The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ESCAPE TO MAMALLAWOTSIT.
(Printable
version here)
Some called it Mamallapuram, some called it Mahabalipuram,
I called it sanctuary.
We fairly flew out of Pondi and back along the very road we
had driven in on some twenty minutes previously passing the
main road leading into Auroville. Goodbye you strange people
with your weird institution.
A number of travellers we had spoken to had been quite disparaging
about Mamallapuram, Dot and Titsiana among them. We had the
impression from others that it was commercialised and a place
where many of them bought goods from the Kasmiri shopkeepers
to take home and sell. We knew from the guidebook that it
was full of very old temples and a school of sculpture.
Of course it was nothing like we had imagined. It was different
and better, but as I got off the bus I really didn’t
care. I had been reborn.
We alighted in a stinking fish market; noise, bustle, litter
and ramshackle buildings. This was more like it. Back to India!
I had really struggled with my emotional response to Auroville.
It made me feel miserable, oppressed and generally uncomfortable.
Now that I have written about it, I realise that somehow I
was picking up the under currents of tension, mistrust and
anxiety that pervaded the entire settlement. It really must
have been an amazing project in the early days before it turned
sour, but I was pleased to be away from there.
Across the road from the bus drop-off was the good old tourist
information office. It looked shady and comfortable and so,
despite the attendant’s look of disapproval, I left
Brian and the luggage with him, purchased a town map, re-crossed
the road to a bicycle hire shop and started pedalling. I was
looking for somewhere NICE.
I cycled along the wide coastal road towards Chennai as Madras
is now called. There were at least five hotels marked on my
map but I gave the first one, The Ashok a wide berth. I knew
from experience it would probably be tatty and expensive.
In all, I pedalled 5 km and looked at three possibilities.
They were all far too expensive for us and not one merited
the price. They had very un-Indian names: Silversands, Golden
Sun Beach Resort and Ideal Beach Resort. They sounded like
Spain and looked like Skegness.
I didn’t mind. Although it was hot, there was a nice
breeze as I pedalled along. I was thoroughly enjoying myself,
especially the looks I was getting from the condescending
receptionists as I pulled up on my bike which was shiny and
new but not really suitable for anyone over 12. Their hotels
were empty and tatty and I was going to find somewhere much
better.
Back in the town I cycled straight past the tourist information
office and turned down one of the side streets heading towards
the sea.
Along my route I had been amused to see at least four very
large metal signs atop 6ft poles, warning travellers to beware
of touts offering accommodation and scams led by rickshaw
drivers. These signs were sponsored by The Lonely Planet guidebook
and indicated as much at the foot of the signs.
I was surprised that the people who were the subject of these
warnings hadn’t pulled them down.
No one was bothering me on my trusty bike. I was pedalling
speedily along, not a clue where I was going, but I felt perfectly
at home. The road was quite short and started to deteriorate
into the type of area that was not where I would be looking
for a room, so I took a sharp right and could see by the signs
displayed on the front of the buildings that I could begin
my search here.
Straight ahead was a very impressive gateway. Carved stone
gateposts, at least 20ft high, marked the entrance to a hotel
called The Sea Breeze. Having come to recognise the Indian
talent for grandeur as far as the doorstep, I thought this
magnificent threshold might be the opening to accommodation
made of cardboard.
Happily I was wrong. I decided to head straight for the big
one and pedalled full speed ahead to reception.
Not only did this hotel have a beautifully appointed swimming
pool but the rooms were clean and new with bathrooms and very
reasonably priced.
The gardens were in their early days and there was building
work still in progress, which accounted for the fact that
there wasn’t actually any water in the swimming pool.
But there would be, wouldn’t there?
"Of course there will be," said the manager and
the manager’s brother and the manager’s father
and that was good enough for me.
I secured a room with a balcony and a view of the empty pool,
and I explained that I would now fetch my husband. The management
insisted that they take me in their brand new jeep.
At the Tourist Information office I saw Brian leaning on
the gatepost. He didn’t bat an eyelid at the sleek transport.
He just said: "You were a bloody long time! Urghhh! Your
shirt’s wet through!"
I bashed him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
In no time at all we were in our room, washed, unpacked, and
ready to go.
Mamallapuram was a small place. The main street had one
big hotel, the Mamalla Bhavan, which had a great restaurant.
It also had an annex at the bus station, which was very basic
and served traditional food. This was the place Brian favoured
for breakfast and lunch as they made good dosas and the thalis
were very large. It was perhaps his preoccupation with the
latter that caused one of the vendors on the beach to compliment
me on the nice fat husband that I had!
The main thoroughfare was home to countless Kashmiri shop
owners. I am sure that their shops were full of interesting
things and it would have been an excellent respite from the
beach to look around those Aladdin’s caves, but the
owners were all award-winning scholars from the school of
the hard sell. Even a response to a simple "Good morning"
was taken as an indication of our intention to buy.
When we explained that we wouldn’t be buying anything
they still went through the same procedure each day. It was
intensely annoying and running the gauntlet with 20 or so
of these men each morning before breakfast was very wearing.
