When I first visited the School, I was first struck by the size of it, at nearly 10 times the size of the school I taught in up north in Himachal Pradesh. Also, the children’s challenges range from mild autism, to sever brain damage causing both mental and physical problems.
While walking around and meeting the classes, we were suppose to be finding a group where our abilities would be best suited. I met a great group of 6 young lads, aged between 13 and 18 who were classed together as "Dumb"- unable to speak, for various reasons.
(I should point out here that political correctness does not exist in the Indian institutions we are working in- spastic, dumb, retard, crazy, and psycho are all phrases banded about without malice by the teachers and assistants working here)
The lads do not have a regular teacher, and on that day (and most days) they have no teacher at all- they just scribble in their books, or sit there bored. This upset me, as the lads are perfectly capable of learning at a suitable level for their age, as seen in their books showing previous volunteers work. So I told the head teacher I wanted to teach them, he said fine, and the next day I was ready to start.
Only the next day the head teacher put me in the severely retarded children instead- where I got pissed on, hit, pulled, pinched, snotted on and screamed at (actually not unlike a bad Friday night shift back home).
But if I'm honest- it's been great work actually.
The kids are between 6 and 10 years old, classed together according to their IQ, the highest belonging to 9 year old Flavia at 60, and the lowest 20. A few of the kids have been diagnosed with cerebral palsy, autism and downs syndrome, but the rest are so far undiagnosed, and are referred to as simply retarded or brain damaged.
My original lesson plans, involving teaching aids such as bingo cards, snap, etc go out the window, as it's soon apparent just maintaining the children’s welfare takes most of my time and effort.
For example Clecy often takes to forcefully headbutting the marble floors of the classroom, only causing bruised lumps if caught in time, but open bleeding head wounds if not. She does this about the same time Olwen tries to stab Rishikesh with a pencil he's took from someone’s bag, and Vijayish usually chooses this time to give it legs, out the classroom and onto the road, while Stephen starts to choke on his own vomit- though he can do so on someone else’s, a far more complex situation I wont describe here.
I'm not exaggerating or taking the piss- This happened just last Friday, and usually their teacher Golda is on her own, trying to keep things together and provide some part of the one-on-one care these children really need.
So more often than not, we take turns- I'll cuddle, spin, tickle and generally give affectionate attention to little Clecy, which in turn keeps her safe and happy while Golda gives simple exercises to the others. Then we swap, and I'll get them, one at a time (there is no other way) to make a contribution towards a big picture or collage.
You see teaching, in the traditional sense, is not really possible with these children. Improving their manual dexterity and their understanding of what they are doing and the world around them is more useful and attainable. For example one of the children cannot speak or hold a pen, so plowing into the alphabet and 9 times tables would be a little ambitious.
I try to give each child an activity on the poster according to their ability, at least as best as possible i.e Flavia can colour-in, so she colours in the flowers. Vijayish can glue (with assistance), so he sticks on the grass, and so on.
Originally my approach to these kids was one of big, stupid, fluffy grins and a "hey little guy, lets do some work" approach... So they naturally see me (and all the volunteers who come here past and present) as the big stupid lump we are who they can walk all over.
And they do!
For example, Vijayish has never stabbed his teacher with a pencil (he dare not). But without fail, he will go for anyone with white skin because he finds the response hilarious, with all the gentle pushing and polite pleading such as:
"Oh, er, no, er, please dont, I say, Ow! That's not nice, do stop... no,... OW!, Now then!, stop it!... be a good boy, that's it... OW!!"
I was exactly the same the first time. I mean- how do you effectively defend yourself against a mentally challenged 8 year old with malnutrition, without risking hurting him, and thus instantly becoming a bully. Without doubt, the super-fit, 20 year old Kiwi and sultry Swedish girls who also volunteer at the school would go nuts if I hurt the little fella! I'd never live it down back at the Idex office- and who the hell wants 30 odd women all mad at him at once? (Especially when they are all young and cute...)
So the next day, I was sure to shut the classroom door behind me first.
He went for me, specially sharpened HB pencil in hand, so I quickly dropped him, disarmed him, flipped him in the chair and forced him into colouring (with a nice, soft crayon) before he had time to properly scream...
"Good boy, excellent, well done!" I cooed, a hand clamped around his crayon hand to help him as he stared at me, frozen in utter shock at what had just taken place. For a moment I was worried as he stared at me, bottom lip quivering... But his mind seemingly made up, his face cracked into a big smile, before focusing on his new-found colouring, his hand moving faster as he really got into it.
We're best mates now, and he hugs me every morning when he sees me, and when music plays, he always takes my hands and starts to boogie, laughing (understandably) at my dancing efforts, like a chicken plugged into the mains.
Slowly, the other kids have also accepted me, and together we have got good games of catch going on during sports (important in developing hand-eye co-ordination and gross motor skills), relay races through hoops etc. We have also just finished a great collage of a sparkly-sunflower, surrounded by other different colored flowers in a grassy field.
We're currently working on a beach scene, using real sand and sea-shells Golda and I have collected. Golda sets simple exercises in the kids books, such as join the dots, and while she keeps hold of Clecy and deals with the runners, vomiters and stabbers (Olwen, who impervious to pressure points, still wrestles with me over the odd HB) I go from student to student. After tiffin (lunch break) we swap roles.
This one-on-one attention the kids so desperately need, improving their fine motor skills with exercises such as colouring-in, gluing etc, and generally interacting with someone and keeping their minds working, rather than being ignored like they are outside of the classroom.
"We cannot teach these children normally, it is not possible" Golda once said to me, "But we can make their lives better, no?"
That's indeed what she does, and it's been a privilege to help her.
Tuesday 29 January 2008
Friday 25 January 2008
New Bike
The bloke swapped the bike! He told me he would come round at 12 lunchtime. Now in India that usually means about 12.30 to 3pm... But he was on-time!! He brought another pristine cool-looking Pulsar 150, just 2 months old and with a proper right-way-up gearbox!
So we went off riding for a couple of hours, finding secluded beach-shacks serving the day's catch, passing amazing Portuguese colonial Churches, resorts, villages and farmers fields. On well maintained roads, surrounded by coconut and cashew nut trees, under a powder blue sky and the smell of the sea in the air- I am in heaven!
I also had my first authentic, traditional Goan Vindaloo last night, our first friday night. Made with tamarind, garlic, vinegar and copious amounts of chilli, it was a world apart from the "madras but hotter" rubbish you get in the uk. Despite being a curry lover, and very use to authentic Indian food now, it still got my eyes watering and nose running.
But WOW! Damn, yeah it was good!!
Mixed with chilli-fried rice and scooped up in nan bread, it was possibly the best meal I've had in weeks. Washed down with Goan-made Kings lager, a dry, crisp bitter lager that perfectly off-set the sharp tang of the vindaloo. The other volunteers we went to the restaurant with also had great food, and we all relaxed, debated, and laughed 'till we cried.
It was a great start to our weekend, after our first week of work at the school for mentally Challenged Children, in nearby Margao...
So we went off riding for a couple of hours, finding secluded beach-shacks serving the day's catch, passing amazing Portuguese colonial Churches, resorts, villages and farmers fields. On well maintained roads, surrounded by coconut and cashew nut trees, under a powder blue sky and the smell of the sea in the air- I am in heaven!
I also had my first authentic, traditional Goan Vindaloo last night, our first friday night. Made with tamarind, garlic, vinegar and copious amounts of chilli, it was a world apart from the "madras but hotter" rubbish you get in the uk. Despite being a curry lover, and very use to authentic Indian food now, it still got my eyes watering and nose running.
But WOW! Damn, yeah it was good!!
Mixed with chilli-fried rice and scooped up in nan bread, it was possibly the best meal I've had in weeks. Washed down with Goan-made Kings lager, a dry, crisp bitter lager that perfectly off-set the sharp tang of the vindaloo. The other volunteers we went to the restaurant with also had great food, and we all relaxed, debated, and laughed 'till we cried.
It was a great start to our weekend, after our first week of work at the school for mentally Challenged Children, in nearby Margao...
Thursday 24 January 2008
Goa
Now we're here!
Started work, visited the beach, started seriously running again, and got settled into our house (which is walking distance to the beach). We got a wicked, fully furnished house that we share with Shirley, Elaine, and two other ladies called Karen and Lucy. Mrs Grasshopper and I have an en-suite with hot shower, double bed, and there is even a washing machine in the kitchen- a great luxury in Indian houses, more so for us as we have been hand-washing since we left blighty.
Now I'm sitting, chilled out in a super-fast Internet cafe, all jeans, boots and t-shirt, sunglasses on my head and my new motorcycle on it's stand outside- life is great!
The heat when I first stepped off the train was amazing- thick, heavy, and filled with holiday atmosphere. Mrs G and I followed Vishal through the dark station, sweat immediately prickling out of my skin as I jogged up the steps, careful with my footing under the weight of my wife's ever expanding rucksack. We jumped into 2 minibuses with our bags thrown on top and were first taken to the impressive Idex main house where the "youths" (actually aged 18-23) live and the day-to-day admin is carried out. Then after a meal of veg curry, biryani and chapati served on the roof terrace, we were shown our impressive little Kholie, about 2 minutes walk from the Idex office, and 15 minutes from Colva beach.
We had a couple of days induction training, including trips to the volunteer projects in the area. I had an open mind and wanted to choose something different. However, immediately after visiting the school for mentally challenged children I knew that I wanted to work there, and make use of my experience in Himachal Pradesh.
Outside of lectures and project visits, we explored a little bit of Colva.
It's such a great, relaxing place, it's easy to understand why Goa is the tourist destination of India. Colva itself is a little quiet- less of the hippy trippy stuff than I expected, although most shops are still full of mega-baggy, day-glow "Om" patterned trousers, tie-dye shirts and incense burners. There are just a couple of "package holiday" hotels, seemingly only filled with couples aged 40+ and non-brit European families, and to Mrs G's great pleasure, the bikini is acceptable to wear, although naturally only on the beach.
All in all, Colva is small, pleasantly spread-out with lots of "villa's" surrounded by gardens and public spaces (all stuffed with palm trees), and no buildings are taller than 3 floors high. The beach is lovely, pale white-yellow sand, the sea is clear and blue, and there is none of the filth and pollution I have come to associate with low-land India. Even the roads are quiet, well maintained, and with less horn blowing!
As it's the weekend starting tomorrow afternoon, I decided to finally get my motorbike! The biggest bike I have seen on the road is the 185cc Pulsar (except for the heavy, slow, thirsty and expensive 350cc Enfield Bullet).
Unfortunately, I could only get the 150cc Pulsar, but for 250 rupees per day, I'm happy enough- it's actually quite a cool, "fast looking" bike! Until my 6'1" lump jumps on, making the bike look a little stunted in growth. But petrol is cheap, it's comfy, and I'm loving the whole no-helmet thing. I couldn't help humming that song from "Top Gun", as I rip down the coast road, wind ruffling my hair and my sunglasses keeping my eyes clear.
Only thing is, the gearbox is not what I'm use to. Neutral is at the very top, then gears 1 through to 5 are reached by tapping down on the lever! Coupled with years of large capacity sports bikes, I struggled at first. There I am, coasting down the tarmac feeling all "top gear"/"easy rider" cool, preparing to overtake the hated auto-rickshaw in a graceful sweep of timing, control and power:
Mirror- OK,
shoulder check- OK
into position,
horn, (an Indian thing),
Clutch in, flick up the gear lever twice, twist, clutch out and...
"OH F--k!"
