From Big India back to the dogs

After two weeks in India Chennai (Madras) and Mumbai (Bombay), I am overdue to go back home to the family.  Unfortunately, I have 48 hours before I get there, two overnight flights and a day in Singapore.  It has been a good trip, meeting people and learning new things.  Not all of which, I actually wanted to know…

After my first week in a very ordinary hotel in Chennai (great food and service though), which unfortunately smelt strongly of something nasty, I found myself back at the Juhu beach Marriott in Mumbai.  It’s a hotel I try to stay in whenever I’m in the city because it has a great business club floor and and really good gym and pool.  I have also been vegetarian for the last thirteen and a half days and I’ve lost a kilo in weight.  That has, of course been assisted by the usual bout of intestinal nastiness which I get when I haven’t been here for a while and have lost whatever resistance I once had.  It doesn’t seem to matter how careful I am, but after years temporarily hosting almost every intestinal parasite known to science, it only seems like I need to pick up a dirty glass and BOOM, it’s all back on me.  Literally.

I always seem to get a family shopping list when I go to India and this time, it was cushion covers.  Now, you wouldn’t have thought that buying cushion covers could be difficult but let me tell you, this time I had very specific instructions, not to buy anything that wasn’t exactly like the internet search pictures.  My driver sent the shopkeepers the pictures on my phone who assured him in advance, that they had exactly what I wanted but when we arrived, I found out that they had the Indian equivalent of “same same, but different” They were so insistent that their wares were in fact what I really wanted, I  almost began to doubt myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My targets – hand screen printed and embroidered… 

Time for a short digression – I asked my driver to take me to the ‘gateway of India’ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gateway_of_India This is a beautiful monument built by the British for King George V and Queen Mary to ceremonially enter the Jewel of the old Empire.  It wasn’t actually finished in time for their visit in 1911 and they had to be content with seeing a cardboard model instead.  When it was finished, it served as the first port of entry for British  VIP’s from its opening in 1924, until the Somerset Light Infantry marched the Empire out of India on February the 28th, 1948.

The gateway -a must see for locals and Gora’s* together

(*not always a derogatory term for foreigners)

Anyway, back on story.  I have been to the gateway many times, but for me, it never gets old.  As an Englishman, albeit one several countries removed, I cannot help but feel emotional when I think of the great and good (and bad) of my countrymen and women who had the audacity to presume to rule India for almost 200 years.  I felt the need to see the sunset from the gateway and I asked my usual driver to take me there.  He rolled his eyes, as he often does when I ask him to go against the traffic at the busiest time of the day and he manfully pulled one of the most dangerous U turns my sometimes fragile mental state has had to contend with.

We got to the gateway some 30 minutes after sunset, but that was my fault for not making the decision much earlier.  That and the fact that Rajasthan was playing the Mumbai Indians (yes, that really is the name of the local cricket team) in the vicinity and a multitude of fans had almost blocked Marine drive, which is the seafront road adjoining Chowpatty beach.

Indian craftsmanship at its best.

Eventually, I stepped out of the car only to be accosted by a young lady carrying a small baby who immediately said “Sir, don’t give me money, but please buy me food”  Two years previously I had been accosted by and had accompanied a lady with a baby past several open and relatively pleasant smelling food stalls with me offering to buy her some food to the ‘nearest shop’ which was actually a table set up in an alleyway and I handed over enough rupees to feed a small village for half a bag of rice and litre of water.  I looked a little closer at the lady and realised that she was the very same person that I had been previously ‘had’ by.  My driver, always polite, but clearly no stranger to the scam, looked quizzically at me and having been my driver the last time I was there, was amazed when I asked him to translate that it was lovely to see her again and that her baby hadn’t aged a day.

He said “Sir, how can you remember her?”  thinking that as a daft foreigner, I might actually think that all non white people look the same.  I reminded him of the night we first met her and how much I had spent for so little and he laughed and translated the same to her.  She had the good grace to smile, admit that it was her other sisters baby and waggle her head in the friendly way that they do here as I purchased  a jasmine garland from her as a consolation prize.

I walked across the road to Leopold’s, the ‘touristy but good’ iconic restaurant that was attacked in 2008 as part of the assault that killed numerous people and seriously damaged another nearby institution, the Taj hotel.

‘The Taj’ Still being repaired ten years later.

Leopolds Cafe has the reputation of having the rudest waiters in India.  I wasn’t sure about that, but I certainly found that they were the wittiest in town when I was accompanied by my driver Dharminder who speaks Marathi (the local dialect) and translated the wonderfully catty commentary they kept up non stop, to describe customers who did not openly venerate the profession of waiting table.  It’s fun, the beer is cold and the food is relatively hygienic, so I try to go each time I am there.