I hated to be so discourteous but the only solution was to
ignore them. Behaving so rudely so early in the day hardly
put us in the right frame of mind for the rest of it. The
only time we could escape them was when we pedalled past.
It was possible to walk around Mamallapuram in 40 minutes
and that is what we did on that first day, just to find our
bearings. We also wanted to have a look at the beach.
We walked back to Sea Breeze to collect our swimmies and then
walked through the hotel grounds to the beach. To our right,
on a small headland, an ornate monument looked out over the
sea, and to our left, the beach stretched as far as the eye
could see. In front of us was a very unpleasant algae covered
lagoon and beyond that were rows of fishing boats and nets.
We made our way around the lagoon and across to the boats.
In front of the boats the sand fell away sharply and we could
see that this was the local toilet as described in the guidebook
and by Titsiana. Unfortunately we had chosen to walk here
before the tide had performed a lavatory flush.
Once past the boats, the beach was cleaner. It was still
quite difficult to find a nice spot, as there were areas of
rubbish and the sea brought in unwanted debris.
The waves looked big and inviting but I was not happy about
Brian throwing himself about in them. I was quite sure that
the sea was highly polluted. Chennai was only 50kms away and
had a population of 6 million. That is a lot of bottoms, and
whatever they disposed of I am sure would be pumped into the
Bay of Bengal, so this was hardly the place to get the odd
mouthful of sea water.
The next day we hired an additional bicycle for Brian, but
after two days we had pedalled as far as possible in one direction
and as far as was reasonable in the other. We returned the
bikes and then rented them as and when necessary.
The small roads were relatively safe: we needed only to avoid
the very occasional car and some rickshaws. The biggest dangers
were from other bicycles, mopeds, motorbikes, and wandering
cows.
The main arterial road was a different matter. We were faced
with buses, cars and lorries playing chicken with each other.
It seemed a senseless risk for us so once we had cycled out
to Tiger Cave and a couple of the surrounding villages we
steered clear of that route.
On the way to Tiger Cave we passed the School of Sculpture
and this was our first opportunity see and hear the local
sculptors at work.
Stone carving is a living craft in Mamallapuram and it has
revived the ancient art of the Pallava stonemasons and sculptors.
We discovered that the yards here had contracts to supply
images of the gods and restoration pieces to temples throughout
India and Sri Lanka, and some exported pieces to Europe.
The work we saw was terrific and varied. There were really
big pieces, some life size, and one of the yards had a small
herd of life-size elephants carved in granite.
The every-day sounds of the area were accompanied by the constant
tap, tapping of the chisels on the stone.
Tiger Cave was really a huge rock with a concave surface
on one side that had been carved with tiger heads. It was
cleverly done and worth the cycle ride. As we were leaving
two large air-conditioned buses of European and Japanese sightseers
turned up. So far we hadn’t seen anything like that
in India and we regarded them and their vehicle with possibly
more interest than we had the cave. These people must have
come from Chennai and we assumed that it must be very civilised
there if it was offering tourist trips with such transport.
We cycled on and I suggested that we turn off the road and
head for a fishing village a few hundred yards away. As we
were about to continue we were yelled at by three or four
Indians who were waiting at a bus stop. It seemed that they
did not want us to go to the village and kept shouting: “No
beach, no beach!”
We weren’t looking for a beach, so we ignored them and
carried on.
It was a traditional fishing village with thatched huts. Women
were sitting in their doorways preparing food while children
sat in their laps or played close by. The men were sitting
about in the shade playing cards. Our appearance caused quite
a stir with the children, and within seconds we were being
chased.
As the track disappeared into the sand we stopped, and were
surrounded. The children were laughing and shouting and were
soon joined by their mothers and some of the men. The only
thing we could understand from all the commotion was “photo.”
They all wanted their photo taken in addition to looking at
our watches and ringing the bells on the bikes.
We tried in vain to line everyone up, for a group picture.
Everyone wanted to be at the front, which meant I had to keep
stepping farther and farther back as they moved forward. Brian
tried to restrain them but there were too many. A couple of
the older boys realised what we were trying to do and decided
to help by dealing out resounding clouts to the smaller children
which was rather upsetting and didn’t make much difference
anyway.
Eventually I managed to take a picture of about half the moving
mob and we then had to go through an elaborate process of
deciding who the print should be sent to. This involved more
punching and thumping in the crowd, but we were able to get
an address.
I did later send the picture to the village but I had visions
of it being ripped to shreds, if it ever arrived, by all the
villagers wanting to look at it at the same time.
Back in Mamallapuram we had discovered not one but two German
bakeries, both of which were staffed by Nepalese waiters and
cooks. Both bakeries doubled up as restaurants and had roof
top locations. Only one of them had a German in charge and
neither did their own baking. One morning, quite early, we
were cycling around the back lanes out in the field villages,
and found two of the Nepalese boys loitering outside a house.
In answer to our quizzical looks they nodded and pointed towards
a high gate and said ‘bakery,’ so now we knew
their secret. Whoever baked the bread and cakes was very good.
We used both 'bakeries' for afternoon tea, which meant tea
for me and rice pudding for Brian.
