We watched it roll out of the fire. Bumping its way through the flames to crash land on dry sand. It made a sound like falling clay, some old flowerpot cracking on upturned soil.
‘It’s a head. It’s definitely a head.’
‘It’s not a head.’
‘It is.’
‘It can’t be, there’s no eyes. Look. There’s no eye sockets either.’
‘But that’s a nose. See? And there, that’s a mouth.’
‘Hhhmmm…’
‘Seriously. Imagine it with hair. Can you see it? Look at the forehead.’
‘Maybe. I suppose. Oh fuck look, there, an opening, at the base of the neck.’
‘Oh man. What is… oh that’s not good, that’s not good at all.’
‘Fuck me that’s nasty.
‘I did not need to see that.’
‘Yep. It’s a head.’
‘It’s a head.’
‘OK. Fine. Lets get some more chai.’
Varanasi. Benares. Kashi. One of the world’s oldest living cities on the banks of the Ganges, covered in heroin and cow shit. It’s like being in Hades when the carnival’s in town.
Most people come to Varanasi to burn, or to watch as the charred torsos of their friends and loved ones are stoked back into the flames. We were at Manikarnika Ghat, the main ‘burning ghat’ in the old city, watching 12 funeral pyres and trying to smoke without inhaling.
The funeral pyres are the main event in Varanasi, for both tourist and participant, and so popular are cremations here that bodies burn 24 hours a day. Thousands of people also come to bathe in the river, pay puja, wash clothes and occasionally buffalo, reflecting both life and death on the surface of the same murky water. The Ganges. Spiritual, slow, and so polluted in Varanasi it’s officially septic.
I’m staying in at the guesthouse today to fight monkeys. Varanasi’s full of them, and small armies parade the ledges, rooftops and every corner of crumbling brick. They steal everything, and I can’t help but picture them in old cloth caps, ragged shorts and torn jackets. One day I’ll see them all singing in chorus about selling roses or picking pockets, I swear it happens somewhere around here.
On my first day in Varanasi I woke up to find a 3ft monkey sitting at the foot of my bed stealing biscuits. I shrieked, he shrieked back, and when I stood up he ran and sat on the wall outside my door, chewing slowly. For three days now I’ve been under siege in sporadic West Side Story style attacks, and this morning I made my stand with who I guess was the leader, a thick set bully with scars down his face.
I stood as tall as I could, made aggressive grunting noises and I stamped my feet, picturing myself ripping his throat out. The bluff worked, he actually flinched, and then barred his teeth and backed away. I think precedence has been now set, I’m a much bigger monkey. With much stronger arms and a metal stick I can grip between opposable thumbs.
My guesthouse is on Kedar Ghat, in the quieter south side of the old city, and from my doorway I can sit and watch the Ganges curving like a slow, fat snake. Pointing its fangs northeast so it can lick the side of the sunset.
Directly opposite my room, on the other side of the river, is a horizon of brilliant white sand. Submerged as the riverbed during high tide and monsoon, it’s a faceless shadow of Varanasi’s overcrowded ruins and high sandstone walls. It’s empty, beautiful and foreboding, and its contrast defines the city.
The Hindus believe Varanasi is a cross over point, a portal, a gateway between worlds, and there is an established sense of transience here. Like in a waiting room, only one where you’d be sitting patiently between Elvis and Hitler.
Varanasi survives through an ‘off with her head’ sense of humour, that unpredictable blend frivolity and menace. Like a dark fantasy film that that still gets a PG rating. I’m half expecting to end up in a knife fight over precious, or to turn round a corner and be presented by 100 identical wicker laundry baskets, one of which may or may not contain a kidnapped Karen Allen.
Dark eyes surround you without asking here. The small cobbled streets are a permanent distraction, full of melodramas, mischief and the acrid smell of opiates. I should feel fear, I should be afraid of the dark rags hiding in the corner, but I’m not. It’s too ghoulish to be scary, too fantastic to be any real threat. It’s as terrifying and tame as the perfect Halloween.