The engine shrieks, the back wheel locks and my cool, calm exterior is lost as I shriek out loud, bang the clutch in and start the river dance on the gear lever. I succeed in making things worse, roaring and jerking finally to a halt in front of a gaggle of fit female "gap-year-lovelies".
Then I stall completely, with a jerk and a bang. The girls laugh.
Arse.
Thankfully, I've got it sorted now, although the bloke is bringing me another bike with "proper" gear arrangements tonight after dinner.
Talking of which, I'd better go get some. Via the coast road, as the sun's setting...
Started work, visited the beach, started seriously running again, and got settled into our house (which is walking distance to the beach). We got a wicked, fully furnished house that we share with Shirley, Elaine, and two other ladies called Karen and Lucy. Mrs Grasshopper and I have an en-suite with hot shower, double bed, and there is even a washing machine in the kitchen- a great luxury in Indian houses, more so for us as we have been hand-washing since we left blighty.
Now I'm sitting, chilled out in a super-fast Internet cafe, all jeans, boots and t-shirt, sunglasses on my head and my new motorcycle on it's stand outside- life is great!
The heat when I first stepped off the train was amazing- thick, heavy, and filled with holiday atmosphere. Mrs G and I followed Vishal through the dark station, sweat immediately prickling out of my skin as I jogged up the steps, careful with my footing under the weight of my wife's ever expanding rucksack. We jumped into 2 minibuses with our bags thrown on top and were first taken to the impressive Idex main house where the "youths" (actually aged 18-23) live and the day-to-day admin is carried out. Then after a meal of veg curry, biryani and chapati served on the roof terrace, we were shown our impressive little Kholie, about 2 minutes walk from the Idex office, and 15 minutes from Colva beach.
We had a couple of days induction training, including trips to the volunteer projects in the area. I had an open mind and wanted to choose something different. However, immediately after visiting the school for mentally challenged children I knew that I wanted to work there, and make use of my experience in Himachal Pradesh.
Outside of lectures and project visits, we explored a little bit of Colva.
It's such a great, relaxing place, it's easy to understand why Goa is the tourist destination of India. Colva itself is a little quiet- less of the hippy trippy stuff than I expected, although most shops are still full of mega-baggy, day-glow "Om" patterned trousers, tie-dye shirts and incense burners. There are just a couple of "package holiday" hotels, seemingly only filled with couples aged 40+ and non-brit European families, and to Mrs G's great pleasure, the bikini is acceptable to wear, although naturally only on the beach.
All in all, Colva is small, pleasantly spread-out with lots of "villa's" surrounded by gardens and public spaces (all stuffed with palm trees), and no buildings are taller than 3 floors high. The beach is lovely, pale white-yellow sand, the sea is clear and blue, and there is none of the filth and pollution I have come to associate with low-land India. Even the roads are quiet, well maintained, and with less horn blowing!
As it's the weekend starting tomorrow afternoon, I decided to finally get my motorbike! The biggest bike I have seen on the road is the 185cc Pulsar (except for the heavy, slow, thirsty and expensive 350cc Enfield Bullet).
Unfortunately, I could only get the 150cc Pulsar, but for 250 rupees per day, I'm happy enough- it's actually quite a cool, "fast looking" bike! Until my 6'1" lump jumps on, making the bike look a little stunted in growth. But petrol is cheap, it's comfy, and I'm loving the whole no-helmet thing. I couldn't help humming that song from "Top Gun", as I rip down the coast road, wind ruffling my hair and my sunglasses keeping my eyes clear.
Only thing is, the gearbox is not what I'm use to. Neutral is at the very top, then gears 1 through to 5 are reached by tapping down on the lever! Coupled with years of large capacity sports bikes, I struggled at first. There I am, coasting down the tarmac feeling all "top gear"/"easy rider" cool, preparing to overtake the hated auto-rickshaw in a graceful sweep of timing, control and power:
Mirror- OK,
shoulder check- OK
into position,
horn, (an Indian thing),
Clutch in, flick up the gear lever twice, twist, clutch out and...
"OH F--k!"
The engine shrieks, the back wheel locks and my cool, calm exterior is lost as I shriek out loud, bang the clutch in and start the river dance on the gear lever. I succeed in making things worse, roaring and jerking finally to a halt in front of a gaggle of fit female "gap-year-lovelies".
Then I stall completely, with a jerk and a bang. The girls laugh.
Arse.
Thankfully, I've got it sorted now, although the bloke is bringing me another bike with "proper" gear arrangements tonight after dinner.
Talking of which, I'd better go get some. Via the coast road, as the sun's setting...
Lonovla
Was cool!...
We (all 23 volunteers on this project) checked into "The Strand Hotel", a large, simple and clean place, with a wall-less downstairs reception area where we could sip ice-cold beer and enjoy the cooling breeze.
We had arrived via a jeep journey that had those new to India shutting their eyes and cringing as the driver (rather calmly by local standards) avoided precipice and buses on the winding roads.
The landscape here was no longer the lush green pines of the north, but a dry red-brown earth with smatterings of vegetation around the hills and valleys. It could have passed for the western US, or even Australia, but for the cows in the road and distinctly Indian lorries, decorating in a multitude of colours with "Horn Please, OK" stencilled on the back.
Once arrived and checked in, we set off into town for supplies for the next 2 days trekking. Some Gaandu at the last camp had nicked my torch, so for 50 rupees I got an even brighter LED one including batteries.
The town itself was lovely, small, friendly, with nothing of the hawking, begging and touting, staring, and sexual harassment we got in Delhi. Lots of families, women shop-keepers, and even a few bars, as it is a tourist town albeit off-season. That night we had a talk by the trekking leader, who also shown us a slide show of his climes up Everest, or K2 as he prefered to call it. The problems he faced and the pride the nation has in him were clearly evident. That's something I really do like about India- despite never seeming to think or plan ahead, the country has a pride and "can-do" attitude that is simply overwhelming.
The next day we went for the trek. It was easier/less technical than the one we done in Himachal, but a hell of a lot longer. I was glad my cold had died down a bit, as a few times I was breathing heavy trudging up the paths in the heat. We stopped plenty for those who were struggling, and the general pace was slow, so it was quite a pleasant walk through dried up rice paddy's and woods.
After a few hours we arrived at a small village, not much more than a cluster of wood and dung built houses, gathered around a rather grand white-washed concrete general store. There we found a large hut with a compacted cow-dung and ash floor, where we had an afternoon siesta.
Later in the afternoon, the trek leaders set up ropes to climb along between two trees, and generally got a feel for the abseiling equipment. Then we absailed down the wall of a nearby fort. I've abseiled plenty of times in the past, and although I was a little ropey (groan) I bounced down fast enough (as fast as the bloke would let me anyhow), feeling a little let-down I only got one go, and no opportunity to go down facing forwards.
More impressive was Mrs Grasshopper, who despite being scared of heights, bobbed down straight after me!
Tea was served in someones house, a great home-cooked meal of Dhal, rice, chapatis and curried vegetables.
That night we sat around the campfire as the trek leaders bashed out some Indian songs, literally, on washing-up bowls and stainless steel plates as they sang their favorites. They sky wasn't as clear as Africa, but we were happy, warm and comfortable. Due to shortage of tents, I shared with the only other blokes here out of the 23 volunteers; Ozzy/Scottish James, and another martial arts trainee called Chris from Germany. Mrs G shared with Shirley, and Elaine, Shirley's roommate from Mumbai.
The following morning we trekked back, via a rest stop at a large lake surrounded by beautiful mountains. The heat was somewhere in the high 20's, so Mrs G and 15 odd other volunteers (who all happened to be around 20 years old, slim and female) stripped down to their skimpy underwear and frollicked in the cold water, while I chilled out on the beach. It was a hellish stop that one, thinking back.
Eventually we got back to a village near the road, where we were picked up and driven back to the hotel for a late dinner and a cold beer (seems we get through a lot of Kingfisher in the warm south!).
We then had the Ashram "thing"... well, I done the Yoga, which was a relaxing and highly enjoyable experience I didn't think I'd like as much as I did, but then I left. Much as I love trying new things and all that, the meditating, chanting "Ooommmmm" and diet of beans, curd and chillies etc just ain't my thing. Neither is being covered in mud, stuffed with dodgy herbs or having water piped up my arse (I've long designated that a one-way passage anyway). So I slunked off and updated this blog. Then, like many Brits abroad, I got pissed and sunburned by the pool.
I did finally get to go running one morning (skipping Yoga), the first time I've had chance due to illness and location, and realised I still wasn't over my cold. I ran round a set route, which actually brought people out of their houses to stare at me, and one young boy to run next to me just to laugh as I thundered painfully up the hills and tripped and stumbled down the other side, a coughing, choking, sweating, snotty mass of milk-white legs and streaming red face.
We also gate-crashed a wedding (!), and got all our laundry done. All in all, a nice few days before we finally got up at 4.30am, jumped onto the early morning train, slept, then woke up to a night-shrouded Goa...
We (all 23 volunteers on this project) checked into "The Strand Hotel", a large, simple and clean place, with a wall-less downstairs reception area where we could sip ice-cold beer and enjoy the cooling breeze.
We had arrived via a jeep journey that had those new to India shutting their eyes and cringing as the driver (rather calmly by local standards) avoided precipice and buses on the winding roads.
The landscape here was no longer the lush green pines of the north, but a dry red-brown earth with smatterings of vegetation around the hills and valleys. It could have passed for the western US, or even Australia, but for the cows in the road and distinctly Indian lorries, decorating in a multitude of colours with "Horn Please, OK" stencilled on the back.
Once arrived and checked in, we set off into town for supplies for the next 2 days trekking. Some Gaandu at the last camp had nicked my torch, so for 50 rupees I got an even brighter LED one including batteries.
The town itself was lovely, small, friendly, with nothing of the hawking, begging and touting, staring, and sexual harassment we got in Delhi. Lots of families, women shop-keepers, and even a few bars, as it is a tourist town albeit off-season. That night we had a talk by the trekking leader, who also shown us a slide show of his climes up Everest, or K2 as he prefered to call it. The problems he faced and the pride the nation has in him were clearly evident. That's something I really do like about India- despite never seeming to think or plan ahead, the country has a pride and "can-do" attitude that is simply overwhelming.
The next day we went for the trek. It was easier/less technical than the one we done in Himachal, but a hell of a lot longer. I was glad my cold had died down a bit, as a few times I was breathing heavy trudging up the paths in the heat. We stopped plenty for those who were struggling, and the general pace was slow, so it was quite a pleasant walk through dried up rice paddy's and woods.
After a few hours we arrived at a small village, not much more than a cluster of wood and dung built houses, gathered around a rather grand white-washed concrete general store. There we found a large hut with a compacted cow-dung and ash floor, where we had an afternoon siesta.
Later in the afternoon, the trek leaders set up ropes to climb along between two trees, and generally got a feel for the abseiling equipment. Then we absailed down the wall of a nearby fort. I've abseiled plenty of times in the past, and although I was a little ropey (groan) I bounced down fast enough (as fast as the bloke would let me anyhow), feeling a little let-down I only got one go, and no opportunity to go down facing forwards.
More impressive was Mrs Grasshopper, who despite being scared of heights, bobbed down straight after me!
Tea was served in someones house, a great home-cooked meal of Dhal, rice, chapatis and curried vegetables.
That night we sat around the campfire as the trek leaders bashed out some Indian songs, literally, on washing-up bowls and stainless steel plates as they sang their favorites. They sky wasn't as clear as Africa, but we were happy, warm and comfortable. Due to shortage of tents, I shared with the only other blokes here out of the 23 volunteers; Ozzy/Scottish James, and another martial arts trainee called Chris from Germany. Mrs G shared with Shirley, and Elaine, Shirley's roommate from Mumbai.