As I was cycling out of Sea Breeze on one occasion I tried
to run over a white man who was walking with his wife. It
wasn’t a serious attempt on his life; just a bit of
fun. He would step one way to avoid me and I went the same
way. He would take the other direction and I would do the
same thing, and so on. They were English and we had a laugh
about it and cycled on.
After that we saw them most day, smiled and said hello. We
would see them in the bakery too and they always seemed to
have company. We decided that he was probably ex R.A.F. He
was in his late forties or early fifties, slightly balding
and very well spoken. She was blond and petite, definitely
the Officers Wife. We were completely wrong about both of
them.
One day we struck up a conversation and we discovered that
they were called Pammy and Robin.
Robin had been the senior sales director for Estee Lauder
or some other mega cosmetic company and Pam had been involved
in a similar line of business when they met. Both had previous
marriages and children. Robin’s ex was French, so he
was fluent in that language. He was indeed in his early fifties
but Pam was in her early sixties.
They had decided, pretty much as we had, that there was more
to life than working like maniacs, making money but never
having time to spend it. We all agreed that the negative side
of down-sizing was having all the time and none of the money.
Again like us they had bought a smaller property to call home,
owned another which they rented out, and had investments to
keep them afloat. They had wanted to travel the world at their
own pace while they still had good health, and we all shared
a dislike of the British winter.
We spent a couple of interesting afternoons talking to them
about their journeys in and around India and other parts of
the world, and we were sad when they moved on.
Pam and Robin were among the growing number of westerners
living on the same street as the Sea Breeze who found it highly
amusing that when the swimming pool was filled the water was
a filthy murky brown. They would peep around the gates and
shout across to us: “Is the pool still brown? - and
laugh their heads off.
The manager and his family seemed positive that the array
of pumps now placed around the pool would clean it. And did
they! After three days the water was cool and clear and it
was one of the nicest swimming pools I have ever had the good
fortune to sit around. There were sun loungers around the
edges and one day foam mattresses appeared. The fact that
the plastic covering, when exposed to the sunlight for more
than five minutes, caused first degree burns to our bodies,
even through our towels was irrelevant. They looked the part.
The manager really had the right ideas; it was a shame that
we witnessed his own countrymen letting him down.
Mamallapuram attracted many Indian tourists, holidaymakers
and school trips; people arrived in a battered assortment
of vans and buses.
On the first Saturday after the opening of the pool we were
happily lounging beside it when a reasonably smart coach arrived.
Well-dressed Indians of all ages alighted and we each opened
one eye to watch the proceedings.
A young boy climbed on to the roof of the bus and struggled
to pull back an enormous tarpaulin which was covering the
luggage.
There was a mountain of the stuff piled three and four pieces
high, and in addition there were several giant-size cooking
pots. Down came the baggage and the pots, and from somewhere
appeared three spindly, untidy, dirty characters who took
charge of the cooking pots.
They spirited pots and dishes into a large half-built shed
quite close to the pool and began preparing food.
Virtually all the bus passengers clustered along the steps
leading to the pool and I think they were dying to come and
have a look but the sight of us lying there semi naked was
putting them off.
The women eventually went off to their rooms and some of the
old men and boys made their way to the pool where they stood
looking at the water and at us as if we had arrived from planet
Zod.
We sat tight awaiting further developments. Before long, some
of the older boys took to the sun loungers and were happily
pulling at the new covers. Other men appeared with pop and
snacks and before long there was litter all over the place.
Signs in English and Hindi asked residents not to eat or drink
around the pool and to use the showers before entering the
water. The new arrivals ignored all this and within an hour
men were jumping into the water fully clothed.
Swimming wasn’t something that Indians seemed to be
fond of and none of the men that we watched could swim. However,
what they lacked in aquatic skill they made up for in noise
and screamed like a class full of schoolgirls.
Watching became tedious so we left, and on the way to our
room we saw that an impossible number of beds had been crammed
into many of the rooms. The entire cargo of passengers had
been accommodated in half a dozen rooms. In India it is the
room that is paid for the number of occupants is not the issue,
unless you are white.
That evening we ate at the hotel. The food was reasonable
and there was a good vegetarian selection. The restaurant
wasn’t crowded despite the influx of guests, as they
were all eating in the shed or sitting in the road outside
reception. As we ate we were treated to the sight of women
in the coach party making their way to the pool and then wading
into it still in their saris. I couldn’t imagine the
state of the rooms with yards and yards of wet fabric hanging
all over the place.
The poor manager; in the morning his pool was full of sand
and grit which had to be hoovered out and there was litter
from the previous night’s meal strewn about his immaculate
garden.
We decided to visit the shore temple and on our way we stopped
at Brian’s barber. We still had our bikes, so while
he was being beautified I pedalled on a little farther. I
parked up and went into a large Government handicraft shop
filled with old glass wall cabinets and glass counters displaying
small carvings, bronzes and marquetry.
The handicrafts looked as old as the cabinets and I would
have dated them at the early 1900’s. Everything looked
dusty including the staff who sat behind the counters staring
in to space. I had a good nose about and in a back room found
numerous old woodcarvings that had a very attractive quality.