The sun is giving up for the day and so are the monkeys. I am too, it’s time for food and the comforts of the evening. Varanasi’s a fearsome yet inspiring place, its only betrayal is the river and the damage done.
Bill Hicks once described the human race as ‘a virus with shoes’, but underneath the vile and putrid surfaces of both our own nature and the nature we’ve polluted, there’s still beauty. The face of god is hiding there somewhere, you’ve just got to see it.
Even in Varanasi there’s still three times a day when the Ganga isn’t visibly swimming in shit. Dawn, dusk and when electricity abandons the city. All you can see then is fire.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Logan’s run
As Jenny bit down on another fried chicken’s foot, he explained to me the secret of having such perfectly shaped breasts.
‘You need good surgeon’ he smiled, white bone and marrow sticking to his top lip, ‘and good course hormone therapy. But all this cost money, the best cost money.’ I waited for the pitch, the inevitable come on, the real reason we’re talking.
‘You must be rich man to become beautiful woman. You must be rich man to enjoy beautiful woman. This body no come free. You think I beautiful woman?’ There it is, no escape, and it only took him 15 minutes.
I’m in Bangkok renewing my visa and my opinion of the country has changed, Thailand is grim. I came here 4 years ago and loved it, now its 3am, the two English boys I met earlier are seducing prostitutes in a nearby restaurant, and I’ve escaped to the street for noodles and solace.
After half a bowl in walks Jenny, 6ft plus with dyed hair and no grace, and the conversation turns quickly from countries to cun… anyway, now there’s more than MSG leaving a bad taste in my mouth.
So why am I uncomfortable here? What’s the problem? ‘How can you not love South East Asia Ed, its just like sooooo beautiful?’ Well, substance abuse, spiders, the Khmer Rouge and the conversation I’m having with Jenny for a start, but if you need more then I’ll give you the list:
1) Skype account users – Stop shouting, it’s only a camera and a phone. The entire fucking world does not need to hear you shriek uncontrollably at your equally as annoying family. Lower your voice, no one else is interested.
2) Chang Beer vests or t-shirts – Publicly admitting that you drink formaldehyde is not big and not clever. It’s like shouting with your mouth full. That’s all you’re doing lads, understand and move on.
3) Drunk Thai women on the Khao San Road – Imagine the bastard child of a pit bull and that hooker from Full Metal Jacket, waking up after a night with the heating left on. I have never seen so many teeth bared in anger, frightening.
4) Youngun’s – Fuck me but is everyone else here 18 years old or what? The novelty wore off after I realised that in 5 years time I’ll be literally twice their age. Grey chest hairs never made me feel so old.
5) Bar girls – Bored women in short skirts, sitting at the entrance of empty bars frowning into their mobiles. It’s supposed to entice me in but it makes me feel like a deer hunter.
6) Awkward first dates, the Thai ‘girlfriend experience’ – Take one girl from point 5 and one boy from point 2. Fix a price and then sit them in embarrassing silences at the table next to me every breakfast, lunch and dinner. A store bought relationship with very cheap wrapping, the sex must be ghastly.
7) Air Con addicts – The line I hear over and over in shared taxis and minivans, ‘quick, shut the doors and the windows. I want to put the air conditioning on.’ Idiots, each and every one.
There you go, one for every day of the week. But there’s a much darker side to The Land of Smiles, a protruding underbelly that rubs its indulgent flesh in a truly gross manner. Sex. And the tourism dollar it so openly invites.
Thailand sells its women. It sells its children too. In my short time here I have seen enough rough prostitution and public acts of ‘grooming’ to make me scratch my eyes out and be done with it. It’s everywhere, everyday. Slave traders and Joseph Fritzels welcomed with drinks promotions. And no one seems to care, apparently its just business as usual.
I could tell you stories; the two men at the Gas Station bar, the 10 year old girl by the waterfall, the Jack Russell in smeared make up offering ‘suck fucks’ for breakfast, but they’re all pretty stomach churning. So I’ll sum it all up with the over 50’s German man in a guesthouse north of Pai.