The following morning we trekked back, via a rest stop at a large lake surrounded by beautiful mountains. The heat was somewhere in the high 20's, so Mrs G and 15 odd other volunteers (who all happened to be around 20 years old, slim and female) stripped down to their skimpy underwear and frollicked in the cold water, while I chilled out on the beach. It was a hellish stop that one, thinking back.
Eventually we got back to a village near the road, where we were picked up and driven back to the hotel for a late dinner and a cold beer (seems we get through a lot of Kingfisher in the warm south!).
We then had the Ashram "thing"... well, I done the Yoga, which was a relaxing and highly enjoyable experience I didn't think I'd like as much as I did, but then I left. Much as I love trying new things and all that, the meditating, chanting "Ooommmmm" and diet of beans, curd and chillies etc just ain't my thing. Neither is being covered in mud, stuffed with dodgy herbs or having water piped up my arse (I've long designated that a one-way passage anyway). So I slunked off and updated this blog. Then, like many Brits abroad, I got pissed and sunburned by the pool.
I did finally get to go running one morning (skipping Yoga), the first time I've had chance due to illness and location, and realised I still wasn't over my cold. I ran round a set route, which actually brought people out of their houses to stare at me, and one young boy to run next to me just to laugh as I thundered painfully up the hills and tripped and stumbled down the other side, a coughing, choking, sweating, snotty mass of milk-white legs and streaming red face.
We also gate-crashed a wedding (!), and got all our laundry done. All in all, a nice few days before we finally got up at 4.30am, jumped onto the early morning train, slept, then woke up to a night-shrouded Goa...
Friday 18 January 2008
Mumbai
The hotel porter in Missouri prepared us for Delhi, falsely adding 60 rupees to our hotel bill for a coffee that only cost 30 rupees and was paid for at the time. I decided I couldn't be bothered arguing, as we had our bags on, and were about to leave the room to catch the bus.
He had been waiting outside our room, and had refused to let me pay for our stay at the reception desk, in order for his scam to work. I looked though my pockets and wallet for small notes, knowing full well he would claim to have no change. As I fished in my wallet to pay the bill he started jabbering "tip, tip, tip, give me tip! tip tip tip!". Trying not to get irritated, I gave him a 100 on top of the room bill, all I had left to cover his bull-shit coffee and a tip (even if it was for being a weirdo who loitered outside our hotel room whenever we were in, trying to squeeze tips out of us)
He looked at the money like I'd wiped my arse with it. "Tip, tip, tip, give me a tip" He stared again.
"YOU GOT IT THERE!" I point at it, stare at him, and turn around to leave. A f---ing 100 for f--k all I think to myself as we make our way to the bus stop.
We were soon on the bus to DheraDun, and from there (via a stop at a roadside vendor for stuffed parantha), we soon found the bus to Delhi, the conductor hanging around it shouting "delhidelhidelhidelhidelhidelhi!!". We got seats at the front, and despite being a state bus, it was more comfortable than the "delux" bus we got to Rishikesh, even with all our luggage. I had a nice older chap next to me trying to make conversation, but our language differences made it almost impossible, so we settled into a companionable silence as Mrs Grasshopper settled into a comfortable snooze.
7 Hours later we pulled up at Delhi interstate bus terminal, and were immediatly jumped on by auto-rickshaw touts, hawkers and beggers.
They left the Indian travellers alone of course!
We pushed our way out towards the police-run pre-paid booth, constantly refusing the touts and pointing to the booth "we go there"!! Once bloke grabbed me and said "No need, I'm from the pre-paid booth, you can book with me."
I pulled up short, and couldn't help but smile as I said in a loud voice "So your a policeman then are you?" He looked, just for a moment, like he was going to try that angle. Then he shook his head, and instantly disappered, common sense prevailing.
The bobby at the booth gave us a price of 55 rupees (which was amazingly cheap for the distance!), and we were whisked off to the hotel, just as the sun set. We went to the same hotel as before (better the devil you know), and started arguing for the same room fee we paid last time. They claimed we should have paid 500, then hinted that we had lied to them and claimed single occupancy when we should have paid for double. I kept my happy face on, grinning like an idiot (maybe that's why they all treat me like one?) while shaking my head and Mrs Grasshopper gave it "scary eyes" and kept pointing to the register; "Check it- we paid 350!"
We got it for 350 and after signing in (and seeing the 2 guests next door paid 250), we had a couple of beers with our curry at the bar down the road, and then settled in for an early night in front of the movie channel.
The next morning, at 7am the hotel organised a taxi for us to the airport (I like taxi drivers- they seem so much more honest than the tourist-preying rickshaw drivers), and we were there in plenty of time.
We flew with Jet airways, an indian airline who were simply amazing- on par with Singapore airlines, at least for suchg a small flight. They had put us on an earlier flight during check-in at no extra cost because we were there early, and within a few hours we were boarded, in the air, eating chiken tikka, down again, and standing outside Mumbai airport.
Just like that.
Sweat poured out of us after the cold of the mountains, and the heat set off our cold induced coughs, as we looked for our contact in the crowd of name-card waving men.
No irritating auto-touts!
Vishal, our Goa project executive, soon found us as the only westerners there, and took us via taxi to an excellent hotel in Northern Mumbia. There we met a few other volunteers, including James, a decent glaswegian-australian chap who chatted a fair bit with us at reception. Once booked in, Mrs G and I grabbed some tea from the Chai-wallah on the road outside before heading off to Juhu beach, a 45 minute, 150 rupee taxi drive away.
Mrs Grasshopper and I were amazed!!
There were Indian women on there own on the beach- wearing strappy tops, and drinking beer! Joggers huffed past us, and families played in the sand as the sun set- and no-one stared at us!! It generally had a great atmosphere, and although the pollution was heavy in the air, the beach was pretty clean, and the sun was bright and hot, unlike the cold shrouded globe we seen in Delhi.
We found a beach-front resturant and ordered a curry which we ate with our fingers, and drank an ice cold beer as the sun set, watching the kite-flyers and kids have fun. It was brilliant.
Afterwards we set off back to the hotel for an early night, as we had a few hours on the bus the next day to Lonovla, where we would be staying for our ashram "thing" and trekking.
Shirly (who we had worked with in Africa), who we had been desperatly hoping would be at the airport, didn't arrive until the early hours of the morning. However, she knocked on a 8am, calling "Jambo!". Hugs all round (glad I put my kecks on!) and we swapped stories for a bit as the air con cooled the room. I noticed how brown she was, and totally unaffected by the heat, unlike us, having spent her time in Malaysia. We had a hurried breakfast at a place around the corner, so hurried in fact, Shirlies veg-toasty had to be wrapped to go. It was brilliant seeing her again, and we were in really high spirits as we into old mini-busses with the other volunteers for our drive to Lonovla...
He had been waiting outside our room, and had refused to let me pay for our stay at the reception desk, in order for his scam to work. I looked though my pockets and wallet for small notes, knowing full well he would claim to have no change. As I fished in my wallet to pay the bill he started jabbering "tip, tip, tip, give me tip! tip tip tip!". Trying not to get irritated, I gave him a 100 on top of the room bill, all I had left to cover his bull-shit coffee and a tip (even if it was for being a weirdo who loitered outside our hotel room whenever we were in, trying to squeeze tips out of us)
He looked at the money like I'd wiped my arse with it. "Tip, tip, tip, give me a tip" He stared again.
"YOU GOT IT THERE!" I point at it, stare at him, and turn around to leave. A f---ing 100 for f--k all I think to myself as we make our way to the bus stop.
We were soon on the bus to DheraDun, and from there (via a stop at a roadside vendor for stuffed parantha), we soon found the bus to Delhi, the conductor hanging around it shouting "delhidelhidelhidelhidelhidelhi!!". We got seats at the front, and despite being a state bus, it was more comfortable than the "delux" bus we got to Rishikesh, even with all our luggage. I had a nice older chap next to me trying to make conversation, but our language differences made it almost impossible, so we settled into a companionable silence as Mrs Grasshopper settled into a comfortable snooze.
7 Hours later we pulled up at Delhi interstate bus terminal, and were immediatly jumped on by auto-rickshaw touts, hawkers and beggers.
They left the Indian travellers alone of course!
We pushed our way out towards the police-run pre-paid booth, constantly refusing the touts and pointing to the booth "we go there"!! Once bloke grabbed me and said "No need, I'm from the pre-paid booth, you can book with me."
I pulled up short, and couldn't help but smile as I said in a loud voice "So your a policeman then are you?" He looked, just for a moment, like he was going to try that angle. Then he shook his head, and instantly disappered, common sense prevailing.
The bobby at the booth gave us a price of 55 rupees (which was amazingly cheap for the distance!), and we were whisked off to the hotel, just as the sun set. We went to the same hotel as before (better the devil you know), and started arguing for the same room fee we paid last time. They claimed we should have paid 500, then hinted that we had lied to them and claimed single occupancy when we should have paid for double. I kept my happy face on, grinning like an idiot (maybe that's why they all treat me like one?) while shaking my head and Mrs Grasshopper gave it "scary eyes" and kept pointing to the register; "Check it- we paid 350!"
We got it for 350 and after signing in (and seeing the 2 guests next door paid 250), we had a couple of beers with our curry at the bar down the road, and then settled in for an early night in front of the movie channel.
The next morning, at 7am the hotel organised a taxi for us to the airport (I like taxi drivers- they seem so much more honest than the tourist-preying rickshaw drivers), and we were there in plenty of time.
We flew with Jet airways, an indian airline who were simply amazing- on par with Singapore airlines, at least for suchg a small flight. They had put us on an earlier flight during check-in at no extra cost because we were there early, and within a few hours we were boarded, in the air, eating chiken tikka, down again, and standing outside Mumbai airport.
Just like that.
Sweat poured out of us after the cold of the mountains, and the heat set off our cold induced coughs, as we looked for our contact in the crowd of name-card waving men.
No irritating auto-touts!
Vishal, our Goa project executive, soon found us as the only westerners there, and took us via taxi to an excellent hotel in Northern Mumbia. There we met a few other volunteers, including James, a decent glaswegian-australian chap who chatted a fair bit with us at reception. Once booked in, Mrs G and I grabbed some tea from the Chai-wallah on the road outside before heading off to Juhu beach, a 45 minute, 150 rupee taxi drive away.
Mrs Grasshopper and I were amazed!!
There were Indian women on there own on the beach- wearing strappy tops, and drinking beer! Joggers huffed past us, and families played in the sand as the sun set- and no-one stared at us!! It generally had a great atmosphere, and although the pollution was heavy in the air, the beach was pretty clean, and the sun was bright and hot, unlike the cold shrouded globe we seen in Delhi.
We found a beach-front resturant and ordered a curry which we ate with our fingers, and drank an ice cold beer as the sun set, watching the kite-flyers and kids have fun. It was brilliant.
Afterwards we set off back to the hotel for an early night, as we had a few hours on the bus the next day to Lonovla, where we would be staying for our ashram "thing" and trekking.
Shirly (who we had worked with in Africa), who we had been desperatly hoping would be at the airport, didn't arrive until the early hours of the morning. However, she knocked on a 8am, calling "Jambo!". Hugs all round (glad I put my kecks on!) and we swapped stories for a bit as the air con cooled the room. I noticed how brown she was, and totally unaffected by the heat, unlike us, having spent her time in Malaysia. We had a hurried breakfast at a place around the corner, so hurried in fact, Shirlies veg-toasty had to be wrapped to go. It was brilliant seeing her again, and we were in really high spirits as we into old mini-busses with the other volunteers for our drive to Lonovla...