Dharminder told me that had already spoken to the ‘lady with the baby’ and shown her the photographs of my shopping mission and asked her to find out where they were sold.  For a price, she had reported back that she had found a shop nearby and that their stock was exactly what the strange Gora was after.

The shop was tiny and the floor to ceiling shelves were packed with colourful fabrics and with four of us in it, there was barely room to turn around, but the owners scurried up and down ladders fetching everything that they thought I might want.  It was clearly a well rehearsed routine and they shuffled and dealt fabrics onto the counter like card sharps.  I face timed Mrs. Jerry (at 1am unfortunately) to show her the wares and the whole performance was repeated.  The lady with the baby stood at the window, smiling and head waggling whilst no doubt, mentally counting up her commission.

I came away from the evening with a stack of colourful cushion covers and yet another unique Bombay experience.

My flights home were long and not the most comfortable ever, but I shouldn’t complain as I am now back by the fire at home, watching the dogs.

George, transfixed by the flames.

 

Wives and Sweethearts…

I am back working in Singapore and living in the area called ‘little India’ Sure enough, it is about as ‘India’ as Singapore can get, but with the added benefit that its pretty clean. Walking down the ‘five foot ways’ that stand outside all of the old shops and protect pedestrians from the monsoonal downpours, I passed stalls selling the ceremonial garlands of flowers that are used as offerings at the Hindu temples. The smell from the blooms are so strong that often the stalls have their own swarm of bees who determinedly try to gather any remaining nectar.

Forget your aftershave?  No problem, just sling one of these around your neck – bees included…

When we lived here around six years ago as a family, we used to troop down to little India to a restaurant called ‘Fatty’s’ at Bencoolen square. It’s the sanitised version of the Chinese street food that you might have had elsewhere in Asia and a little more expensive than you would get at other restaurants in the area but its good food. Damn it’s good food.

S$25, including the beer.  Expensive for street food in Singapore, but well worth it

The clientele who sit outside, in the waning evening heat are usually Caucasian, with the locals all sensibly sitting in the air-conditioned comfort inside. On the occasions when I do sit down alone with a cold beer on a warm evening, I tend to think and when I can, I write.

I remember Peter, my late father in law, telling tales of Singapore street food, cold beer and transvestites, although it has to be said, he denied any detailed knowledge of the latter during the days when he was here on national service with the RAF Regiment at the end of the war. He loved Singapore but like most men of his age couldn’t bring himself to talk about some of his experiences in uniform, but he was here when there were still inmates from Changi prison around who had lost their way and their minds and couldn’t be repatriated to their home countries. That really affected him and he struggled to talk about it. Official statistics say that around 850 POW’s died in Changi, but of course, that doesn’t count the civilians who died or the servicemen who died afterwards as a result of the abuse and neglect they received at the hands of their captors. Of note during that time was the resistance shown by the prisoners to the demand of their captors that they sign a promise not to try and escape. They refused, of course and the resulting incident became known as the Selarang Barracks incident (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selarang_Barracks_incident). Read it; it will make you very proud and very angry at the same time.

Contrary to American claims, there were British servicemen who took part in the relief of Singapore. After all, we’d lost it… It was British paratroopers who were personally sent by Mountbatten and six of them, senior officers, medics and administrators, who jumped into Singapore to oversee the handover and prevent the slaughter of the prisoners, although the Yanks like to claim it was all down to them :-). These men were traumatised by what they saw; the living skeletons of men who just refused to lay down and die.

Today, it’s the weekend and I am leaving tomorrow for ‘big India’ – to the cities formerly known as Madras and Bombay to be precise, but before I head back to my tiny hotel room to pack, I am having lunch at the Penny Black pub on the banks of the Singapore river. I am no stranger to this particular wateringhole (pun intended) and I am perched, ever so precariously, on a tall stool at the top of the steps leading down to the water.

Don’t lean over too far whatever you do

A hundred and fifty years ago when large merchant ships came into the harbour, the river would have been so full of small ‘bum boats’ (so called because your bum was so close to the water apparently) that you could walk right across the river without getting your feet wet. The buildings that line the river here would have been ‘go downs’ or warehouses for all of the merchants to store their wares. Now, they all are bars and restaurants, some with bubbling fish tanks outside that house some unfortunate aquatic creatures that are destined to be someones dinner.