I was cycling to a renowned viewpoint, 6k straight up, and had stopped off near the top for a final refreshment hit. The German was huffing his fat load up from his table and over to the counter, to pay his bill of ‘two beers and one ice cream’. He was the only other customer in the restaurant, and as he led his Thai child companion back to his bungalow I looked over open mouthed at the owner. He just shrugged and turned his back. I left without finishing or paying.
But my Blog’s about India right, where sex is no stranger, and between the Karma Sutra and Shiv Sena no one knows what to do with Valentine’s Day. But whilst social reformers there still battle antiquated ideals, even in the cosmopolitan cities such as Calcutta, Mumbai and Bangalore, running through the country is an undercurrent of respect. Respect for one’s culture and respect for one’s kin. Something I didn’t feel in the Thailand I saw.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like disliking Thailand, and I’m trying not to compare, but my belly hurts from dry retching and I’m sick to go home. Back to India, back to England, back to the places I trust. Away from the cattle and the casualties, and the countrymen who make me ashamed to say ‘British’. Away from the Jennies, the pimps and the pushers, and all those money hungry faces that see more in the pound than I ever do.
Hang on, where is Jenny? Ah, there he is. Batting fake eyelashes to a much more receptive trick on the table behind us. Its seems Thailand is rejecting me back, and perhaps its for the best. So I’ll just sit here staying politely unnoticed, counting hours and rehearsing one very big sigh of relief. Mai pen rai.
‘You need good surgeon’ he smiled, white bone and marrow sticking to his top lip, ‘and good course hormone therapy. But all this cost money, the best cost money.’ I waited for the pitch, the inevitable come on, the real reason we’re talking.
‘You must be rich man to become beautiful woman. You must be rich man to enjoy beautiful woman. This body no come free. You think I beautiful woman?’ There it is, no escape, and it only took him 15 minutes.
I’m in Bangkok renewing my visa and my opinion of the country has changed, Thailand is grim. I came here 4 years ago and loved it, now its 3am, the two English boys I met earlier are seducing prostitutes in a nearby restaurant, and I’ve escaped to the street for noodles and solace.
After half a bowl in walks Jenny, 6ft plus with dyed hair and no grace, and the conversation turns quickly from countries to cun… anyway, now there’s more than MSG leaving a bad taste in my mouth.
So why am I uncomfortable here? What’s the problem? ‘How can you not love South East Asia Ed, its just like sooooo beautiful?’ Well, substance abuse, spiders, the Khmer Rouge and the conversation I’m having with Jenny for a start, but if you need more then I’ll give you the list:
1) Skype account users – Stop shouting, it’s only a camera and a phone. The entire fucking world does not need to hear you shriek uncontrollably at your equally as annoying family. Lower your voice, no one else is interested.
2) Chang Beer vests or t-shirts – Publicly admitting that you drink formaldehyde is not big and not clever. It’s like shouting with your mouth full. That’s all you’re doing lads, understand and move on.
3) Drunk Thai women on the Khao San Road – Imagine the bastard child of a pit bull and that hooker from Full Metal Jacket, waking up after a night with the heating left on. I have never seen so many teeth bared in anger, frightening.
4) Youngun’s – Fuck me but is everyone else here 18 years old or what? The novelty wore off after I realised that in 5 years time I’ll be literally twice their age. Grey chest hairs never made me feel so old.
5) Bar girls – Bored women in short skirts, sitting at the entrance of empty bars frowning into their mobiles. It’s supposed to entice me in but it makes me feel like a deer hunter.
6) Awkward first dates, the Thai ‘girlfriend experience’ – Take one girl from point 5 and one boy from point 2. Fix a price and then sit them in embarrassing silences at the table next to me every breakfast, lunch and dinner. A store bought relationship with very cheap wrapping, the sex must be ghastly.