India Part II
It's Hot!
Sat in an internet cafe in a town called Lonovla, a few hours from Mumbia, sipping ice cold orange juice after my first morning run in a long time.
Since leaving Delhi and crossing the swaying suspension bridge over the river Ganges onto the east bank of Rishikesh, with it's cold mountain morning air and colourful statues of the gods lining the fast moving opaque turquoise river, we have been much happier.
Rishikesh is a temple town, with little there other than Ashrams, temples, and accommodation for its constant influx of pilgrims coming to bath in the holy river, and tourists like us looking for peace.
We walked around the deserted streets looking for the hotel that we had decided on under the perverted stares of the dodgy geezers at the bus station.
When we eventually got there, sweating under our rucksacks and day sacks, our breath clouding in the cold, an old fella greets us at the gate. He shown us a basic, scruffy but totally adequate room with hot water, and said "Normally 200 rupees... for you 150"!
Happy with that! (We were paying 350 in Delhi).
After eventually swapping rooms because the toilet didnt work (thankfully a problem discovered before any cables were laid), we settled down to a long-needed sleep.
Then the guys below our room started knocking the foot-thick concerete wall down using a sledge hammer.
With it being a temple town, meat, alcohol, even eggs were prohibited. However, it was great to just wonder around without constantly chanting "Nahi, Nahi", "Chello" to hawkers, beggers and con men. The people there didn't stare, and on the whole were lovely, friendly helpful and honest.
We had hoped to do plenty of trekking over the week, to improve our fitness ready for thailand, as Mrs G and I had suffered a major cold almost throughout our project work in Himichal preventing any training what-so-ever. Finally recovered in Delhi, I was looking forward to finally spending some time running in the mountains... then I got another cold, starting as we left left for Rishikesh. Mrs G got it a few days later.
Bugger.
However, we enjoyed a bit of gentle walking rather then running, wondering around the north part of the town, and along the banks and Ghats of the Ganges. There were a lot of really young "travellers" (who hotly contest the lable "tourist", despite, erm, touring around the er, tourist areas), as well as plenty of westerners, dressed in pilgrim clothes with impressive dreadlocks and a steadfast refusal to make eye contact with other white people. Sitting, relaxing in cafe's drinking hot lemon, ginger and honey tea gave an unusual insight into how some of the younger travellers/tourists view the world around them;
"Don't try to dance...Just do it! Never try... just do!- use your energy" One lad said with great intensity and a worrying finger movement around the eyes.
"I feel like the people around me are missing something in their aura... they are not connected in a higher plane, ya know, they need to look into themselves, find themselves in the environment they are in" Said a young girl wearing a tight-fitting strappy top in this holy, ultra-conservative temple-town.
Me- I just wanted to chill out man. I dont want to find myself. The disappointment of spending all this money and travelling all this distance only to find that I'm a dick would be too great.
Rishikesh was great, slow moving, relaxing, and without the stares and hassle of Delhi. However, the pure vegitarian diet and no beer with my curry, and the rather noisy (but cheap) accommodation pushed us onwards. I needed some Chicken tikka and a beer.
Plus I think a cow there didn't like me. He "laid a head" on me as I passed on the way for breakfast one morning. Then I was wondering back to the hotel that night, when my boot swept through the wettest cow-pat I've ever seen, covering my boots and trousers with shit. I round the corner, and there was the cow who'd given me a "Kirkby kiss" that morning. Staring at me. Unsettling. Time to go.
We got to Missouri via a hour and a half taxi ride. Full of cold, with heavy baggage and in a really happy relaxed mood, we decided to spend the 750 rupees on a taxi instead of the 100 for a bus, with comfort in mind. It was a nice treat to be honest!
The taxi rank had all the prices displayed, and our driver was a really nice chap, highlighting points of interest as we wound our way through the mountains. Indian taxis are invariabley old ambassadors, much repaired and running on CNC gas. However, this one was in mint condition, with crisp-clean white towelling seat covers, the typical massive head and leg room, and the sun was out, bright and warming enough for me to open the window to the fresh pine-scented air.
Missourie itself is a popular holiday destination for Delhi-ites, looking to escape the heat of the city in the summer. Off-season like it is, the town was quite with many of the resturants and hotels closed. Commercial vehicles are not allowed down the main street, so we jumped out and walked up and down and around for a while until we found the hotel we had decided on in the guidebook, called the broadway.
The fella shown us a few rooms, all around 400-500 rupees, but after explaining we wanted cheap, he shown us the tinest room in the hotel for 300, with a free lumpy mattress and no proper windows.
I now know the definition of a lumpy mattress- it was like a bloody scale model of the peak-district. I even lifted the mattress to remove what I thought was a pile of rags that had been gathered and stuffed underneath. We did get hot water, as long as we asked for it well in advance. But we were tired, and so I signed for one night, vowing to have a look about for a better hotel. We found one the same day- right next door! Hotel Deep offered us a huge room, with constant hot water, satalite TV, room service, and comfy couch with coffee table next to the large window giving wonderfull mountain views. For 300 rupees. Bargain.
Missouri was lovely, and feeling slightly better, we spent a fantastic couple of days strolling up the Camelback road, and back down through "the mall", an easy few miles stroll. The Camelback snakes along "behind" Missouri, which is built on a ridge at around 1800 meters. Lined with victorian styled streetlamps and with no traffic, it was great to wonder along looking down to the valley floor below, passing other couples now and again who all smiled in greeting. One nice fella explaind to us why it was called the Camelback- there is a rock formation on a nearby hill that looks like a camel, at a certain point on the road when the rocks line up.
The "modern" influence and money of Delhi was obvious, with it's bars that allowed women to drink in, nice shops and resturants patroned by trendy couples and well-dressed young families. Everyone there was really friendly, honest and easy going (except the hotel porter), and we really enjoyed our days there, eating breakfast at a roadside omlette-vendor, and dinner at a nice tandoori resturant that served reasonably priced Kingfisher.
Further up was Randour, which we walked through one day. Higher than Missouri, the affluence Delhi provides was less evident. Rubbish was again cascading down the mountain side, there were more cows in the road, attracted prehapes by the rubbish, and a lot more stray dogs.
On our way there, a jeep thundered past us, typically too fast for the conditions, horn typically blaring to compensate. He rounded the corner and we heard a screech of tyres. Followed by the most heart-wrenching yelping I've ever heard.
As we rounded the corner, the jeep rolled back a few feet, releasing a puppy, who was screaming in agony, his doggy friends jumping around him, ears working and tails tucked in fear and distress. As the puppy cleared the offside of the car, we seen where the car got him.
His left front paw, from the shoulder down was like flattened mince-meat, flapping long and destroyed as the puppy screamed and tried to hobble away to safety. My stomach turned, and I heard the two Japanese girls behind us cry out as they burst into tears. The puppy still screamed, and all around everyone was frozen, looks of anguish and horror on every mans face. I set myself to run over and do the humane thing, fast and painless. There are no vets here. But as soon as I formed the thought, I considered how that would be recieved by all those in the street watching and hesitated. Then it was too late- the puppy, still yelping, disappeared down a gap between two houses, his companions following, prancing and wide eyed.
We kept walking, leaving the men's distressed faces, girls sobbs and puppies screams behind.
"Why do they drive like that?" Mrs Grasshopper vented.
"No forward planning"
"No care for the consequences. That could of been a child" She continues. She's really upset, and so am I. A bloke on a scooter rides directly at us. We move, use to this type of thing now and he passes by, inches to spare. I realise it was because there was a pothole on "his " side of the road.
We pass the jeep that mashed the puppy's leg, and I notice the driver has been weeping. He didn't stop at the time though.
We walk further, passing the tiny Kohlis and shops until we are on an empy road, skirting the edge of the mountian. We look down, and see a glint of metal in the valley below us. Then a scar down the precapice, smashed bushes and broken trees leading up to a missing railing section by the road side. By the time we walk to it, we can see where the car had left the road, taking out the railing, falling and tumbling 100s of feet down to where it rests now. The car was barely recognisable, although there had been no fire. The fresh tree roots suggested it had happened within the last couple of days.
"Dont get a night-bus" Our taxi Driver had said on the way here. "Too dangerous, too dark and twisty!"
Right you are mate. Day bus to Delhi it is.
Sat in an internet cafe in a town called Lonovla, a few hours from Mumbia, sipping ice cold orange juice after my first morning run in a long time.
Since leaving Delhi and crossing the swaying suspension bridge over the river Ganges onto the east bank of Rishikesh, with it's cold mountain morning air and colourful statues of the gods lining the fast moving opaque turquoise river, we have been much happier.
Rishikesh is a temple town, with little there other than Ashrams, temples, and accommodation for its constant influx of pilgrims coming to bath in the holy river, and tourists like us looking for peace.
We walked around the deserted streets looking for the hotel that we had decided on under the perverted stares of the dodgy geezers at the bus station.
When we eventually got there, sweating under our rucksacks and day sacks, our breath clouding in the cold, an old fella greets us at the gate. He shown us a basic, scruffy but totally adequate room with hot water, and said "Normally 200 rupees... for you 150"!
Happy with that! (We were paying 350 in Delhi).
After eventually swapping rooms because the toilet didnt work (thankfully a problem discovered before any cables were laid), we settled down to a long-needed sleep.
Then the guys below our room started knocking the foot-thick concerete wall down using a sledge hammer.
With it being a temple town, meat, alcohol, even eggs were prohibited. However, it was great to just wonder around without constantly chanting "Nahi, Nahi", "Chello" to hawkers, beggers and con men. The people there didn't stare, and on the whole were lovely, friendly helpful and honest.
We had hoped to do plenty of trekking over the week, to improve our fitness ready for thailand, as Mrs G and I had suffered a major cold almost throughout our project work in Himichal preventing any training what-so-ever. Finally recovered in Delhi, I was looking forward to finally spending some time running in the mountains... then I got another cold, starting as we left left for Rishikesh. Mrs G got it a few days later.
Bugger.
However, we enjoyed a bit of gentle walking rather then running, wondering around the north part of the town, and along the banks and Ghats of the Ganges. There were a lot of really young "travellers" (who hotly contest the lable "tourist", despite, erm, touring around the er, tourist areas), as well as plenty of westerners, dressed in pilgrim clothes with impressive dreadlocks and a steadfast refusal to make eye contact with other white people. Sitting, relaxing in cafe's drinking hot lemon, ginger and honey tea gave an unusual insight into how some of the younger travellers/tourists view the world around them;
"Don't try to dance...Just do it! Never try... just do!- use your energy" One lad said with great intensity and a worrying finger movement around the eyes.
"I feel like the people around me are missing something in their aura... they are not connected in a higher plane, ya know, they need to look into themselves, find themselves in the environment they are in" Said a young girl wearing a tight-fitting strappy top in this holy, ultra-conservative temple-town.
Me- I just wanted to chill out man. I dont want to find myself. The disappointment of spending all this money and travelling all this distance only to find that I'm a dick would be too great.
Rishikesh was great, slow moving, relaxing, and without the stares and hassle of Delhi. However, the pure vegitarian diet and no beer with my curry, and the rather noisy (but cheap) accommodation pushed us onwards. I needed some Chicken tikka and a beer.