Before I knew it I had been ushered outside into a shady yard
where the stonemasons were at work. Some of the pieces being
carved were exceptional in their detail and size; several
pieces were more than 6ft high and twice as wide.
Most of the gods were represented: Shiva, Durga the snake
goddess, Ganesh [we liked him; he was the ‘sweetie’
god and many pictures depicted him with offerings of sweets
and cake], and Hanuman [he was the monkey god and we liked
him too]. There they all were, every shape and size.
I was introduced to the manager, an elderly Indian who spoke
good English. He tried his hardest to talk me into buying
a stone carving which, I explained, would present me with
extreme difficulties in the transportation department. He
assured me that as a government shop they would deal with
all matters of transportation.
I casually asked if he also dealt in the coir matting that
we had seen in Trivandrum and he answered that although it
was a speciality of another state it was possible for him
to sell it.
I was quite interested in this news. We had looked at the
matting previously and a similar quality at home would have
been very expensive. In India it was about 90p per metre.
I told the manager that I would call back with my husband.
I collected Brian from the barber and he told me that his
new pal, the barber, had told him that he looked like a Tamil
Nadu actress. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.
He has got beautifully curly long blond hair but then his
whole body is covered in curly blond hair and he has a very
big moustache, which is now also curly since he has been visiting
Indian barbers. He is 6ft 5ins tall with feet to match. Actor
or actress, I couldn’t imagine any Indian looking like
that. With eyesight like the barber evidently had, I would
have seriously reconsidered allowing the man to shave me with
a cut-throat razor.
The road leading down to the Shore Temple was lined with
stalls selling all types of tourist paraphernalia. There were
ornaments, door hangings and mirrors made of seashells, small
carvings in soapstone, bangles and beads, watermelon, bananas,
coconuts and large pieces of jaggery. We looked at sandals
made of what looked like petrified leather. They were so unyielding
they would have cut our feet to ribbons within three paces.
The temple was surrounded by metal railings and we paid our
entrance fee at a small wooden shed manned by two uniformed
guards.
The temple was more of a shrine and it looked as if it had
been carved out of a big lump of sand stone. We approached
it through a paved forecourt and along the perimeter walls
we could just make out carvings of bulls and mythical gods;
these had been worn away by the sea winds over hundreds of
years.
The temple had been built in the late 7th Century. It was
amazing to touch the same walls and stone that people had
worked with so many hundreds of years ago.
The temple represented the final phase of Pallava art and
because of its significance it was given a World Heritage
listing some years ago. After that, a huge rock wall was constructed
on the ocean side to minimise further erosion.
The area was very atmospheric. We could feel the age of it,
but we couldn’t help but be aware of the damage that
we and other thousands of feet were causing as we walked around
the monument. Any such European site would have been walled
off and visible only from a distance, giving no real experience
of the history.
We were now on the culture trail and there were so many historic
sites to visit in Mamallapuram we decided to pull in another
on our hectic daily schedule.
We pedalled to the Five Rathas with no knowledge of what we
were going to see. Thankfully it was still too early in the
day for the tourists to have arrived.
That stretch of road has to be unique. Tree-lined and shaded,
it has workshop after workshop of stonemasons. The frontages
are stacked with row upon row of carvings of all sizes and
the constant tap tap tapping of the chisels and hammers on
stone fills the air.
I would have loved to ship a few of those works home. There
must have been countless travellers saying the same thing
for decades. These were the only shops in which we were never
hassled. They obviously realised that few westerners could
buy this type of holiday memento.
The Five Rathas are prototypes of Dravidian temples and are
named after the Pandavas, the heroes of the Mahabharata epic,
and are full-sized models of different kinds of temples known
to the Dravidian builders of the 7th Century. With one exception,
the Rathas are examples of architecture similar to that of
earlier Buddhist temples and monasteries.
[The Mahabharata is an epic poem of the Bharata dynasty. It
contains about 10,000 verses describing the battle between
the Pandavas and the Kauravas.]
We were mystified on our arrival to find that the Five Rathas
are actually eight. Again it was a real thrill to be able
to walk among these mini temples and pose for pictures within
their portals. We had the place to ourselves, but as we left
hordes of small children on a school trip ran in and proceeded
to climb all over everything. It was sacrilege really.
We pedalled back to the bakery where Pam and Robin introduced
us to Condom Man. He was a tall, well dressed, dark-haired,
clean-cut, bespectacled German with a studious air and we
couldn’t imagine how he had earned his nickname. He
was very tolerant of the slating he took from Robin and which
we didn’t really understand. It wasn’t until he
had left the restaurant that we were given the full story.
He had arrived in Mamallapuram with a suitcase full of condoms.
He had become so sickened by the constant begging on previous
visits from young women with babes in arms that this time
he intended to dispense condoms instead of money. The local
council had noted this wry sarcasm but they regarded it as
an act of philanthropy, much to his chagrin, and had invited
him to speak at the family planning clinic.
He had accepted the offer, heaven knows what he said, but
he went down a storm. This was not the reaction he had expected
and Robin tormented him mercilessly, telling him that when
he next visited this city of sculptures there would surely
be a statue of him.