Bum boats or Twakow moored up at Boat Quay.  The row of buildings on the far left is roughly where the Penny Black now is. Published courtesy of the NAS.

A few years ago during a very convivial lunch at the Penny Black, an old friend who I am going to again refer to here as ‘Eric’ was holding court at his usual table and as he was wont to do, decided to engage some glum looking perfect strangers, sitting at an adjacent table in conversation. The couple, who were quietly minding their own business, looked up in surprise as Eric barked “cheer up, its not like someone has died” “Actually” the lady replied, “my father has and we’re here with his ashes as he never got to come to Singapore when he was alive” Never one to let an awkward situation put him off his stride, Eric walked over to them and introduced himself; offered them both a drink and upon learning that her late father had been in the Royal Navy, promptly bought a glass of port and set it down upon the small wooden box containing the late sailor.

Eric, having been in the Royal Marines and later, the Royal Navy as a commissioned officer regaled them with salty tales of what sailors got up to in Singapore when her Father would have been in the Navy. It turned out that he had always wanted to be buried at sea off Singapore, but that it hadn’t been possible to arrange through the British High Commission here and they were feeling rather sad that they wouldn’t be able to fulfil his last wish. One of the revellers listening into the conversation was actually a ships master and his vessel was moored in the harbour at that time. He said he thought that he might be able to arrange something for the following day and they all teetered back to their beds after promising to meet up at noon.

At the allotted time, Eric, who was just topping up on his alcohol levels from the day before, called up the ships master who sadly confided that he’d taken the rather rash decision of asking the harbour authorities if it would be ok, if they carried out the scattering of the ashes just off the coast and in doing so, had inadvertently unleashed the sudden wrath of the government who threatened to charge him with polluting the waterways and to bar his ship from ever docking in Singapore again. The couple were running late and hadn’t yet shown up for the promised ‘ceremony’ so the panicking drinkers racked their brains trying to think up alternatives. After ordering yet another expensive round of drinks, they decided that they would pay for tickets on one of the many tourist boats that ply the waterway past the pub every few minutes for all and surreptitiously let the ashes trickle slowly into the water, whilst hopefully avoiding the gaze of the other passengers and the crew.

By the time the couple arrived, dressed appropriately for a funeral service, but wholly inappropriately for the tropics, sat down at the table of grinning drinkers and were immediately handed large glasses of port and assailed with the traditional Naval toast for Saturday* “wives and sweethearts” to which the youngest sailor (or in this case, the oldest sailor, Eric) rejoins “may they never meet”

*A few years ago, it was decided that as more women were serving at sea that someone might be upset by this particular toast and it was changed to ‘our families’ No Matelot worth his salt would ever recognise the change, of course and when not in polite company, the original toast continues to be used.

More drinks were ordered and the plan for the afternoon was unveiled. The bereaved couple were obviously a little disappointed to miss out on the expected trip out to a large vessel and the ships master saying a few words as the urn was consigned to the deep, but they became a little more cheery as more rounds of drinks appeared and disappeared. A couple of hours later, the sky looked ominously dark and the winds has whipped up to around 15 to 20 knots. Not bad in a sizeable vessel, but in a bum boat, it could become quite wet and uncomfortable when they turned the corner of the river into the harbour where the statue of the Merlion now stands. The bum boats quickly returned to their moorings and tied up for the rest of the day. “Never mind” said Eric, “we can do it tomorrow” With tears in her eyes, the daughter explained that they were leaving early the next day. Without missing a beat, Eric called the waitress, who was a long time accomplice to his schemes and asked her to bring a tray of port with enough brimming glasses for two each for everyone sitting in the bar at the time.

Eric suggested that the daughter say a few words about her father and his years in the Navy, which she described as ‘the happiest of his life’ and this left quite a few of the listeners with moist eyes. Her husband proposed a toast to the assembled company and thanked them all for taking the time to listen and for their attempts to organise the scattering of the ashes. As can be imagined, Eric had spent the time taken up by the short speeches perfecting the next part of his diabolical plan. He said a goodbye to the old sailor by proposing a ribald toast and called out “bottoms up” as all the glasses were drained. He then dramatically threw his glass into the water, which caused everyone else to do the same. Wobbling carefully down the stone steps to the Singapore River, he removed the lid of the box and with a flourish, upended it.

In the flush of an afternoons drinking and under the now dramatic skies and gusting wind, the former Marine and Naval officer had forgotten all of his basic seamanship skills and had tipped the ashes into the wind. The swirling grey cloud instantly returned to its recent location, the bar table. That table and all of the others of course. Around thirty people blinked the late sailor out of their eyes and joined the uncontrollable laughter that luckily had started with the daughter of her recently airborne father.