7) Air Con addicts – The line I hear over and over in shared taxis and minivans, ‘quick, shut the doors and the windows. I want to put the air conditioning on.’ Idiots, each and every one.
There you go, one for every day of the week. But there’s a much darker side to The Land of Smiles, a protruding underbelly that rubs its indulgent flesh in a truly gross manner. Sex. And the tourism dollar it so openly invites.
Thailand sells its women. It sells its children too. In my short time here I have seen enough rough prostitution and public acts of ‘grooming’ to make me scratch my eyes out and be done with it. It’s everywhere, everyday. Slave traders and Joseph Fritzels welcomed with drinks promotions. And no one seems to care, apparently its just business as usual.
I could tell you stories; the two men at the Gas Station bar, the 10 year old girl by the waterfall, the Jack Russell in smeared make up offering ‘suck fucks’ for breakfast, but they’re all pretty stomach churning. So I’ll sum it all up with the over 50’s German man in a guesthouse north of Pai.
I was cycling to a renowned viewpoint, 6k straight up, and had stopped off near the top for a final refreshment hit. The German was huffing his fat load up from his table and over to the counter, to pay his bill of ‘two beers and one ice cream’. He was the only other customer in the restaurant, and as he led his Thai child companion back to his bungalow I looked over open mouthed at the owner. He just shrugged and turned his back. I left without finishing or paying.
But my Blog’s about India right, where sex is no stranger, and between the Karma Sutra and Shiv Sena no one knows what to do with Valentine’s Day. But whilst social reformers there still battle antiquated ideals, even in the cosmopolitan cities such as Calcutta, Mumbai and Bangalore, running through the country is an undercurrent of respect. Respect for one’s culture and respect for one’s kin. Something I didn’t feel in the Thailand I saw.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like disliking Thailand, and I’m trying not to compare, but my belly hurts from dry retching and I’m sick to go home. Back to India, back to England, back to the places I trust. Away from the cattle and the casualties, and the countrymen who make me ashamed to say ‘British’. Away from the Jennies, the pimps and the pushers, and all those money hungry faces that see more in the pound than I ever do.
Hang on, where is Jenny? Ah, there he is. Batting fake eyelashes to a much more receptive trick on the table behind us. Its seems Thailand is rejecting me back, and perhaps its for the best. So I’ll just sit here staying politely unnoticed, counting hours and rehearsing one very big sigh of relief. Mai pen rai.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The only living white boy in Chennai
They’re fat. These people are all really, really fat. Obese and obscene, like plump sweaty sausages squeezing themselves through the doors of an air conditioned coach. Digital camera necklaces and sandal/sock combos. It’s like watching a Gary Larson cartoon come to life and squirm around on the tarmac.
I’m outside the San Thome Cathedral Bastillica in Chennai (formerly Madras), and a VIP bus has just pulled into the car park. After hiding in a corner, roughly for the duration of some over zealous tour guide rhetoric, the doors have opened and it’s overweight army are waddling into the sun. There’s something very uncomfortable about the whole exercise, but I’m transfixed. Glued to my front row seat for this evolutionary car crash derby.
Chennai is a good place to explore God, ‘whatever you conceive him to be’, and a multitude of faiths stream in on personal pilgrimages every day. I’m in the city researching religion for a book I’m writing, a one stop shop of today’s most fashionable religions, and San Thome Cathedral is first on my list.
Although linked to Rome, San Thome is smaller than I imagined it to be. A significant Christian site, the Cathedral Basticallica is the final resting place of Saint ‘Doubting’ Thomas, the only one of twelve who questioned his Lord’s death‘n’resurrection trick.
Apparently, after a quick look at Jesus’ wounds Thomas was finally convinced, and went out preaching about the foolish dip in faith he’d suffered. Sadly, before his change of heart could be officially verified, he died from an unfortunate spear though the back, but immortalised with a sainthood and the elaborate tomb I’m sitting outside. No one does PR like the church eh?