It was in Mamallupuram that we honed our skills at beggar
baiting. It doesn’t sound very clever or smart, but
action of some sort was necessary as the situation was often
out of hand.
One family of beggars occupied the street from Sea Breeze
to the main road. This was an area frequented by just about
every tourist and it provided a constant stream of prospective
custom. The family were something of a circus act and we often
watched them from the roof-top restaurant as they danced about
and performed somersaults and other tricks while having a
break from driving the tourists nuts.
The father looked completely wild with long matted hair and
the eldest son was a replica of him. There were seven or eight
other children of all ages and two teenage girls with small
babies. The group was completed by a grandma and a squirrel
monkey whose tail had been lopped off to stop him running
off when he wasn’t chained to the old lady.
In true British animal lover fashion, the sight of the monkey’s
tail or lack of it, made me furious. When the old woman was
hunkered down with one hand outstretched and the other rubbing
her stomach and pointing to her mouth, I really wanted to
push her over or worse.
The children and the young girls would follow us from one
end of the street to the other pulling at our clothes. Not
one member of the family looked hungry; they all had gold
earrings, men included, and some had bangles and necklaces.
One day I stopped when two of the girls were almost tripping
me up, [this was a sign for the others to rally round for
the kill]. I stood and put on my most stupid expression and
said: “Aren’t you all so lovely? And you must
be so hungry you poor things.”
Then I grabbed the one with the most jewellery. I pointed
at her gold, until she was almost preening herself with pleasure
at what she was mistaking as my admiration. I rubbed my stomach
and pointed to my mouth, saying: "If you sold that lot,
sweetie, you could buy a nice big dinner."
They didn’t understand a word but they got the message.
That evening we went back to the Government Handicraft shop
to see about carpet and I wish we hadn’t. The manager
Mr Srinivassan, showed us albums full of pictures of carvings
and objets d’art that he had exported. He even showed
us copies of invoices and documentation.
He told us that his craftsman could make us a replica of anything
imaginable and of course we both thought 'dragon'’.
[Our home has an overwhelming theme of dragon.] We almost
ended up ordering a great stone dragon to put outside our
house, but common sense prevailed. We did buy 50 metres of
coir matting and enough edging tape to wrap the house in,
and we ordered a large carved picture frame featuring a dragon
that we painstakingly drew for the craftsman to copy. I do
not know why, but at my request we included a 7ft high carving
of two Ganesha, in the shipment. We haggled over the price
over a period of four days, and each day I would sit on the
beach having conversations with myself as to the merit of
this folly. The best two arguments in favour were: "You
will never be here again and the money you save on the carpet
will pay for the two other items." The two arguments
against were: "What on earth do you want that stuff for?"
and "What a waste of money!"
I talked myself in favour aided by Mr Srinivassan and his
entire staff. Brian was hopeless with his: "I don’t
mind." He could have said 'no' and I would not have argued.
The deal done, we were told to expect the shipment sometime
in August.
The next day we intended to go for a long walk. As we approached
the section of beach in front of the Ashok Hotel it became
clear that we would be going no further. We would be having
some free entertainment. We had stumbled upon an Indian film
set.
Three palm trees, presumably from the hotel grounds, had
been decapitated, and the green foliage and 5ft of trunk had
been implanted into the sand at the water’s edge in
a most incongruous fashion. A hillock had been created by
covering a mound of sand with green turf which must also have
been part of the hotel grounds.
A very flimsy piece of equipment resembling a giant seesaw
had been placed to the side of this scene and we were soon
rewarded with the sight of an Indian cameraman sitting gingerly
on one end as two others sat on the other as a counter balance,
thereby hoisting him into the air.
The star of the film a smartly dressed young Indian, eventually
appeared surrounded by a small entourage, one of whom was
shading him with an umbrella. They made their way to the water’s
edge where, left alone, the star gazed dramatically out to
sea.
After several minutes he waded knee deep into the water, shoes
and all, and still gazing lovingly out to sea, walked towards
the palm trees. As soon as he made it back to the beach his
entourage surrounded him and they returned to their hotel,
never to be seen again.
The film set remained where it was, which must have confused
many a tourist who wandered along the beach. It was still
there when we left.
No one had much to say about Chennai and so we decided to
see for ourselves. We had hoped to be able to catch the express
bus on which we arrived in Mamallapuram, but all agents and
hoteliers denied knowledge of its existence.
The e-mail office was the most efficient we had used so far.
The owner was a slim, well dressed Indian in his early thirties
and he was extremely religious.
He would sit at the front desk in immaculate western clothing,
with his face stained yellow with broad white stripes across
his forehead like a Cherokee warrior. Depending on the time
of day, we might be sitting at the keyboards when he would
prostrate himself behind us and begin chanting and burning
incense.
There were six computers and behind each one was a large picture
of Shiva. Every morning the computers were blessed and a large
flower placed on the top of each screen and a garland of jasmine
draped on each of the pictures. It was strange that someone
so au fait with the latest technology had such strong beliefs
in a tradition that seemed so pagan to us.
We had our own small miracle when we were sending and receiving
messages one day. Mum and Dad had invested in an e-mail machine.