Plus I think a cow there didn't like me. He "laid a head" on me as I passed on the way for breakfast one morning. Then I was wondering back to the hotel that night, when my boot swept through the wettest cow-pat I've ever seen, covering my boots and trousers with shit. I round the corner, and there was the cow who'd given me a "Kirkby kiss" that morning. Staring at me. Unsettling. Time to go.
We got to Missouri via a hour and a half taxi ride. Full of cold, with heavy baggage and in a really happy relaxed mood, we decided to spend the 750 rupees on a taxi instead of the 100 for a bus, with comfort in mind. It was a nice treat to be honest!
The taxi rank had all the prices displayed, and our driver was a really nice chap, highlighting points of interest as we wound our way through the mountains. Indian taxis are invariabley old ambassadors, much repaired and running on CNC gas. However, this one was in mint condition, with crisp-clean white towelling seat covers, the typical massive head and leg room, and the sun was out, bright and warming enough for me to open the window to the fresh pine-scented air.
Missourie itself is a popular holiday destination for Delhi-ites, looking to escape the heat of the city in the summer. Off-season like it is, the town was quite with many of the resturants and hotels closed. Commercial vehicles are not allowed down the main street, so we jumped out and walked up and down and around for a while until we found the hotel we had decided on in the guidebook, called the broadway.
The fella shown us a few rooms, all around 400-500 rupees, but after explaining we wanted cheap, he shown us the tinest room in the hotel for 300, with a free lumpy mattress and no proper windows.
I now know the definition of a lumpy mattress- it was like a bloody scale model of the peak-district. I even lifted the mattress to remove what I thought was a pile of rags that had been gathered and stuffed underneath. We did get hot water, as long as we asked for it well in advance. But we were tired, and so I signed for one night, vowing to have a look about for a better hotel. We found one the same day- right next door! Hotel Deep offered us a huge room, with constant hot water, satalite TV, room service, and comfy couch with coffee table next to the large window giving wonderfull mountain views. For 300 rupees. Bargain.
Missouri was lovely, and feeling slightly better, we spent a fantastic couple of days strolling up the Camelback road, and back down through "the mall", an easy few miles stroll. The Camelback snakes along "behind" Missouri, which is built on a ridge at around 1800 meters. Lined with victorian styled streetlamps and with no traffic, it was great to wonder along looking down to the valley floor below, passing other couples now and again who all smiled in greeting. One nice fella explaind to us why it was called the Camelback- there is a rock formation on a nearby hill that looks like a camel, at a certain point on the road when the rocks line up.
The "modern" influence and money of Delhi was obvious, with it's bars that allowed women to drink in, nice shops and resturants patroned by trendy couples and well-dressed young families. Everyone there was really friendly, honest and easy going (except the hotel porter), and we really enjoyed our days there, eating breakfast at a roadside omlette-vendor, and dinner at a nice tandoori resturant that served reasonably priced Kingfisher.
Further up was Randour, which we walked through one day. Higher than Missouri, the affluence Delhi provides was less evident. Rubbish was again cascading down the mountain side, there were more cows in the road, attracted prehapes by the rubbish, and a lot more stray dogs.
On our way there, a jeep thundered past us, typically too fast for the conditions, horn typically blaring to compensate. He rounded the corner and we heard a screech of tyres. Followed by the most heart-wrenching yelping I've ever heard.
As we rounded the corner, the jeep rolled back a few feet, releasing a puppy, who was screaming in agony, his doggy friends jumping around him, ears working and tails tucked in fear and distress. As the puppy cleared the offside of the car, we seen where the car got him.
His left front paw, from the shoulder down was like flattened mince-meat, flapping long and destroyed as the puppy screamed and tried to hobble away to safety. My stomach turned, and I heard the two Japanese girls behind us cry out as they burst into tears. The puppy still screamed, and all around everyone was frozen, looks of anguish and horror on every mans face. I set myself to run over and do the humane thing, fast and painless. There are no vets here. But as soon as I formed the thought, I considered how that would be recieved by all those in the street watching and hesitated. Then it was too late- the puppy, still yelping, disappeared down a gap between two houses, his companions following, prancing and wide eyed.
We kept walking, leaving the men's distressed faces, girls sobbs and puppies screams behind.
"Why do they drive like that?" Mrs Grasshopper vented.
"No forward planning"
"No care for the consequences. That could of been a child" She continues. She's really upset, and so am I. A bloke on a scooter rides directly at us. We move, use to this type of thing now and he passes by, inches to spare. I realise it was because there was a pothole on "his " side of the road.
We pass the jeep that mashed the puppy's leg, and I notice the driver has been weeping. He didn't stop at the time though.
We walk further, passing the tiny Kohlis and shops until we are on an empy road, skirting the edge of the mountian. We look down, and see a glint of metal in the valley below us. Then a scar down the precapice, smashed bushes and broken trees leading up to a missing railing section by the road side. By the time we walk to it, we can see where the car had left the road, taking out the railing, falling and tumbling 100s of feet down to where it rests now. The car was barely recognisable, although there had been no fire. The fresh tree roots suggested it had happened within the last couple of days.
"Dont get a night-bus" Our taxi Driver had said on the way here. "Too dangerous, too dark and twisty!"
Right you are mate. Day bus to Delhi it is.
Saturday 12 January 2008
Answering Roy; the womens position in India.
Following past comment, and the negative reflection of Indian men that may inadvertently be cast in my previous post, I thought I'd better explain some of the cultural background behind some of our experiences.
The women's situation in India was a topic that was covered at length during our induction training at the Idex offices in Jaipur, both to prepare us, as well as encourage us to try to change peoples views during our work placements.
The discrimination is a result of both religion and culture, and although it is changing, starting with the educated and city-dwellers, many women in rural areas continue to suffer discrimination of a magnitude unheard of in modern western society.
But even amongst educated professional families, things such as a token dowry may still be paid, despite the dowry being made illegal in 1961 in India.
Women are discriminated against throughout life:
From Birth:
Due to financial and traditional Hindu beliefs, the male son is believed to lead to salvation- but women are seen as a liability, due to the requirements of dowry, lack of employment and leaving the family upon marriage. This has and does lead to selective abortion, murder and abandonment of female children. Although sex-determination prior to birth is illegal in India, it is still widely practised. The resulting balance that we were told was 100 males to 92 females, but in some states in India, the gap is wider.
Childhood:
Girls are believed to have less requirement for food than males, resulting in higher malnutrition for girls. Education is also seen as more important for boys than girls, resulting in a literacy rate for women at 54%, while for men it is 76%. Also, India has the highest population of non-schooling girls, and further education for women is not encouraged.
The irony is that India has the highest % of female professionals in the world, and its constitution grants the same rights for everyone, regardless of sex, race or religion.
Before marriage:
Young girls are prepared from an early age for housework and motherhood, with their marriage pre-arranged by their fathers. If they should choose not to marry their determined partner, they will be disowned by their family.
In order to achieve salvation, many girls are married off as children. Although illegal, this is passed off as a "custom" to allow it's continuance.
After marriage:
In rural areas, childbirth for these young wives is very hazardous, with a mortality rate 25 times higher when the mother is aged below 15 years of age. These children of child-mothers are much less likely to be properly nourished, educated and able to escape this discrimination and oppression.
Once married, women automatically join their husbands family, forced to undertake all household labours and work, and only seeing their own family on organised visits. This can lead to abuse and mistreatment of the wives by the other family members.
As Widows:
If the wife dies, Indian men are free to re-marry. However, this is not the case for women- they cannot re-marry. So they are left with no money, education, skills or support, as the woman's family would very rarely take them back, having left for marriage. Inheritance for women does not exist either, with inheritance money, land etc "passed over" them to go to the next male relative, despite having full legal right to it under Indian law.
Bride burning:
Perhaps for me, the most shocking indication as to the woman's situation in India is the practice of bride burning.
It is when after receiving a large dowry upon marriage, the groom/grooms family will murder the bride, thus keeping the dowry and allowing the groom to re-marry for further financial gain. It is recorded that 7000 women in India are murdered every year, surprisingly primarily in urban areas, the victims and murders hailing from educated middle to upper middle social classes.
Although murder is obviously illegal, Indian law also states that if the bride dies within 7 years of marriage, the matter should be heavily investigated as a bride-burning. However, due to the cultural context, and a heavily corrupt system, bribery ensures only a 7-8% conviction rate, if, and only if, the matter even gets to court.
There is established legal framework for equality, and strong strive for change. However, this is the situation for women in India at present, as it was taught to us upon our arrival in India.
It still maybe didn't fully prepare us for what the female volunteers seen and experienced during our stay here.
Despite this discrimination and oppression, there are women in high positions of government and in all professions in India, and many men have told me with great pride they have daughters. Love-marriages do take place, and in Delhi, women dress in western clothes and go out to bars with their friends, just as they do in the UK.
I have never seen women in the villages of Himachal pradesh, Uttaranchal, or Rajhistan wear anything but tradition clothes and bindi, and have never seen them drink alcohol, smoke or even make eye contact with me in the street (though they will occasionally stare in disgust at Mrs Grasshopper, possibly due to the "loose western women" idea here).
Conversely, it is in Delhi, the 'urban educated India" that the leers, groping, blatant sexual assault and eve-teasing seems to constantly occur, mainly by males aged below 35. Although men did stare at us in the villages and small towns, it was never with any malice, the older gents often tipping their head in greeting or smiling when I made eye contact.
In my view it is generally a good, safe country, particularly when with other travellers, and using a bit of common sense. The Indian people are generally extremely helpful, kind and accepting, despite initial perceptions of rudeness.
I think considering,and when suitible, respecting the cultural differences also goes a long way, as does a smile and a patient disposition.
Not that it's always been easy here...
The women's situation in India was a topic that was covered at length during our induction training at the Idex offices in Jaipur, both to prepare us, as well as encourage us to try to change peoples views during our work placements.
The discrimination is a result of both religion and culture, and although it is changing, starting with the educated and city-dwellers, many women in rural areas continue to suffer discrimination of a magnitude unheard of in modern western society.
But even amongst educated professional families, things such as a token dowry may still be paid, despite the dowry being made illegal in 1961 in India.
Women are discriminated against throughout life:
From Birth:
Due to financial and traditional Hindu beliefs, the male son is believed to lead to salvation- but women are seen as a liability, due to the requirements of dowry, lack of employment and leaving the family upon marriage. This has and does lead to selective abortion, murder and abandonment of female children. Although sex-determination prior to birth is illegal in India, it is still widely practised. The resulting balance that we were told was 100 males to 92 females, but in some states in India, the gap is wider.
Childhood:
Girls are believed to have less requirement for food than males, resulting in higher malnutrition for girls. Education is also seen as more important for boys than girls, resulting in a literacy rate for women at 54%, while for men it is 76%. Also, India has the highest population of non-schooling girls, and further education for women is not encouraged.
The irony is that India has the highest % of female professionals in the world, and its constitution grants the same rights for everyone, regardless of sex, race or religion.
Before marriage:
Young girls are prepared from an early age for housework and motherhood, with their marriage pre-arranged by their fathers. If they should choose not to marry their determined partner, they will be disowned by their family.
In order to achieve salvation, many girls are married off as children. Although illegal, this is passed off as a "custom" to allow it's continuance.
After marriage:
In rural areas, childbirth for these young wives is very hazardous, with a mortality rate 25 times higher when the mother is aged below 15 years of age. These children of child-mothers are much less likely to be properly nourished, educated and able to escape this discrimination and oppression.
Once married, women automatically join their husbands family, forced to undertake all household labours and work, and only seeing their own family on organised visits. This can lead to abuse and mistreatment of the wives by the other family members.