After San Thome I’m off to the Kapaleeswarar Temple, a renowned Hindi place of worship and one of Chennai’s busiest religious attractions. Kapaleeswarat was debatably built in the 7th century, by either the Pallova or Vijayanagara Empire, but with a 37m tall hand carved gopuram (Google it) who really cares?
Then it’s round the corner to the Universal Temple, my favourite name of the day, where the Sri Ramakrishna Math run around doing all the things that Hare Krishna’s do when they’re not flogging books, flowers and incense.
And for Chennai’s grand existential finale, it’s a short, ish, walk over the Adyar Bridge to the mysterious Theosophical Society International Headquarters. A worldwide organisation that, although sounding like a bond villain’s networking luncheon, petitions the globe aiming to ‘draw together people of goodwill whatever their religious opinions’ and ‘see every religion as an expression of Divine Wisdom and prefer its study to its condemnation’. Fair enough, sounds very sensible. Let’s see how well that’s working out for them then.
Chennai’s religious heritage is an obvious draw to the city, and tour operators cash in on redemption whenever they can. I have my reasons for being here, and these Air-Con anthropologists taking pictures of the bus they’ve just sat on, they no doubt have theirs. But before God blessed us all with brochures and guidebooks, India’s now 4th largest city has seen foreigners before, and some with much darker agendas.
Stay with me, a little background history…
Sitting on the Bay of Bengal, that’s down and to the right if you need a point of reference, Chennai was originally a cluster of small farming communities.
Domestic dynasties such as the Pallava, the Chola, the Pandya and Vijaynagar all had controlling interests in the region, before the British East India Trading Company were granted land by the Nayak of Vandavasi in 1693 to establish factories, trading routes and permanent settlement.
This was the beginning of the end for domestic control in Chennai, but even before the Brits turned up to, cough, cough, erm… trade, the Dutch and the Portuguese had already left their claw marks on the walls.
So when Queen Victoria finally got her slice of the pie, she quickly set her boys to work building Fort St George. The epicentre of the new colonial city, and a dramatic establishment of the crown’s presence in India.
For half a century Britannia ruled unchallenged. Then in 1746 those damn Frenchies decided to have a pop and succeeded in kicking the Empire’s ass. Three years and lots of dead bodies later, the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle gave control back to the British and sent the French down la rue to Pondicherry. A place south of Chennai that to this day has French road signs and baguettes on tap.
Independence gave Chennai back to India in 1947, and today it’s a manufacturing powerhouse and home to India’s second largest film industry, Kollywood. Europe’s legacy here was questionable. Lots of trade, religion and bloodshed, our foreign policy in a nutshell. But it also left new wealth, infrastructure and education. The pro’s and con’s of occupation creating both a moral see saw and a silent responsibility to understanding the city.
So sitting here, watching ‘the white man’ and his ‘burden’ get back into their tour bus, I can’t help but feel scorn for the detached way this group have chosen to ‘experience India’. Too scared to buy chai or talk to a stranger, I find it hard to see what they’ve gained from coming here at all. Sure, they have their pictures, they have their stories, they have something to boast about when they watch Slumdog Millionaire. But from Chennai, from today, all they’ve really left with are digital stills of an old statue in a Plexiglas case.
I’m outside the San Thome Cathedral Bastillica in Chennai (formerly Madras), and a VIP bus has just pulled into the car park. After hiding in a corner, roughly for the duration of some over zealous tour guide rhetoric, the doors have opened and it’s overweight army are waddling into the sun. There’s something very uncomfortable about the whole exercise, but I’m transfixed. Glued to my front row seat for this evolutionary car crash derby.
Chennai is a good place to explore God, ‘whatever you conceive him to be’, and a multitude of faiths stream in on personal pilgrimages every day. I’m in the city researching religion for a book I’m writing, a one stop shop of today’s most fashionable religions, and San Thome Cathedral is first on my list.
Although linked to Rome, San Thome is smaller than I imagined it to be. A significant Christian site, the Cathedral Basticallica is the final resting place of Saint ‘Doubting’ Thomas, the only one of twelve who questioned his Lord’s death‘n’resurrection trick.
