The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ESCAPE TO MAMALLAWOTSIT.

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 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.