We were not sure what it was exactly, as it wasn’t a
computer, but it could send and receive and I was shocked,
excited and touched.
Mum had always wanted to join this century, I was quite sure,
but to have convinced my dad was nothing short of amazing.
I was impressed by the tenacity it would have taken to learn
how to use the machine, whatever it was, and I was thrilled
to bits.
I later discovered that dad hadn’t been coerced into
it at all. Mum hadn’t told him. She had just gone out
and bought the necessary equipment.
I tried all the available technology to contact the Chentoor:
fax, e-mail and phone, and had no satisfaction at all. Finally
I sent a letter to my bank in England with all our receipts
enclosed. Brian was very sceptical but my persistence paid
off and when we returned home we found that our account had
been reimbursed with the deposit that the hotel had failed
to return.
We got up very early and headed for the bus station to board
the fastest bus for Chennai. The bus wasn’t too bad
a ride at all in the cool early morning air. We passed a couple
of attractions, namely the Water Sport Park and the Crocodile
Bank. The former was situated on a large pond and drawn up
to he bank were three broken pedaloes. The Crocodile Bank
looked dilapidated and sad, and I hated to think of the state
of any crocodiles kept inside.
In terms of a failed tourist attraction we needed to look
no farther than Dizzie World. On a large banner over a gateway,
complete with cartoon drawings of Minnie Mouse, were the words
Dizzie World. This had to be a spoof of Disney World. It looked
dreadful, but in fairness we couldn’t see a great deal
from the bus other than a very rusty roller-coaster ride and
some giant cartoon characters with badly peeling paint surrounded
by broken fences.
We were travelling through the suburbs of Chennai for almost
half of the journey and we began to realise how big the place
must be. When we reached the terminus we decided to take a
rickshaw to a five-star hotel that had been described in the
guidebook as a dusty old colonial establishment worth a visit.
My imagination was in overdrive and I had great expectations.
Perhaps it was just as well that the driver couldn’t
find it. That way my expectations remained intact.
We were not sure whether the driver really did not know of
this hotel or whether he was just bumping up our fare by driving
us round and round.
We became pretty fed up with his antics and told him to stop
at the next large hotel entrance. The first one we came across
was too upmarket to allow the rickshaw on the driveway so
we paid our fare and walked up to the entrance of the Taj
Coromandel.
I was not looking my best, although when I left Mamallapuram
I had thought I was dressed well enough for anything Chennai
had to offer. Brian, on the other hand, was wearing one of
his new outfits. The porter at Sea Breeze had even commented
on it, saying as we left: ‘’Very nice dress you
are wearing, sir, very nice.’’
He was wearing the traditional long white overshirt and trousers
worn by the Indians. He looked very good, but they tended
to make him look like Jesus on a bad hair day.
The usual smartly dressed doormen were at the entrance which
we knew from experience didn’t necessarily mean that
we were about to find anything special inside.
This proved to be the exception. This was class. The huge
lobby was magnificent with beautiful chandeliers, highly polished
mahogany panelled walls and sumptuous sofas and chairs. The
reception desk was 60ft long with exquisitely dressed girls
behind it, and behind his desk a porter was regarding us with
clear disdain.
There was only one way to deal with this situation; behave
as if we owned the place and hope the fact that we looked
like rag bags was only an indication of our eccentricity.
Without hesitation we walked to the reception and asked
to be directed to the restaurant The loos were on the way
and I nipped in to confirm my worst fears. My greasy hair
was stuffed up under my very faded hat and my trousers and
top were very faded too. The bag I had was a white linen carrier,
just the thing for carrying my handbag and sun umbrella. But
standing in this very plush lavatory, better than any room
we had stayed in, it looked really scruffy.
Undaunted we walked into a plush dining room. The standards
were high, and that was reflected in the prices. A full breakfast
here would cost the same as a week’s accommodation at
the Sea Breeze, but it felt good to know that we could afford
it if push came to shove. Our problem was, should we eat so
much that we put it on a credit card or be a little more frugal
and pay in rupees?
There were about 20 other people in the room, some Japanese
and two Asians but the majority were European. One group in
particular caught our attention. Six men in blue overalls
and matching baseball caps sat opposite each other at a table
with a suited businessman at either end. The back of the overalls
had large embroidered shields depicting a bolt of lightning,
a skull with a cross over the top and the words Coutts and
Boots.
Whilst deliberating on the origins of the other patrons, we
ordered an Upma each, which threw the waiter completely. Everyone
else was tucking into sausages [we couldn’t imagine
an Indian sausage], scrambled eggs, toast, cereals and milk.
We came to the conclusion that the clientele must have been
on business and never subjected to the real India. They most
probably flew in and out, travelled in air-conditioned cars
and only briefly glanced out of the windows. We could not
believe that they ever went out and saw the squalor and poverty.
If they had, they wouldn’t have been eating sausages.
We had this theory proved to us when we returned home, by
our neighbour who had travelled to India frequently on business.
He repeatedly told us how much he loved India and when we
discussed our travels with him he said that he too had stayed
in Madurai, at the Taj Garden Retreat. When we excitedly asked
him for his opinion of the town and temples he shrugged and
said: “Well, I didn’t go into the town. I didn’t
see the temples other than in the distance. Fabulous place
though, isn’t it?”