Apparently, after a quick look at Jesus’ wounds Thomas was finally convinced, and went out preaching about the foolish dip in faith he’d suffered. Sadly, before his change of heart could be officially verified, he died from an unfortunate spear though the back, but immortalised with a sainthood and the elaborate tomb I’m sitting outside. No one does PR like the church eh?
After San Thome I’m off to the Kapaleeswarar Temple, a renowned Hindi place of worship and one of Chennai’s busiest religious attractions. Kapaleeswarat was debatably built in the 7th century, by either the Pallova or Vijayanagara Empire, but with a 37m tall hand carved gopuram (Google it) who really cares?
Then it’s round the corner to the Universal Temple, my favourite name of the day, where the Sri Ramakrishna Math run around doing all the things that Hare Krishna’s do when they’re not flogging books, flowers and incense.
And for Chennai’s grand existential finale, it’s a short, ish, walk over the Adyar Bridge to the mysterious Theosophical Society International Headquarters. A worldwide organisation that, although sounding like a bond villain’s networking luncheon, petitions the globe aiming to ‘draw together people of goodwill whatever their religious opinions’ and ‘see every religion as an expression of Divine Wisdom and prefer its study to its condemnation’. Fair enough, sounds very sensible. Let’s see how well that’s working out for them then.
Chennai’s religious heritage is an obvious draw to the city, and tour operators cash in on redemption whenever they can. I have my reasons for being here, and these Air-Con anthropologists taking pictures of the bus they’ve just sat on, they no doubt have theirs. But before God blessed us all with brochures and guidebooks, India’s now 4th largest city has seen foreigners before, and some with much darker agendas.
Stay with me, a little background history…
Sitting on the Bay of Bengal, that’s down and to the right if you need a point of reference, Chennai was originally a cluster of small farming communities.
Domestic dynasties such as the Pallava, the Chola, the Pandya and Vijaynagar all had controlling interests in the region, before the British East India Trading Company were granted land by the Nayak of Vandavasi in 1693 to establish factories, trading routes and permanent settlement.
This was the beginning of the end for domestic control in Chennai, but even before the Brits turned up to, cough, cough, erm… trade, the Dutch and the Portuguese had already left their claw marks on the walls.
So when Queen Victoria finally got her slice of the pie, she quickly set her boys to work building Fort St George. The epicentre of the new colonial city, and a dramatic establishment of the crown’s presence in India.
For half a century Britannia ruled unchallenged. Then in 1746 those damn Frenchies decided to have a pop and succeeded in kicking the Empire’s ass. Three years and lots of dead bodies later, the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle gave control back to the British and sent the French down la rue to Pondicherry. A place south of Chennai that to this day has French road signs and baguettes on tap.
Independence gave Chennai back to India in 1947, and today it’s a manufacturing powerhouse and home to India’s second largest film industry, Kollywood. Europe’s legacy here was questionable. Lots of trade, religion and bloodshed, our foreign policy in a nutshell. But it also left new wealth, infrastructure and education. The pro’s and con’s of occupation creating both a moral see saw and a silent responsibility to understanding the city.
So sitting here, watching ‘the white man’ and his ‘burden’ get back into their tour bus, I can’t help but feel scorn for the detached way this group have chosen to ‘experience India’. Too scared to buy chai or talk to a stranger, I find it hard to see what they’ve gained from coming here at all. Sure, they have their pictures, they have their stories, they have something to boast about when they watch Slumdog Millionaire. But from Chennai, from today, all they’ve really left with are digital stills of an old statue in a Plexiglas case.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Goodnight sweetheart
They’re burying my Nan today and I’m on a bus 4,500 miles from where they’ll be holding the funeral. It’s going to be a small service, by the graveside. She was 94. Most of the people she knew are already dead.