As Widows:
If the wife dies, Indian men are free to re-marry. However, this is not the case for women- they cannot re-marry. So they are left with no money, education, skills or support, as the woman's family would very rarely take them back, having left for marriage. Inheritance for women does not exist either, with inheritance money, land etc "passed over" them to go to the next male relative, despite having full legal right to it under Indian law.
Bride burning:
Perhaps for me, the most shocking indication as to the woman's situation in India is the practice of bride burning.
It is when after receiving a large dowry upon marriage, the groom/grooms family will murder the bride, thus keeping the dowry and allowing the groom to re-marry for further financial gain. It is recorded that 7000 women in India are murdered every year, surprisingly primarily in urban areas, the victims and murders hailing from educated middle to upper middle social classes.
Although murder is obviously illegal, Indian law also states that if the bride dies within 7 years of marriage, the matter should be heavily investigated as a bride-burning. However, due to the cultural context, and a heavily corrupt system, bribery ensures only a 7-8% conviction rate, if, and only if, the matter even gets to court.
There is established legal framework for equality, and strong strive for change. However, this is the situation for women in India at present, as it was taught to us upon our arrival in India.
It still maybe didn't fully prepare us for what the female volunteers seen and experienced during our stay here.
Despite this discrimination and oppression, there are women in high positions of government and in all professions in India, and many men have told me with great pride they have daughters. Love-marriages do take place, and in Delhi, women dress in western clothes and go out to bars with their friends, just as they do in the UK.
I have never seen women in the villages of Himachal pradesh, Uttaranchal, or Rajhistan wear anything but tradition clothes and bindi, and have never seen them drink alcohol, smoke or even make eye contact with me in the street (though they will occasionally stare in disgust at Mrs Grasshopper, possibly due to the "loose western women" idea here).
Conversely, it is in Delhi, the 'urban educated India" that the leers, groping, blatant sexual assault and eve-teasing seems to constantly occur, mainly by males aged below 35. Although men did stare at us in the villages and small towns, it was never with any malice, the older gents often tipping their head in greeting or smiling when I made eye contact.
In my view it is generally a good, safe country, particularly when with other travellers, and using a bit of common sense. The Indian people are generally extremely helpful, kind and accepting, despite initial perceptions of rudeness.
I think considering,and when suitible, respecting the cultural differences also goes a long way, as does a smile and a patient disposition.
Not that it's always been easy here...
Tuesday 8 January 2008
Rishikesh
We finally got out of Delhi!
Currently sat at a phenomenally fast cyber cafe on the east bank of Rishikesh. The numerous Ashrams, hippies, students, sadhu's, phsyco-astro-verdi-something healing centers, herbal shops and lack of clean trousers has made me wear the trousers I had made in Delhi. Massive, billowing brown baggy pants, matched with hiking boots (now polished to a shine), technical sweatshirt/fleece gubbins, and now long hair (for me).
God I look a prat.
Before leaving Delhi, I checked with the travel-wallah at reception:
"We get picked up by auto-rickshaw at 8.45, to go to the bus station yeah?"
He wobbles his head from side to side in typical Indian fashion: "Man will come for you, it's ok"
"It's definitely a direct, deluxe bus, from here all the way to the center of Rishikesh?" I ask, for maybe the 5th time since I booked the tickets.
"Oh yes" more head wobbling "you'll be ok, sleep all the way".
8.45 comes, Mrs Grasshopper and I are sweating and swaying under our bags at the reception. Travel-wallah waves me over- "Here's your man!"
The 13 year old boy looked up at me, then motions for us to follow. For 20 bloody minuets through the packed back-streets of Pahagunge, the young lad hops bobs and weaves, with us panting and jostling behind until we get to a back-street outside the cinema.
"Bus will pick you up here" he says.
The cinema opens it's exits, and hundreds of mainly males exit, pushing past us blatantly staring at Mrs Grasshopper. A few walk past a few times to get a really long leer in. Others then congregate next to us and just stare hard at her, powerful in their pack.
The bus comes, and we jump aboard- we stop an hour later, change buses and then settle down for our stop-start journey.
The Travel-wallah wasn't completely honest with the luxury bus bit, or any of it really- we had been on one before from Delhi to Jaipur, and this wasn't it.
The ancient sliding windows rattled in their frames like oversize versions that were on our beloved KSM jeep in Africa. The constant swerving and emergency-breaking made us dance in our seats, a warped disco-jig to the mixed din of the drivers horn, passing trucks and his incessant bollywood music, played at full volume from every speaker on the 30 year old bus. Sleep was impossible, especially after both an auto-rickshaw and a scooter collided with the side of our bus and went careering off into the dark (the driver didn't stop). But sleep didn't matter- we were just glad to get out of Delhi!
We arrived not at the bus stand, but some side street around 6am. It was still dark, and bewildered and lost for bearings, we jumped in an auto-rickshaw to go to the main bus station/town centre, for some chai and map-reading for a hotel. Two corners, 300 metres and 30 rupees later, we were at a bus station.
(Robbing B------!)
The open air bus station was quiet and pitch black, lit by occasional bus-lights, street-vendor carts and burning bomb fires, where shadowy figures gathered round for warmth. Unfortunately nearly everyone around was male.
"Muji doh chai cha he yeh?" I quietly ask the chai-wallah, aware every single one of the men in the bus station was now staring at Mrs Grasshopper. Some were doing it in the typical Indian way that I get looked at- indifferent, but also insistent. Others started moving over to us, forming groups of staring men around us. They were leering, a word I never fully appreciated until I came to India.
We took the chai and made our way to a lit-up shop front. Turned out to be a budget hotel, so we walked to stand outside and sipped our chai, glad for the light and the possibility of getting out the bus-station.
I noticed a few fellas follow us, stopping just a few feet away and just standing there, staring at Mrs Grasshopper. Dressed in traditional, conservative Salwar-Kameez, with additional thick fleece on, there was no reason to stare.
My mind went back to new year, when all the papers were outraged about a group of 70 men, who started "eve-teasing" 2 married women. The newspaper photographers then watched them attack, molest, and then forcibly strip the clothes off the two women, restraining their husbands while they done it.
Unbelievably, it's a fact that the police refuse to even record these events as a crime, as they publicly stated "This sort of thing happens all the time, it is no big deal". Even the euphamism for this sexual harassment makes it sound harmless. "Eve-teasing".
Or sexual harassment and sexual assault, depending on who you are.
I turned my back on the men, trying to watch them instead in the hotel window reflection and keep things non-confrontational. Mrs G was sat on the curb in front of me.
"Grasshopper, that man is stroking his dick through his trousers and staring at me. He's smiling" She says.
I turn around, and true enough, the men are messing about with their groins, but suddenly looking away, aware that I know.
Then they stare at me.
Then at Mrs G.
Other men are still also staring. I know if I kick off, like I would in the UK then the situation may escalate, and I start to fume, aware I can only make things worse.
We hurry into the hotel, where at the formica-topped reception table, a bloke is reading the paper.
"Namaste. Any rooms" I ask grinning like an idiot.
"Uh, no" He replies, seemingly pissed off, and gets back to his paper. On the rack behind him, I see rows of room keys below their numbers. Only a few are missing.
"Can I find another hotel then, sat there please?" I point to the stained and holed brown couch in the corner of the tiny room.
"Uh-huh"
As we sit and try and work out which of the 2 bus stations in the town we are at and where the hotel we want is, a small crowd of men gather at the hotel window. Staring. Occasionally laughing, but always staring.
A few even come into the hotel, and stand in front of us, just staring. I give them a curt nod, and get back to my book, trying to keep cool.
Plan decided, we stride out, straight into the robbing rickshaw driver who took us here. Fast negotiations, where I must have appeared every bit the pissed off bunny I was, and we were hurtling through the cold narrow and deserted streets. The sun just started to lighten the sky as the driver dropped us off at a suspension footbridge over the river Gange, insisting we have to walk now.
Now no-one in this country "seems" to have change for tourists, no matter what shop, bar or service they run and despite the 10, 20 and 50 rupee note being the most often used. As a result I never have any change.
I pass him the 500 note I have for the 150 rupee journey and explain I have no change, even showing him my empty wallet.
"No good, no good, I have no change!" He tells me, and flicks through a small slip of notes from his chest pocket to prove it. He then raises his shoulders and palms, as if indicating only one course of action. "Oh well".
"Ok, we'd better go get some then." I say, and stare across the river. I can feel him stare at me.
"There will be a chai shop somewhere- they will have change" I say, shrugging my shoulders, as if it's not a problem.
A moments pause, and he eventually huffs, bringing out a roll of 100 and 50 rupee notes. I resist making any comments as he silently gives me my correct change. We set off across the bridge to our hotel, just as daylight hits.
For us, the air is fresh again, we're in our favorite enviroment at the foot of the Himalayas, our room has hot water, and I don't care that my trousers look stupid. No more arguing with auto-rickshaw drivers, touts, trying con-men, black-bogies, over-priced rooms and hopefully less sexual harassment for my wife.
India is beautiful, once again.
Currently sat at a phenomenally fast cyber cafe on the east bank of Rishikesh. The numerous Ashrams, hippies, students, sadhu's, phsyco-astro-verdi-something healing centers, herbal shops and lack of clean trousers has made me wear the trousers I had made in Delhi. Massive, billowing brown baggy pants, matched with hiking boots (now polished to a shine), technical sweatshirt/fleece gubbins, and now long hair (for me).
God I look a prat.
Before leaving Delhi, I checked with the travel-wallah at reception:
"We get picked up by auto-rickshaw at 8.45, to go to the bus station yeah?"
He wobbles his head from side to side in typical Indian fashion: "Man will come for you, it's ok"
"It's definitely a direct, deluxe bus, from here all the way to the center of Rishikesh?" I ask, for maybe the 5th time since I booked the tickets.
"Oh yes" more head wobbling "you'll be ok, sleep all the way".
8.45 comes, Mrs Grasshopper and I are sweating and swaying under our bags at the reception. Travel-wallah waves me over- "Here's your man!"
The 13 year old boy looked up at me, then motions for us to follow. For 20 bloody minuets through the packed back-streets of Pahagunge, the young lad hops bobs and weaves, with us panting and jostling behind until we get to a back-street outside the cinema.
"Bus will pick you up here" he says.
The cinema opens it's exits, and hundreds of mainly males exit, pushing past us blatantly staring at Mrs Grasshopper. A few walk past a few times to get a really long leer in. Others then congregate next to us and just stare hard at her, powerful in their pack.
The bus comes, and we jump aboard- we stop an hour later, change buses and then settle down for our stop-start journey.
The Travel-wallah wasn't completely honest with the luxury bus bit, or any of it really- we had been on one before from Delhi to Jaipur, and this wasn't it.
The ancient sliding windows rattled in their frames like oversize versions that were on our beloved KSM jeep in Africa. The constant swerving and emergency-breaking made us dance in our seats, a warped disco-jig to the mixed din of the drivers horn, passing trucks and his incessant bollywood music, played at full volume from every speaker on the 30 year old bus. Sleep was impossible, especially after both an auto-rickshaw and a scooter collided with the side of our bus and went careering off into the dark (the driver didn't stop). But sleep didn't matter- we were just glad to get out of Delhi!
We arrived not at the bus stand, but some side street around 6am. It was still dark, and bewildered and lost for bearings, we jumped in an auto-rickshaw to go to the main bus station/town centre, for some chai and map-reading for a hotel. Two corners, 300 metres and 30 rupees later, we were at a bus station.
(Robbing B------!)
