This week, I find myself back in the far north west of India, in the state of Gujarat. As I have lamented previously, it is both vegetarian and ‘dry’ – neither of which do me any harm. Gujarat is the home state of Narendra Modi, the current Prime Minister of India, so it does not suffer from a lack of investment and in the area surrounding the provincial city of Jamnagar there are several refineries, one of which claims to be the largest in the world. Another has just recently been purchased by a Russian corporation and the locals are delighted because they see that as effectively being protection against being bombed by the Pakistani’s. The massive investment also means that unemployment is low and upon first examination, it seems to be a little wealthier and better served for amenities than most provincial town and cities.
I’m here to visit and learn how our project people manage multi million euro projects with a largely illiterate workforce, navigate political self interest, get the job done and still stay on the side of the angels. If there’s anything that I have discovered, it is that the Indian people have a fierce pride in their country, a wry appreciation of its failings and a willingness to defend it against all comers. That’s not a bad thing for any country. Most people know that cricket is India’s national sport and it is very close to being a religion. You’ll see people watching it on television, playing it on the hard baked playing fields at schools and on the litter strewn communal areas in the villages. I can barely hit a fly with a rolled up newspaper, so there no possibility of me trying to bond with the locals and join in but I have been invited, more than once.
A rickshaw driver accosted me on my morning drag today and said in very good english, “where are you from Sir?” I usually refrain from engaging in what is certain to be an attempt for my custom but in the interests of ‘talking to strangers’ (explained in a previous post), my well intentioned attempts not to be an alleged moody bastard, I wished him good morning and claimed ‘England via Australia’ as my origin. His eyes lit up and he recited the names of what must have been the entire current first XI for both countries. I say ‘must have been’ because I have no cricketing knowledge much past the memory that a man nicknamed ‘Beefy Botham’ had played for England, another named Shane Warne had shagged for Australia and that a fellow named Sachin Tendulkar had dominated Indian cricket through much of the nineties and noughties. When I ‘tossed’ his name out there, he reverentially waggled his head and said “ahh, the little master” which was India’s affectionate nickname for the diminutive cricketer. I dodged the jet of betel juice laden spit that he expelled on the ground as punctuation and left him to his reverie.
Rickshaw drivers routinely sound their horns at traffic, wandering livestock, other road users to warn, chide, attract and sometimes, just for the hell of it. They always seem to drive in the outside lane, which given your average streetscape of overflowing humanity is perhaps not a bad idea. I do try to ignore the drivers repeated attempts to get me to hop in as I am trying to exercise, but they rightly think that it’s strange for a middle aged sweaty white man to be be wandering the streets just after dawn and that I must be suffering from some sort of mental affliction. Speaking of the streets, if you have never been to India, they can be quite confronting and I rarely go wandering in Bombay or Delhi anymore without a good reason. The ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ vision of the Bombay underbelly is not entirely inaccurate and I have seen more than a few disfigured children begging on the streets. If you look carefully, you can usually pick out a Fagan like character lurking in the background, watching every rupee that is thrown onto the ground from cars and after a frenzied scrap between the young beggars, the coins quickly disappear into their grubby clothes, only to be seized later.
A rickshaw drivers family getting ready for the day.
Indian streets are much more than thoroughfares, they are living rooms, dying rooms, kitchens, bathrooms, farmyards, workshops and sometimes, even morgues. Poor peoples whole lives can pass living on the streets. Thankfully, I haven’t seen a body by the side of the road for a while but they don’t usually stay on the streets for long anyway as there is still a thriving trade in skeletons. In the mid 80’s, India reportedly exported around 60, 000 full skeletons a year to the US. According to the Chicago Tribune, that was enough for every medical student in the developed world to buy their own bone box for $300. I was also interested to read since the trade has been ‘regulated’ that the middleman is a Singaporean businessman. Along with middlemen selling landmines and other armaments.
On a brighter note, I also seem to have been very lucky with my hosts in India recently and this time was no exception. My colleague Vipul took it upon himself to overfeed me at every opportunity; marvelling that at my age (only 7 years older than him), I still had most of my hair and that unlike him, I was actually taller than my circumference. He actually suggested that such relative leanness was unhealthy, which I smiled at, as on this visit, I learned how you could actually put on weight with a vegetarian diet when you really try, as almost every dessert in India seems to have a pound of sugar in it. Vipul insisted that I try everything and as he finished off what I couldn’t, nothing went to waste. I also learned that later that evening, we were to go to the nine day long Navratri festival in the city. He said that there would be lots of dancing and many, many people there and that his friends wanted to meet me.
One of the colourful and very energetic dancers at the festival. Picture courtesy of Gujarat Tourism.
I have a self conscious horror of being selected to dance in public at touristy events and I was tempted, at that moment to fake a seizure and choose a night in a local hospital, rather than find myself dressed up in a Bollywood style costume and be paraded around. After rummaging in my bag for some kind of disguise and failing miserably, I did what every foreigner who visits here must do and I surrendered to India.
And no, that’s not me.
The dancers were incredibly athletic, spinning round and round in the arena for what seemed like hours to a hypnotic beat. It reminded me of the depression era marathon dancers, but with the contestants here being on LSD and speed. Vipul introduced me to his many friends and explained that the shiny new scooters that were displayed around the ring were actually prizes for the best dancers. No wonder they were trying so hard then.
Thankfully, no sparkly costumes in my size appeared out of nowhere and I was ushered through the crowds, who were rather embarrassingly parted by armed Policemen to allow us into the VIP seating area.
The thing with Indian VIP areas is that they are awfully obvious, being raised up, brightly lit and the nobs sitting on them preen whilst they are minutely scrutinised by everyone else in the crowd. Feeling rather fraudulent, I sat down in the middle of a double seat, provided purely for me and leant over to the neighbouring sofa to speak to Vipul, who by this time had assumed the pose of a Roman Senator waiting for his grape to be peeled. Excluding our small cameo, the show was certainly spectacular and very much enjoyed by everyone in the crowd. My head started to droop around midnight and not wanting to shame my host, I suggested that we return to the car before the crowds moved to the exits.
The next morning, we toured the site and I glad handed the local staff. I was asked to plant a tree, which once again had me feeling decidedly like fake royalty. I discovered that that it wasn’t just me as every visitor is asked to do the same as an environmentally sound gesture of land rehabilitation. In the local village there were many cows wandering around and of course, I knew that for Hindus, cows are considered to be sacred and that mistreating one would get you into a lot trouble indeed. I have even heard of car drivers who have hit one being beaten to death by an enraged mob.
People toss their scraps out just for them but sadly in the towns they have become effectively omnivorous, grazing on refuse piles full of plastic and paper as most vegetation at ground level has disappeared. Some kind people will carry large bunches of greenery a long distance through the dry and brown countryside as snacks for the local Zebu cows and you’ll often see them garlanded in the festive seasons and their milk being used in Hindu worship. I mentioned that in Australia we also have a very similar looking animal with the distinctive fatty hump behind the head. After explaining that they were bred specially for their drought and tick resistance and that Australian cattle were exported all over the world it began to dawn on me that I was approaching what could only turn out to be a car crash of a comment alluding to what fantastic tasting steaks they made. I tried to walk back my obvious train of thought before retreat became impossible but Vipul kindly put me out of my misery by commenting that in Australia, the cows weren’t Hindu…
Back on the road again tomorrow.
J.