And next, onto ‘big” India.

Travels with my parents and a newly acquired phobia

There comes a time in your life when you realise that maintaining 9, 000 miles distance between you and them will not prevent your parents from coming and staying with you.  Of course, we could have tried joining the witness protection program, but that would have been a little over the top and it does mean that all of those niggling jobs that need doing and never quite seem to get finished, get finished and are finished well.

This trip, they are only here for three weeks and it’s actually not long enough as they have been fantastic company, very generous and industrious, especially my father who has worked tirelessly (for gin and the occasional meal) in the kitchen washing up, which is his speciality and in the garden, which now looks great.

We headed into the City of Ballarat one evening for the second ‘white nights’ festival, which consists of all the bars/restaurants opening late into the night and the lovely old buildings being lit up with animated coloured lights.  There’s live entertainment and select venues hold private parties on their balconies overlooking the main streets.  It’s a fun evening and the buses run through until 3am, so there’s no need to drive.  Just as well really.

A strangely illuminated man stalking through the growing crowds.

Moving Aphids and other critters on one of the old buildings

This one had a medieval theme.

With Jerry Junior living in Adelaide we decided to take a road trip over to see him and his lovely wife, but instead of blatting across country via the most direct 7.5 hour route, we decided in a weak moment, to take the scenic Great Ocean Road (GOR).  It is possible to drive past the highlights in a day, but that would be a very long day from where we live and then of course, you would have to carry on up the coast another 600+ kms to the city of churches.  Driving with my parents can be interesting as at any one time, you have to be no more than 30 minutes from a toilet and 2 hours from a cream bun.  It’s good to know what I have to look forward to.

I am often quite gleefully told that Adelaide was the only city that didn’t have convicts sent to it and therefore none too subtly suggesting that socially, it’s a cut above Melbourne, Perth and Sydney.  That’s up for debate, but I always love going there.

When choosing a hire car, I thought that a compact would be sufficient as there was only the three of us, not realising of course, that the hire companies substitute quite reasonably sized compact cars for other roller skate sized toys, that are notionally in the same ‘group’ but that are way cheaper for them to run.  The next morning, we took off from home with the sound of a sewing machine working itself up to a decent run of stitching and started rehashing old family story’s; ones that usually ended up with me being the butt of the jokes.  I brought them all upon myself, of course.

Part way around the start of the Great Ocean Road a tree had fallen across the road and blocked travel in both directions, so we turned around to Lorne and had morning tea.  I tried an alternative route, cunningly suggested by the GPS and we saw some lovely properties before discovering the inevitable scenic but very dead end.   Eventually, however, we got somewhere and that somewhere was Warrnambool. If you are ever there, you need to know that out of high season, it’s pretty much dead after nightfall.  The hotel of the same name thankfully does a very nice dinner however.

Probably not three of the twelve Apostles, but spectacular, none the less. 

Once back on the Princes highway, we passed through Coonalpyn.  At first glance it seemed to be the same kind of tiny country town that we’d passed through several times before.  It’s around 300 meters of the same kind of street frontage featuring agricultural suppliers, a bakery and a cafe, but the huge grain silos that dominate the town are covered in a mural of the local kids http://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-03-25/coonalpyn-silo-artist-guido-van-helten-finishes-project/8380546 the mural was part of a project to rejuvenate the communities who were badly affected by drought and it certainly seems to have worked, with new businesses opening monthly.

There are very tall vandals in Coonalpyn 

We  did eventually make it to Jerry Junior’s and a welcome BBQ dinner.  They have a small two-year old fur child in the form of Alfie; a rather cute Dachshund.

See  what I mean?

Alfie with one of his victims.  As with most serial killers, he has started to refine his tactics

It turns out that Alfie has developed his hunting instincts and has taken to chasing down rats and mice in the garden.  He’ll happily kill them but he doesn’t eat them, he’s way too fussy for that.  Alfie will instead, delicately chew the ears off his victim.

An earless victim

That night, I slept in the living room and shared the mattress on and off with Alfie, he kindly leant his little hot water bottle like body as a bed warmer and aside from the occasional race around the mattress in the middle of the night was no problem.  I did however have rather a nice dream in the middle of the night (you know the kind), I won’t go into detail, suffice it to say that when I woke, it was with a very pleasant warm feeling.  I reached over and instead of hair, I felt fur.  Alfie had been gently nibbling my ear lobes.

What used to be a small pleasure is now a sizeable phobia.  My dreams will never be the same again.


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