CHAPTER FOURTEEN - HORRORVILLE! We headed inland. It was a gentle uphill gradient and the old rickshaw was labouring badly. We stopped briefly to pick up the wing mirror that had shaken itself free and bounced off into the undergrowth. A further couple of miles brought us to a busy crossroads and beyond that the scenery changed drastically. We had previously encountered well-tended gardens, as in
the Taj Retreat at Madurai, but this was in a league of its
own. As we looked around we wondered if we were still in India. We could catch the occasional glimpse of really fabulous houses tucked away in the trees or behind high walls. If it hadn’t been for the saris, the carts and the bullocks we might have thought we were in Beverly Hills. The farther we progressed into the greenery, the more deserted it became. It was very strange and a little unsettling. The rickshaw driver appeared as lost as we felt, and eventually, he stopped at a small gate. A dusty path on the other side led down to a large very 21st century European building. Where the hell were we? It was all very eerie. I volunteered to check the place out. The building was made up of a number of apartments each with
its own balcony. It did not look like somewhere that would
have rooms for rent. I saw a tall blonde girl and walked over
to her. I asked if there was a caretaker or a porter or someone
who could help me with accommodation. She sounded Scandinavian
by her accent, and she said that she did not know who managed
the apartments or if there were any free. I thanked her and
as I walked away she said: "I just came out to look at
the flowers, they are so beautiful aren’t they?" I went back to the rickshaw and just said: "Hopeless." Another 15 minutes brought us to a deserted car park and
more modern buildings set among formal gardens. A large sign
outside said Auroville Information Centre. Back to the rickshaw and a quick summary of events to Brian
and we headed off. I directed the driver along tiny leafy
tracks and lanes that none of us believed were taking us anywhere.
It was a nightmare. I really was beginning to feel like Mary and Joseph. I went
to the door of the house, knocked, and peeped in at the windows.
It was gorgeous inside, like a colour plate for Homes and
Gardens. A white woman stuck her head out of an upstairs window
and told me to wait a moment. When she appeared at the front
door I expected her to say "Good evening. My name is
Jean Brodie." I explained that we were looking for a room and I was told
in a no- nonsense manner that we would be expected to stay
for a minimum of three days. Breakfast was included but it
was D.I.Y. and the facilities were in a small open-sided shed
in the garden. Ms. Brodie and I crossed over to the cottage, which was
one very large room inside. By using 6ft high thin partitions,
it had been split into three, leaving a communal roof space.
Fortunately there was no one else staying there, so at least
it would be more private and it did have a door. There were
mozzy nets, two small single beds, and a light bulb. It looked
clean and anyway, what was the alternative? It was almost dark when we paid off the driver and I introduced
Brian to his des.res. in the jungle, after which I returned
to Ms. Brodie and bravely dared to knock on her door once
more. We unpacked as far as our toiletries and headed towards
the showers which were about 100 mtrs away through the trees.
The washing facilities and toilets were housed in an open-air
block of large cubicles enclosed by a very Seventies gently
curving concrete wall. Inside the cubicles were a toilet,
a sink and a shower. Feeling at least cleaner, we changed and made our way farther
along the dark garden to the bicycle pound where we fumbled
around with the torch and managed to find the bikes with the
locks that fitted the keys we had been given. It was like
the Krypton Factor. There was a time, I now came to realise, when feelings of
misery and desperation turn to anger and dogged determination.
We would find this place. We would not be beaten. Hidden among trees and thick undergrowth we found yet another
well appointed building. Not even the lights in the garden
had pierced the surrounding darkness. Sitting on a very ornate
statue filled patio were seven or eight couples and as many
children. Our arrival was greeted by as much cordiality as
a bee up your nose. I pushed my way into the queue without apology. They were
all so ignorant that I thought I might as well upset them
and give them some thing to be rude about. I stood like Oliver
Twist, with my two plates extended to Eva and Herr Himmler,
on the other side of the serving hatch. We ate, paid up, and left, leaving the happy people chatting
and laughing over their glasses of water as if they were bottles
of wine. Their joviality seemed fake and forced. As soon as
we left they probably went back to the real reason for their
gathering: conducting experiments on live humans or performing
some satanic ritual. The cottage looked so quaint with its low white walls and
thatched roof. Outside the door was a large slice of tree
trunk which made a very low level table; it was about 2ftoff
the ground. It looked very arty in the daylight but it didn’t
feel so good when it connected with my shins as I walked into
it in the dark. There was a host of wild life scratching about in the thatch
which was only a few feet overhead, and I was not at all happy
with the overly large spider that emerged from under the bed.
I knew that everything sharing the room with us was probably
more scared of me than I was of it, but my rationality had
departed when I opened the door. We both spent the night in
one single bed that was no more than 3ft wide and 5ft long.
How it didn’t collapse I shall never know, but I had
no intention of sleeping alone. Auroville was the brainchild of The Mother and was designed
by a French architect. It was conceived as 'an experiment
in international living where men and women could live in
peace and progressive harmony with each other above all creeds,
politics and nationalities'. For a time after Auroville’s opening in 1968 idealism ran high and the project attracted many foreigners, particularly from France, Germany, Britain, The Netherlands and Mexico. Construction of living quarters, schools and an enormous meditation hall known as the Mantrimandir began, and dams, reforestation, orchards and other agricultural projects were started. The amount of time and effort invested in Auroville in those early days and since was obvious and the idealism with which the place began was tangible. The Mother who was the undisputed spiritual head of the
Sri Aurobindo Society and Auroville died in 1973 at the age
of 97, and with her death came a power struggle between the
society and the Aurovillians for control of Auroville. On
two occasions violence led to police intervention. Though the Aurovillians retain the sympathy of the Pondicherry
administration, the odds were stacked against them. All funds
for the project were channelled through the society, which
had the benefit of powerful friends in the Indian government.
