyone who can afford it educates their children privately, as the state-run schools are a shambles:  apparently even the teachers can’t be bothered to turn up.

So, it’s been a colourful couple of weeks.  I seem to have overcompensated for the ‘dry’ weddings with a far too much whisky on other nights out – and why whisky, I have no idea, when a Glenfiddich costs about a tenner a pop.  Actually, I have a hazy memory of jakey-drinking some Teachers in the back of a car in Mumbai, en route to a nightclub, but that might have been a bad dream.  I hope so, because I was with several people including my boss’s boss at the time, and I think I might cringe if I thought it had actually happened.  I was also at a dangerous Sunday lunch last week – an ‘all you can eat, and all you can drink’ affair, for a fixed price, where you just scoff and gulp whatever you want between 12pm and 4pm.  That turned into a complete disaster once we’d discovered whisky, mango and fresh chilli cocktails were on the menu.  11 hours later I fell into bed, and did NOT feel too clever on the Monday morning.  By Tuesday morning I was rolling around in the apartment with another tummy upset, headache and aching muscles, and had convinced myself by 5pm (after a lot of internet self-diagnosis) that i must have malaria or dengue fever (remember those mosquito bites?).  Thankfully this doesn’t seem to be the case, and I should probably instead research the delayed side effects of whisky cocktails and spicy foods – I’m sure I’ll discover the symptoms are pretty similar.

So, I’m heading back to the UK tomorrow to dry out over Christmas, and hopefully will return refreshed and sober to face the cold, hard January in Delhi.  I may even need to pack a jumper for my return trip.

One of the big fancy tents at the posh wedding

Girls await the arrival of the groom

Arrival of the bride, Neelu

 

Shirin, Ankit, Neelu and…Mo

Fancy dancin’ at Ravi’s brother’s wedding – just like Clatty Pat’s.

Ravi, my tennis coach, on the far right, but check out the hair and ‘tache combo of the guy on the far left. Wow.

Delhi’s very own ‘John Travolta does Elvis’ impersonator. Richard Bowman, eat your heart out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Old Delhi and the Yamuna; Frank and George cause some consternation.

The Yamuna, early morning

The “new” Bollywood cinema on the banks of the Yamuna.

I decided it was time to explore Delhi ‘proper’ and booked a cycling tour with www.DelhiByCycle.com .  This was an excellent decision, and I urge anyone who is visiting the city to take one of these tours – it was amazing!  I think it’s pretty well-known that exploring Delhi is an assault on the senses, and this is particularly true if doing it by bike: you are hit with sights, sounds and smells with every turn.  I opted for a 3-hour tour which covered parts of Old Delhi, moved on to the Yamuna River for a short boat ride, before riding back through more of the old city to the meeting point.

The website advised that women should dress modestly (“no shorts, no sexy tops”) as much of the tour would be in predominantly Muslim areas, so I donned some cut-off trousers and a shoulder-covering t-shirt to comply.  Getting to the meeting point for the 6.30am start was fun, as this meant a 5.30am pick-up from Gurgaon (not brilliant as I had been drinking margaritas the night before), but the early start is essential to get going before the city wakes up and the streets become incredibly crowded – it would be impossible to navigate bikes through this!

Akarsh, our guide, gave us a quick introduction before our group of 8 set off into the tiny streets of the old city.  We passed through a dusty meat market where buffalo heads were being prepared and hung, then onto hardware markets, chai tea stalls,  street sellers setting up for business…all the while gaping in wonder at the fascinating old buildings.  The vision of poverty is quite overwhelming and difficult to describe, but the Sikh temples, particularly, offer great charity and open their doors from early morning to provide food to the hungry (at around 7am there were already several hundred queuing outside one of the larger temples).  Cycling is the ‘poor man’s transport’ in Delhi, and it was really strange to be in such a poor area where hunger and filth sit side by side with BMWs and the occasional Range Rover.  I still can’t work it out.

The streets got narrower and busier, and we all realised that continual use of the bicycle bell made us feel better, not that it had much effect in moving people and goats out of the way!  Still, it was fun to be hooting and honking (as best as we could with bells) with the rest.

As we headed towards the Yamuna, we passed, among other historical sites, the Jama Masjid (the largest mosque in India), and the Red Fort, which looked amazing in the early morning haze. We then had to navigate cycling on a main road (no one told us this!) to get across to the river.  I decided to sandwich myself between Akarsh and a Dutch couple, figuring that seasoned cyclists were my best protection.  Akarsh promised us that in the 4 years they have been running the tours, they haven’t had any deaths (!), but he also promised me monkey-sightings, and he lied about that.