We were speechless. Bless him, he hadn’t been to India
at all.
The Upma arrived and it was made in heaven. I wouldn’t
know how to replicate it. The sauces were superb and it was
worth every rupee. It was a culinary dream. While we mumbled
with delight at every mouthful we speculated on the chaps
in the boiler suits. They were too old to be athletes and
too few for a cricket X1 The best we could come up with was
a polo team. They had to be American, as surely no other nationality
would eat breakfast in this type of establishment wearing
baseball caps. [unless they were Brits and then their hats
would be back to front and they would be pop stars]. As they
rose to leave we stared hard searching for a clue, but to
add to the intrigue they all seemed to be wearing heavy working
boots. We laughed and decided they were Ghost Busters.
When we could really loiter no longer. Drinking endless tea
and coffee would only necessitate locating a toilet later,
and that was always a frightening prospect. We paid up and
left.
Before leaving the opulence behind we had a look in the hotel
shop which resembled one of the speciality rooms in Harrods
and had prices worthy of the same store. Also browsing were
two Ghost Busters and when we were standing close to them
admiring some small carvings I could contain my curiosity
no longer. They were Americans and by their accents from the
Deep South.
‘’You are the Ghost Busters, right?’’
I said.
The two men laughed and when they spoke to us every sentence
was liberally sprinkled with “Yes ma’m”
and “ No m’am.” They were charming.
They told us that they were from a fire fighting company in
Texas. They had arrived in Madras the previous evening. All
their luggage had been lost which explained their overalls.
They were deeply shocked at what they had seen of Madras from
the taxi window and they had been told in no uncertain terms
that they must not leave the hotel unaccompanied. They added
that they were all too scared to go out anyway. Now it was
our turn to laugh.
We explained that it wasn't dangerous, just different. They
had to go and explore. We told them that we couldn’t
believe that they were going to fight a huge fire that would
need explosives to put it out and would take several nights
to quench and they would risk life and limb, but they were
too scared to go outside in Madras. They were so very nice
and polite and they made us feel like the first explorers
to Asia.
They were extremely impressed at how long we had been in
India and one of them said to Brian: "Oh man, we just
love your outfit. We were hoping to buy some stuff too. We
had been told it was real cheap here but man this place ain’t
cheap."
We explained how much things really cost 'outside' and they
were aghast.
As they would have a car at their disposal we told them that
they should visit Mamallapuram. It wasn’t far, and they
would be able to see temples and the real India without it
being too frightening. We wished them well and thought of
them often during the next few days.
We heard nothing of the fire either locally or in the press.
I did have a few hours of panic when I was convinced that
the skull and cross bones on the fire fighters clothes signified
radioactive materials. We e-mailed Peter at home to see if
there was a nuclear plant in the area which may have had a
disaster. If we were going to go home glowing with radioactivity
I wanted to know about it.
Like a fool I had assumed that the main street through Madras
would be interesting and have shops. Would I never learn?
Indian cities don't have Oxford Streets; Indians aren’t
shopaholics like westerners. There was nothing to look at
except traffic and more traffic, which meant fumes, lots and
lots of them. The pavements resembled an area recently hit
by an earthquake, and being clumsy I had to keep my eyes riveted
to the floor or regret it.
When we could bear it no longer we hailed a rickshaw. We knew
that there was a Higginbothams bookstore in Madras. We could
spend some time in there; at least it would be air-conditioned.
When we told the driver to take us to Higginbotham’s
he said he knew where we wanted to be, but after five minutes
he decided he didn’t. It was at times like this that
murder flashed through my mind. We argued and shouted and
stuck the map in his face.
As we continued to bump along we saw a large modern building
which had a resemblance to a shopping mall, and was possibly
the one that Pam and Robin mentioned. We told the driver to
pull over and he said: “This not Higginbotham.”
We then realised that he had known all along where we had
wanted to go. At that moment I really began to dislike the
Indian nation. I was becoming sick and tired of all aspects
of their dishonest behaviour.
I know it’s not a politically correct attitude, and
people will say the Indians are just trying to earn a living.
It’s just the culture, it shouldn’t upset us and
we shouldn’t judge. Well to hell with that. I had a
right to an opinion and cheating and lying anywhere was unacceptable.
Deception and taking advantage of people was deplorable, and
I would not tolerate it with good grace.
We had indeed stumbled on an air-conditioned shopping precinct.
There were record shops and shoe shops and gift shops and
we spent a few hours looking about and visiting the e-mail
centre.
We took a rickshaw for the bus station but the driver took
us to the wrong one.
He agreed that there was another bus station but insisted
we had told him this one, which was rubbish. He drove us to
where we should have been and it took 20 minutes, so he’d
had a real laugh at what he thought would be our expense.
We knew he would scream for more money when we arrived, and
he did, loudly. Brian paid him what we had earlier agreed
and we left him standing, shouting and shaking his fists.
The journey round India seemed like one drama after another
because we never knew what to expect.