In a demonstration of their power over Auroville they withheld
funds and construction work came to a halt. So there we had it. A community that was conceived for all the right reasons and with good intentions but one, which had turned on itself and was now riddled with contradictions. Each little community was protecting itself, and some of the people who had been there from the onset had done very well for themselves. I was not aware of much equality and understanding as I watched Jean Brodie order her young Indian gardeners about. On the face of things Auroville looked affluent and peaceful but underneath it was full of beaurocracy and greed, just like the real world. At dawn the next morning I thought I would be the first
to the shower block, but I had to join three Indians who were
there before me. These young men inhabited a tree house in
the garden in exchange for working in the grounds. Lucky old
me; I had a dawn chorus of hawking and spitting from the adjoining
cubicles. Two men and a girl and a lone girl emerged from the two-storey
building at different intervals. The threesome didn’t
even acknowledge our presence and breakfasted on cigarettes
and coffee. Needless to say they were French. The girl on
her own had one slice of toast, smiled weakly and went off
to sit by herself. She turned out to be Spanish. Well, weren’t
we the happy family. The next morning before setting off on the bicycles to check
out the beach, I stripped all the bedding off the beds and
took it to the washing lines set out near the bike store.
I had some very strange looks from the cleaning lady; perhaps
she thought we had a communal bed-wetting session. I was hoping
the sunshine would air everything and get rid of the horrible
mouldy smell. We stopped at a telephone office and I rang the Chentoor
in Madurai. It would have been cheaper to phone England. Ripped
off again. I gave the hotel the address of the guesthouse
and they agreed to send a refund of my deposit immediately. We crossed the main Chennai road and headed further down
through the village and came to a gate with a guard sitting
half asleep beside it. At about three o’clock each day the Aurovillians would
come down to the beach after they had finished work. They
would sit and do yoga or swim and dance about in the water
in the most affected manner possible. We bought a small mountain of food in the village and cycled
back unsteadily, balancing everything precariously on the
handlebars. I took to the kitchen and whipped up a feast - quite an achievement
as I was constantly flicking away an army of ants off our
pineapple and mozzies off my sweating body. This was part of another ultra modern building, which housed
catering facilities for training purposes and also a computer
and e-mail centre with state of the art technology. Titsiana’s
friend was lovely, a very attractive and friendly Italian.
We explained that we were looking for something between the
centre of Auroville and the beach, somewhere with a bathroom
attached and ideally self-catering facilities. She came up
with two options and we pedalled off post haste to check them
out. Bruno, the commune’s answer to Jean Brodie, seemed
to have disappeared, and two scrawny Indian girls, a couple
of children and a male midget surrounded us. They clustered
around, pulling at our clothing as if we were on the menu
for the next meal. The next port of call was Protection where we had to call
into the dental surgery to collect the receptionist who had
the key to the next possibility - a settlement called Djaima. Djaima must have been a dream 20 years ago. In the centre
of the small settlement was a fabulous house, designed on
a Japanese theme. It was low level and all the walls comprised
sliding screens with tiny frosted glass panels. To the front
was a large pond with water lilies floating in the middle.
We were shown to a studio flat at ground level. It had a
patio with a bamboo table and two chairs. This was the dining
room. Feeling much happier we cycled to the beach to read and
study the Tarot cards. We had almost mastered the Major Arcana,
which had 26 cards, but I doubted we would manage the remaining
40 something if we stayed in India a year. I had another miserable night’s sleep and was happy
to be up early and packing our bags. Even after such a short
stay, our clothes smelt musty and damp. We had booked a car
to pick us up at 9 a.m. but by It was evident that a cleaner had been into the room as
the patio had been swept and there was now a rush mat on the
floor inside. In the kitchen was a giant pongola pot which held almost
2 gallons of water. I put it on the stove, filled it, boiled
it and had Brian pour the steaming water into a big plastic
bucket. During the night I went to the toilet and found a cockroach
crawling across the floor. It had come from the direction
of a piece of wood covering the drain under the sink. I woke
Brian up to get rid of it, and then lay moaning about all
the things scuttling about the room. Brian told me to shut
up and go to sleep. He said there wasn’t anything crawling
about anywhere now. Although the days in Auroville were pleasant enough I hated
the nights and did not sleep properly. Brian on the other
hand, was eating well, sleeping well and not concerned about
inhaling toxic fumes from a room filled with poisons. Twice a week there was a bus that took Aurovillians and visitors
into Pondicherry and we jumped aboard one day and had a tour
of the town. The final straw for me, apart from an additional invasion
of black ants that had moved in to patrol the doorway to the
patio, came when we lay on the beach and the self-appointed
Mother Earth from the beach settlement came over and told
me to wear a bigger swimsuit. She was one of the loonies that
bowed and prayed to the sea each day before swimming in it.
I was just exasperated but Brian went bonkers and spent all
day pointing out women who were wearing less, or who ought
to wear more.
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