So, heading on towards the river, I was impressed with how friendly the locals were, particularly the men who would all shout an enthusiastic ‘hello!’, with much arm-waving, as I whizzed past. I smiled sweetly and returned their greetings – I was feeling quite welcomed!  Shortly after this, Akrash came alongside me and said “Mo, I have worked it out – you are wearing sexy top and this is what fuss is about!”  I protested, saying this was most definitely NOT a sexy top, but a rather plain t-shirt, but he politely gestured towards my chest, and I realised that not only had my top buttons come undone, but also that my camera strap (slung round my neck and across my body, between my chesticles) was effectively providing a high-definition view of my assets.  Frank and George were bobbing about and jostling to get out, and I can only imagine how they must have looked, jiggling out of control as I cycled across the bumpy streets.  Akrash continued: “These men see a hot European girl with sexy top, and they are very excited”.  I thanked Akrash for calling me a ‘hot European girl’, but then remembered he had lied about monkeys and, probably, his no-deaths-by-cycle-tour record, so decided to leave it at that and try to secure Frank and George for the rest of the ride to avoid offending/exciting any more Muslims.

The Yamuna is an incredibly polluted holy river which locals worship as a goddess, and traditionally they use the water for everything except drinking.  Early morning, some men and women were bathing in the murky waters, while others squatted to do their ‘business’ on the riverbank.  We were in a small boat, rowing quietly up the river, trying not to gag at the awful smell which fogged the air. Akrash said that the river is relatively clean at this time of year, and how it smells really awful between March and August.  If the aroma we experienced was ‘not bad’ then I am definitely not coming back in the summer.  It was horrendous!  One squatting man on the bank actually smiled and waved at us as we passed – just as he was, er, completing his early-morning ‘movements’.  I am actually at a loss for words (without consulting the Viz Profanisaurus), so will move on!

Akrash pointed out on the bank a long shack, covered with dirty tarpaulins.: “That is the new cinema where they show Bollywood films all day long”.  Then, another almost-identical shack a little further down: “That is the old cinema”.  We also saw the Nigambodh Ghat, which is the largest and busiest cremation ground in Delhi; the poorest Hindus will pay a boatman 50 rupees to scatter the ashes of their loved ones in the Yamuna.  Not far away is a massive sewage pipe gushing all manner of other human matter directly into the river.  In other words, absolutely everything imaginable ends up in the black water, and the acrid stench supports this.  Makes my dip in the filthy Clyde in central Glasgow seem like a luxurious spa treatment in comparison.

Heading back, the tiny streets in Old Delhi had most definitely woken up!  Cycling now (at about 8.30am) was really tricky, but great fun just doing as the locals do and going for it!  The smells ranged from ghastly whiffs of filth and excrement to sudden explosions of jasmine, sandalwood  and spices – it was quite amazing.  The congested streets caused our little cycling group to split occasionally and struggle to reconvene while hemmed in by vans, rickshaws, mopeds and goats.  We made it to a little café where we were served a delicious breakfast of mango juice, naan bread, dahl, and mutton curry!  Here I learned that ‘mutton’ is actually ‘goat’, but very tasty nonetheless, and it was a pleasure to help clear the streets of some of those annoying animals.  I asked Akrash why we had seen no monkeys on our tour (he had promised me this would be a certainty), and he said “Mo, they don’t work on Saturdays”. OK then.  I’ve made a note to do the next tour on a Sunday.

A quick loo stop (my first of the ‘squatting’ variety – no different really from what we all used to do on the way home from the pub, except this was indoors and with a little bucket to ‘flush’) and we were on the last leg of the tour.  I was feeling so confident I managed to lead 3 of our group down the wrong street, and we had to be rescued by the second guide, who is employed to round up lost cyclists in a sort of ‘One Man and His Dog’ style, with much whistling and shepherding.  Sadly, I managed to get lost again (not sure how this happened as I was in the middle of the group) and was greeted with applause as I eventually rode in with Guide 2 ten minutes after everyone else had arrived!

I’ve promised Akrash I’ll be back to do all the other tours – I think he thinks I’m trouble (who, me?), but I assured him I will behave, pay attention, and give Frank and George a stern talking-to before their next excursion.

“So, you’ll be having a cup of chai, then? Go on, go on, go on, go on…”

The Red Fort on a hazy Saturday morning.

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.