As soon as we had left the yelling rickshaw driver we were
confronted by a mob of people pushing and shoving their way
around the smelliest biggest bus station we had so far encountered.
There were large stinking puddles of water to negotiate in
our attempt to find the right bus, and that was going to be
like winning the lottery.
I had really had enough of the day trip to Chennai and wanted
to leave. I was too bad tempered to start asking for the Mamallapuram
bus. Besides, the risk to humanity was too high. One more
person lying and misinforming me and I would not be responsible
for my actions.
Brian set out on the search. There was a bus just about to
leave, so we climbed aboard and found a seat. Walking and
limping up and down inside were beggars, cripples, and dirty
children, all trying to sell something that no one with any
concern for their health would wish to buy.
It took 21/2 hours to get back to Mamallapuram and was the
worst bus trip we had. Dozens of people crammed onto the bus
as it stopped every few minutes along the way. We stopped
in one village and loads of school children wriggled and squirmed
aboard. They sat on top of each other piled three and four
high, the heat was unbearable and it was almost impossible
to breath.
At one point a woman tried to make me stand up so that she
could sit down, but if the children weren’t moving for
her, neither was I. I was convinced that she only asked me
because she knew that the Indians would never move and the
white people were generally suckers. Well, not today baby!
We stopped again and people actually began to thread themselves
through the bars on the windows in order to get on board.
I thought I might pass out. If I could have got my bag and
bum through the bars I would of got off.
That night I dreamt that four Indians were drowning in the
swimming pool and I was watching. I tried to feel really guilty
about it and I made out that I was really upset, but really
I was not sorry at all. I woke feeling really depressed. I
think there was something very Freudian about that dream,
perhaps it was just as well we hadn't too much time left in
India.
We were in truth becoming very bored which seemed most ungenerous
as Mamallapuram was a reasonable place to be. But we couldn’t
move on as we were due to fly out of Madras and our days seemed
to revolve around what to eat and where to eat it. We still
had so much to see in the north of the country and we would
have only two weeks to do it, and here we were sitting about
like a pair of bookends.
I solved my personal quandary of what to eat after consuming
a simple meal of vegetables in gravy and boiled rice at the
hotel. Within an hour I knew I was in trouble.
The sauce kept repeating and I began to feel that being sick
would be a great idea. All that night I was up and down to
the bathroom heaving and retching but nothing happened. As
the night progressed I was unsure as to which end might be
the first to rid me of the noxious substance I had eaten.
Finally at about 7am I chose the wrong end and was seated
on the toilet when I decided to be sick. Fortunately the bathroom
had a tiled floor with a drain; unfortunately I couldn’t
reach the standard issue bucket, and threw up down my leg.
I was ecstatic, I have never been so happy to be sick in my
life. I threw up again and again and again. Thank you, God.
I spent the next day in bed feeling quite literally pretty
shitty but convinced that I would live.
The result of this episode was that I could not tolerate the
smell of the sauce, which was served with everything Indian.
It made me heave. This meant that Brian and I ate separately
for the rest of our stay, he in the restaurant of his choice
and me in either bakery, where I ate toast three times a day.
We were to leave in a couple of days and so as soon as I
rose from my sick bed we set off to look at the Mandapams.
Mandapams are carvings made in shallow caves scooped out of
massive rocks. There are eight of these and the earliest is
the Krishna Mandapam which features Krishna lifting up a mountain
to protect his kinsfolk from the wrath of another god.
The detail and the workmanship of the carvings are excellent
and hardly marked by the passage of time. The views from the
very top of the hill were spectacular and we said we would
climb back up that evening for the sunset. But we didn’t.
On our final afternoon, while I had returned to the room
to pack the bags, Brian accepted an invitation from the manager
to join him at his home for a meal. I had a dickey fit. Normally
I would have loved to go for the experience, but with my stomach
as it was, there was every chance I would be sick faced with
anything other than boiled rice.
Brian was not happy, but agreed that he would go and tell
the manager some tale or other about my indisposition. I did
however insist that he attend, as he had been daft enough
to accept in the first place without considering his poor
delicate wife.
When he came back he said that the manager was fine about
it and that he had suggested that they eat at the hotel anyway.
Sooner him than me. In the end Brian presented himself for
his food only to be told that the manager had been called
away urgently. He was offered the hospitality of the restaurant
nevertheless, and decided to return to the room with enough
food for ten balanced on a tray. I made him go outside on
the balcony and eat it all himself as the smell of it made
my stomach turn somersaults.
It was so annoying. We had nearly made the whole journey
without one bout of the trots. I had even found it necessary
to buy laxatives at one stage. That had to be another first
for a trip to this continent, surely.
It was a 5am start the next morning and we were travelling
by Ambassador taxi. I was glad that the journey to the airport
took only half an hour as the driver had an overwhelming desire
to race every other vehicle on the road, of which fortunately
there were few.
We were not sure what to expect at the airport having seen
Bombay, but we were pleasantly surprised as it was modern
and clean and far superior to Bombay. This was just as well
as I still had the "squitters" and Brian was just
getting them.
I hoped that we were both going to feel better when we got
off the plane in Delhi as it was going to be a very long day.
(Printable
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