The open air bus station was quiet and pitch black, lit by occasional bus-lights, street-vendor carts and burning bomb fires, where shadowy figures gathered round for warmth. Unfortunately nearly everyone around was male.
"Muji doh chai cha he yeh?" I quietly ask the chai-wallah, aware every single one of the men in the bus station was now staring at Mrs Grasshopper. Some were doing it in the typical Indian way that I get looked at- indifferent, but also insistent. Others started moving over to us, forming groups of staring men around us. They were leering, a word I never fully appreciated until I came to India.
We took the chai and made our way to a lit-up shop front. Turned out to be a budget hotel, so we walked to stand outside and sipped our chai, glad for the light and the possibility of getting out the bus-station.
I noticed a few fellas follow us, stopping just a few feet away and just standing there, staring at Mrs Grasshopper. Dressed in traditional, conservative Salwar-Kameez, with additional thick fleece on, there was no reason to stare.
My mind went back to new year, when all the papers were outraged about a group of 70 men, who started "eve-teasing" 2 married women. The newspaper photographers then watched them attack, molest, and then forcibly strip the clothes off the two women, restraining their husbands while they done it.
Unbelievably, it's a fact that the police refuse to even record these events as a crime, as they publicly stated "This sort of thing happens all the time, it is no big deal". Even the euphamism for this sexual harassment makes it sound harmless. "Eve-teasing".
Or sexual harassment and sexual assault, depending on who you are.
I turned my back on the men, trying to watch them instead in the hotel window reflection and keep things non-confrontational. Mrs G was sat on the curb in front of me.
"Grasshopper, that man is stroking his dick through his trousers and staring at me. He's smiling" She says.
I turn around, and true enough, the men are messing about with their groins, but suddenly looking away, aware that I know.
Then they stare at me.
Then at Mrs G.
Other men are still also staring. I know if I kick off, like I would in the UK then the situation may escalate, and I start to fume, aware I can only make things worse.
We hurry into the hotel, where at the formica-topped reception table, a bloke is reading the paper.
"Namaste. Any rooms" I ask grinning like an idiot.
"Uh, no" He replies, seemingly pissed off, and gets back to his paper. On the rack behind him, I see rows of room keys below their numbers. Only a few are missing.
"Can I find another hotel then, sat there please?" I point to the stained and holed brown couch in the corner of the tiny room.
"Uh-huh"
As we sit and try and work out which of the 2 bus stations in the town we are at and where the hotel we want is, a small crowd of men gather at the hotel window. Staring. Occasionally laughing, but always staring.
A few even come into the hotel, and stand in front of us, just staring. I give them a curt nod, and get back to my book, trying to keep cool.
Plan decided, we stride out, straight into the robbing rickshaw driver who took us here. Fast negotiations, where I must have appeared every bit the pissed off bunny I was, and we were hurtling through the cold narrow and deserted streets. The sun just started to lighten the sky as the driver dropped us off at a suspension footbridge over the river Gange, insisting we have to walk now.
Now no-one in this country "seems" to have change for tourists, no matter what shop, bar or service they run and despite the 10, 20 and 50 rupee note being the most often used. As a result I never have any change.
I pass him the 500 note I have for the 150 rupee journey and explain I have no change, even showing him my empty wallet.
"No good, no good, I have no change!" He tells me, and flicks through a small slip of notes from his chest pocket to prove it. He then raises his shoulders and palms, as if indicating only one course of action. "Oh well".
"Ok, we'd better go get some then." I say, and stare across the river. I can feel him stare at me.
"There will be a chai shop somewhere- they will have change" I say, shrugging my shoulders, as if it's not a problem.
A moments pause, and he eventually huffs, bringing out a roll of 100 and 50 rupee notes. I resist making any comments as he silently gives me my correct change. We set off across the bridge to our hotel, just as daylight hits.
For us, the air is fresh again, we're in our favorite enviroment at the foot of the Himalayas, our room has hot water, and I don't care that my trousers look stupid. No more arguing with auto-rickshaw drivers, touts, trying con-men, black-bogies, over-priced rooms and hopefully less sexual harassment for my wife.
India is beautiful, once again.
Monday 7 January 2008
Leaving Delh- and the hated auto-rickshaws
....Thankfully!
We've been stranded here almost as week, as the Thai embassy (for reasons unknown) kept our passports for 4 nights, instead of the normal one night. Unable to change hotels, book flights, or trains, we just kinda hung around and seen what we can of Delhi.
We watched the Indian version of changing the guard at the presidents house, checked out things like India gate, national museum etc, and went to the Gandhi museum. That was the best thing we've seen, very interesting, informative and quite moving, as we followed the baldy-ones' last footsteps to his assassination.
The tranquility of his home was a much needed respite from Delhi, although it was a nightmare getting there, due to the extorting, lying, begging rickshaw drivers.
I've developed a deep-rooted irritation at auto-rickshaw drivers. I can understand Indians paying less than tourists for attractions (the signs at attractions often state things like: Indians- 50 rupees, foreigners-350), as Indians should be able to see their own countries attractions. No problems with that at all- it's a good thing.
But auto-rickshaw drivers, by law, have fixed rates for everyone. Yet they always charge extremely high prices (refusing to use their meter) and will often not take you to your agreed destination at all, but some other place for their commission (as I found out on our first day). They are constantly preying on the tourists ignorance, fleecing them for whatever they can get. At first it's bareable- 5 weeks in and it's really grating.
Thing is, I'm not ignorant, and I really don't have a lot of money. Just a simple 15-20 rupee journey had me arguing (they tend to shout at you if you know the price, no matter how smiley-nice you are) with 4 consecutive drivers about both price and NOT going to emporiums, before I finally managed to get one for the more reasonable 40 rupees, without the un-wanted shopping trip. One conversation went like this:
Me: Namaste! Pahaganj? How much?
Him: 150 rupees
Me: No, sorry, that's too much saab, I know the price is 15-20 rupees.
Him: Ok, I take 20.
Me: Danyiwad, your a good man.
Surprised at his honesty, Mrs Grasshopper and I slide into the rickshaw...then he blocks the door and starts:
Him: First I am going to take you to a shop...
Me: No, thank you, but no- we have to meet someone and we are late, and we do not want to go to any shops.
Him: YES YOU WILL, I take you this shop..
Me: No, we are not going to any...
Him: SILENCE!! YOU SIT THERE, STOP TALKING!! BE QUIET! LISTEN TO ME, NOW! YOU WILL GO TO THIS SHOP...
He is now pointing and shouting, his spit, stained red with masala paan, is flecking my face and he's physically blocking my exit out of the cramped rickshaw. I'm shattered, having now spent all day arguing, being fleeced, ripped off, lied to, my temper and tolerance is a little low, and his overly-aggressive, threatening behaviour is not right. I can feel the adrenalin-dump, sweat prickling out of my skin and my hands trembling slightly, like they use to occasionally at work back in England. I look at him and see he's wide-eyed, but thankfully his chin's up, being the big-man. I focus on it.
"No. Come on, lets go" I say to Mrs G.
I start to move out of the rickshaw, praying that he will move and let us go. Thankfully he backs off, spits on the floor, then turns away, maybe looking for another tourist he can bully.
Sometimes I just want rickshaw to my hotel, and money left over to eat a meal.
So today, we got our passports back, and tried to book a train to Varanasi. Unfortunately the trains were now all booked, and the flights prohibitively expensive. Instead, we're off to Rishikish by overnight bus- a welcome escape!
The Gandhi museum was excellent, but over all our experience of Delhi- being groped, spat at, having had things stolen etc has not been the best. Unfortunately we have to come back, but fortunately only for one night before our flight to Mumbai, where we will then catch a train to Goa, and our volunteer placements.
We've been stranded here almost as week, as the Thai embassy (for reasons unknown) kept our passports for 4 nights, instead of the normal one night. Unable to change hotels, book flights, or trains, we just kinda hung around and seen what we can of Delhi.
We watched the Indian version of changing the guard at the presidents house, checked out things like India gate, national museum etc, and went to the Gandhi museum. That was the best thing we've seen, very interesting, informative and quite moving, as we followed the baldy-ones' last footsteps to his assassination.
The tranquility of his home was a much needed respite from Delhi, although it was a nightmare getting there, due to the extorting, lying, begging rickshaw drivers.
I've developed a deep-rooted irritation at auto-rickshaw drivers. I can understand Indians paying less than tourists for attractions (the signs at attractions often state things like: Indians- 50 rupees, foreigners-350), as Indians should be able to see their own countries attractions. No problems with that at all- it's a good thing.
But auto-rickshaw drivers, by law, have fixed rates for everyone. Yet they always charge extremely high prices (refusing to use their meter) and will often not take you to your agreed destination at all, but some other place for their commission (as I found out on our first day). They are constantly preying on the tourists ignorance, fleecing them for whatever they can get. At first it's bareable- 5 weeks in and it's really grating.
Thing is, I'm not ignorant, and I really don't have a lot of money. Just a simple 15-20 rupee journey had me arguing (they tend to shout at you if you know the price, no matter how smiley-nice you are) with 4 consecutive drivers about both price and NOT going to emporiums, before I finally managed to get one for the more reasonable 40 rupees, without the un-wanted shopping trip. One conversation went like this:
Me: Namaste! Pahaganj? How much?
Him: 150 rupees
Me: No, sorry, that's too much saab, I know the price is 15-20 rupees.
Him: Ok, I take 20.
Me: Danyiwad, your a good man.
Surprised at his honesty, Mrs Grasshopper and I slide into the rickshaw...then he blocks the door and starts:
Him: First I am going to take you to a shop...
Me: No, thank you, but no- we have to meet someone and we are late, and we do not want to go to any shops.
Him: YES YOU WILL, I take you this shop..
Me: No, we are not going to any...
Him: SILENCE!! YOU SIT THERE, STOP TALKING!! BE QUIET! LISTEN TO ME, NOW! YOU WILL GO TO THIS SHOP...
He is now pointing and shouting, his spit, stained red with masala paan, is flecking my face and he's physically blocking my exit out of the cramped rickshaw. I'm shattered, having now spent all day arguing, being fleeced, ripped off, lied to, my temper and tolerance is a little low, and his overly-aggressive, threatening behaviour is not right. I can feel the adrenalin-dump, sweat prickling out of my skin and my hands trembling slightly, like they use to occasionally at work back in England. I look at him and see he's wide-eyed, but thankfully his chin's up, being the big-man. I focus on it.
"No. Come on, lets go" I say to Mrs G.
I start to move out of the rickshaw, praying that he will move and let us go. Thankfully he backs off, spits on the floor, then turns away, maybe looking for another tourist he can bully.
Sometimes I just want rickshaw to my hotel, and money left over to eat a meal.
So today, we got our passports back, and tried to book a train to Varanasi. Unfortunately the trains were now all booked, and the flights prohibitively expensive. Instead, we're off to Rishikish by overnight bus- a welcome escape!
The Gandhi museum was excellent, but over all our experience of Delhi- being groped, spat at, having had things stolen etc has not been the best. Unfortunately we have to come back, but fortunately only for one night before our flight to Mumbai, where we will then catch a train to Goa, and our volunteer placements.
Wednesday 2 January 2008
Thoughts running through my head
Having been travelling a short while now, I've noticed the change in how we get about, act, and see things. Street-vendors are now a safe source of sustenance, helped by our stronger stomachs having been here a while. In fact the best chia is from street vendors for around 5 rupees, and freshly cooked food is just that, only cheaper, nicer and more "authentic".
The beggars, touts and hustlers that we struggled with so much Jamaica and to a point Kenya now seem to fade into the background, with little more than a "Nahee", and occasional "Chello" for the more persistent as we make off without eye-contact.
It sounds harsh, and I do think it is.
But we are doing what we can for people while we are here, doing the work we are doing. Giving money to beggars doesn't help them, in fact with organised "professional" begging rings, it's ensuring the women and children are back there again the following day. They often don't get to keep the money themselves, or it goes on health-damaging substances, which is why we'll happily give biscuits or fruit if we have them on us, rather than cash. However, some people have cottoned on to this fact, and will ask you to buy powdered milk (usually coffee-mate) for their child, only to then re-sell it back to the shop when you've gone.
Disabled people, those suffering from leprosy and such I think do warrant spare change, as there is no other income for them. However, I read a report that children were being purposely deformed, in order to secure better begging opportunities for the parents, and themselves when older.
It's a shit world, and if we gave money to everyone that asked for it, we would have to go home now.
I find the touts can occasionally be amusing. Maybe our state of dress (Mrs G wears a Salwar-Kameez & bindi for teaching), body language, use of select hindi words etc mark us as being in-country a while, so not worth the effort for the professional tout. Instead they can banter, laughing at our use of hindi, offer trinkets for 1000s of rupees and even imitate our english accents, all in good humor.
I've found India to be bad and good. It's a cliche to say it, but it really is a country of contrast.
I love it as much as I go crazy with it.
The people are genuinely lovely, and I cannot imagine being offered into someones family home in the UK, to stay as free guests as we were by two Indian businessmen one evening. It's hard in situations like that not to feel uncomfortable, like there is an ulterior motive, but they were buying us beer all night (and refused my offer to buy one, which I think caused mild offense), and were really, genuinely, keen to tell us about Indian culture and show us pictures of their families. Those chaps really added to our awareness of Indian etiquette, customs and what is proper and polite in male and female company. I've promised to keep in touch with them and updated them on our travels.
The following week we watched scores of blokes drop their kecks and shit by the side of the railway, uncaring as to who was watching. Weeks later we watched a young indian male grope a female tourist, blatantly and without care. Another demanded sex from one of the young female volunteers, and followed her all the way back to camp pestering her. Mrs Grasshopper had her backside groped today while in an office lobby, the bloke making off before I could grab and drop him. It isn't just western women who get this though- it's called "Eve-teasing", and is a serious problem for any female.
Being married is uber-cool here, with children even more so. Respectability is everything, and at the same time there is often no respect for things us westerners would assume naturally.
I don't think I'll ever "get" India. Just go with the flow....
The beggars, touts and hustlers that we struggled with so much Jamaica and to a point Kenya now seem to fade into the background, with little more than a "Nahee", and occasional "Chello" for the more persistent as we make off without eye-contact.
It sounds harsh, and I do think it is.
But we are doing what we can for people while we are here, doing the work we are doing. Giving money to beggars doesn't help them, in fact with organised "professional" begging rings, it's ensuring the women and children are back there again the following day. They often don't get to keep the money themselves, or it goes on health-damaging substances, which is why we'll happily give biscuits or fruit if we have them on us, rather than cash. However, some people have cottoned on to this fact, and will ask you to buy powdered milk (usually coffee-mate) for their child, only to then re-sell it back to the shop when you've gone.
Disabled people, those suffering from leprosy and such I think do warrant spare change, as there is no other income for them. However, I read a report that children were being purposely deformed, in order to secure better begging opportunities for the parents, and themselves when older.
It's a shit world, and if we gave money to everyone that asked for it, we would have to go home now.
I find the touts can occasionally be amusing. Maybe our state of dress (Mrs G wears a Salwar-Kameez & bindi for teaching), body language, use of select hindi words etc mark us as being in-country a while, so not worth the effort for the professional tout. Instead they can banter, laughing at our use of hindi, offer trinkets for 1000s of rupees and even imitate our english accents, all in good humor.
I've found India to be bad and good. It's a cliche to say it, but it really is a country of contrast.
I love it as much as I go crazy with it.
The people are genuinely lovely, and I cannot imagine being offered into someones family home in the UK, to stay as free guests as we were by two Indian businessmen one evening. It's hard in situations like that not to feel uncomfortable, like there is an ulterior motive, but they were buying us beer all night (and refused my offer to buy one, which I think caused mild offense), and were really, genuinely, keen to tell us about Indian culture and show us pictures of their families. Those chaps really added to our awareness of Indian etiquette, customs and what is proper and polite in male and female company. I've promised to keep in touch with them and updated them on our travels.
The following week we watched scores of blokes drop their kecks and shit by the side of the railway, uncaring as to who was watching. Weeks later we watched a young indian male grope a female tourist, blatantly and without care. Another demanded sex from one of the young female volunteers, and followed her all the way back to camp pestering her. Mrs Grasshopper had her backside groped today while in an office lobby, the bloke making off before I could grab and drop him. It isn't just western women who get this though- it's called "Eve-teasing", and is a serious problem for any female.
Being married is uber-cool here, with children even more so. Respectability is everything, and at the same time there is often no respect for things us westerners would assume naturally.
I don't think I'll ever "get" India. Just go with the flow....
Happy New Year!
Having arranged to arrive back in Delhi by 8pm after our Agra trip, we had planned to go to the interestingly named Gaylord Restaurant and Bar for our new year celebrations.
We forgot the Indian railways punctuality is only marginally better than the Uk's! (Giving credit for the sheer vastness of India of course)
Mrs G and I, in company with the four other volunteers who had also finished work-placements got into our hotel exactly ten minutes to midnight. We charged up to our rooms throwing our passports at reception, whirling past the too-slow porters in the process, got bags open, found whiskey, glasses and hotel room-service menus and then all jumped into one room, just in time to count down the last 10 seconds of 2007, in time with televised Delhi celebrations. When the cheer went up, Niels, a young lad from Denmark lept off the bed as per to his home traditions, and we all hugged each other passing best wishes, as fireworks went off outside our window, and the TV blared some funky Bollywood hits. We then ordered possibly the best (and hottest) curry we've had in India so far, chugging whiskey and colas for an hour before collapsing into much-needed sleep.
The following morning we all said our goodbyes (except for Bethany, who is still floating about with us, joining us for a really nice new years meal last night. From which she is still recovering, bless her).
We then got a hotel in the shitty back-packer hole that is Pahaganj, a kilometer or so from gleaming Connaught Place, with it's much-needed Amex and tourist offices, and not too far from the Thai embassy. We're here now just to sort out our replacement travellers cheques (a full month after they went walkabout, useless Gaands), check out times and prices for a trip to Varanasi, and the practicalities of a flying trip to Nepal before we start work again in Goa.
The past weeks, having no work available, was spent chilling out in Mcleod again. We visited the Tibetan museum, a sobering experience which has still not left us. We also just walked, finding real tranquility St. John's in the Wilderness church. With its grass so much like that in the uk, and it's British graves, sunlight dappling them through the tall pines, and it's silence, India seemed a million miles away, with it's endless cars, horns, cows in the road, kids on the streets, deprivation, poverty, and pollution.
After our rest in Mcleod Ganj we travelled to Delhi by overnight train (which are starting to grow on me, despite the cabbage small and constant barrage of trinket/chai/biriyani-sellers), then a further 3 hours to Agra where we stayed overnight.
Our hotel in Agra was amazing compared to the budget hotels we had been in so far, which although spotlessly clean were always freezing cold (marble floors, no heaters, mountain temperatures). The food there was good too, with a fantastic spicy Indian breakfast of curried potatoes, puri and super-hot lime pickle, washed down with fresh papaya juice.
After breakfast we went to the Taj Mahal, which is without doubt, the most amazing building I've ever seen. Going inside is not so nice- the no-shoes policy creates a stink. Really.
We also seen the Red Fort (also hugely impressive), and the marble factory, where we were shown how the precious and semi-precious stones were inlaid into the marble of the Taj' to create the fantastic pictures of birds and flowers. We then "no, no, no-ed" our way out of the shop, which just happened to be the exit of the factory. Even if we liked the solid-marble coffee table, I would need another rucksack for my socks...
After Agra, on new years eve, we made our late trip to Delhi, getting to Agra station in plenty of time before our train. There we waiting for hours reading, playing cards, and watching the railway children ply their trade. Occasionally they disappeared, slapped off the platform by the police, or renewing their handkerchief-wrapped glue which they'd sniff deeply and regularly.
From Agra, to Delhi, to Jaipur, and Palumpur, few things change.
We forgot the Indian railways punctuality is only marginally better than the Uk's! (Giving credit for the sheer vastness of India of course)
Mrs G and I, in company with the four other volunteers who had also finished work-placements got into our hotel exactly ten minutes to midnight. We charged up to our rooms throwing our passports at reception, whirling past the too-slow porters in the process, got bags open, found whiskey, glasses and hotel room-service menus and then all jumped into one room, just in time to count down the last 10 seconds of 2007, in time with televised Delhi celebrations. When the cheer went up, Niels, a young lad from Denmark lept off the bed as per to his home traditions, and we all hugged each other passing best wishes, as fireworks went off outside our window, and the TV blared some funky Bollywood hits. We then ordered possibly the best (and hottest) curry we've had in India so far, chugging whiskey and colas for an hour before collapsing into much-needed sleep.
The following morning we all said our goodbyes (except for Bethany, who is still floating about with us, joining us for a really nice new years meal last night. From which she is still recovering, bless her).
We then got a hotel in the shitty back-packer hole that is Pahaganj, a kilometer or so from gleaming Connaught Place, with it's much-needed Amex and tourist offices, and not too far from the Thai embassy. We're here now just to sort out our replacement travellers cheques (a full month after they went walkabout, useless Gaands), check out times and prices for a trip to Varanasi, and the practicalities of a flying trip to Nepal before we start work again in Goa.
The past weeks, having no work available, was spent chilling out in Mcleod again. We visited the Tibetan museum, a sobering experience which has still not left us. We also just walked, finding real tranquility St. John's in the Wilderness church. With its grass so much like that in the uk, and it's British graves, sunlight dappling them through the tall pines, and it's silence, India seemed a million miles away, with it's endless cars, horns, cows in the road, kids on the streets, deprivation, poverty, and pollution.
After our rest in Mcleod Ganj we travelled to Delhi by overnight train (which are starting to grow on me, despite the cabbage small and constant barrage of trinket/chai/biriyani-sellers), then a further 3 hours to Agra where we stayed overnight.
Our hotel in Agra was amazing compared to the budget hotels we had been in so far, which although spotlessly clean were always freezing cold (marble floors, no heaters, mountain temperatures). The food there was good too, with a fantastic spicy Indian breakfast of curried potatoes, puri and super-hot lime pickle, washed down with fresh papaya juice.
After breakfast we went to the Taj Mahal, which is without doubt, the most amazing building I've ever seen. Going inside is not so nice- the no-shoes policy creates a stink. Really.
We also seen the Red Fort (also hugely impressive), and the marble factory, where we were shown how the precious and semi-precious stones were inlaid into the marble of the Taj' to create the fantastic pictures of birds and flowers. We then "no, no, no-ed" our way out of the shop, which just happened to be the exit of the factory. Even if we liked the solid-marble coffee table, I would need another rucksack for my socks...
After Agra, on new years eve, we made our late trip to Delhi, getting to Agra station in plenty of time before our train. There we waiting for hours reading, playing cards, and watching the railway children ply their trade. Occasionally they disappeared, slapped off the platform by the police, or renewing their handkerchief-wrapped glue which they'd sniff deeply and regularly.
From Agra, to Delhi, to Jaipur, and Palumpur, few things change.
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