I spoke to my mum yesterday to wish her good luck and to tell her I’ll be thinking of everyone. She was sitting in her kitchen surrounded by the young girls of our family, my niece and my cousin’s eldest daughter, both shouting and running, excited at all the attention. I was in an Internet booth killing mosquitoes. Ironic really, the females only bite so they can give birth to their young.
I won’t be going home for the funeral. Everyone said not to travel but it was my sister and I who made the final decision. I was standing in the doorway of my friend’s café in Kochi, watching the early monsoon rain and shouting into my mobile. My sister’s stronger than me, I feel safe knowing that she’ll be there for mum.
This bus has been going over The Western Ghats for about three hours now, but it’s hard to tell in the heat. The view is beautiful, but all I can see are the steep drops by the side of the road. I’ve been thinking a lot. The significance of family will not leave my mind today.
I come from what the eighties coined a ‘broken home’, a term that’s lost its impact back in the UK. My parents divorced when I was 4 and it was generally understood that it was the right thing to do. I’m glad they did, they needed to separate. By the time they split up ours was not the happiest of homes.
When I was a teenager I didn’t speak to my father for several years. My choice, his fault. We’re friends again now, a good end result, and when he’s strong I value his opinion above most other men’s in the world. He’s a writer too, along with my face I get that from him.
My sister had a daughter 2 ½ years ago with a man she’s been with for another 5. I could never hold down relationships and I’m thankful of these new additions to my life. I love them both very much, although I don’t say it enough.
My Grandma, on my father’s side, raised me and my sister in the absence of her son. She’s a strong woman, pragmatic to the core, and our weekly Wednesday dinners have been one of the most rewarding regularities of my adult life. When I was young and in trouble her doorstep was my default port of call.
Outside of my immediate family I have cousins, uncles and aunts dotted around the UK and abroad, although my mum’s sister died unexpectedly in May last year. They love me and I them, and it is my constant regret that I don’t know them all better. I’m working on this but it takes space, commitment and time. As does everything else that I want.
Through these people and my friends, the brothers and sisters I have chosen for myself, I am surrounded by love. I’m lucky, very lucky, I’ve known those who were less fortunate.
When I was growing up I had a friend and for the sake of anonymity we’ll call him Simon. We got close, into trouble, fucked up on drugs, and eventually not in the good way. I leant then that you should never underestimate the power of familiarity and denial.
Both our minds went to mush before we turned 18 and I dove straight to the bottom of a bottle of Vodka. Simon rested his head on the shoulders of heroin. When it got serious my mum locked me in a room for a month and made all the appropriate calls. I don’t know where Simon is now, he didn’t have the support I did.
And as for my mother, she’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever known. She’s my best friend as well as my parent and role model. I can’t write how much I love her so I won’t even try, besides the one who needs to know this already does. I owe her my life, all the parts that matter anyway, and now she’s an orphan I’ll do whatever I can to make sure she feels loved.
When it comes down to it family is what you make it. In India the old live with the young and those in between take care of them both. England is different, not better or worse, just not like it is here. In the UK families are more fragmented, and you have to work harder to involve yourselves in each other’s lives. It took me a long time to realise that the world didn’t owe me any favours, but now that I do I will fight tooth and nail to keep close those that I love.
The funeral’s taking place in about 7 hours time and my Uncle’s doing the reading, he holds humanist services and is the right man for the job. I’ll be in a new town, looking for a new place to stay and new company to distract me. Strange people and places to help me forget what my lifestyle makes me sacrifice.
Sometimes it’s hard being away but I’m thankful that I went to see my Nan before I left last year. She was on great form, I got a big hug and many words of advice. I think she knew, looking back I think I did too.
A few weeks ago I was in Hampi, Karnataka’s ancient capital of the Vijayanagara Empire, and I overheard a ‘traveller’ from Bristol imparting his knowledge of the East to a couple of young Swedish girls. He had white lips, loose change and an unhealthy attitude to amphetamines.
‘India’s like nowhere else in the world,’ he preached over coffee, ‘it’s so different, it’s so raw, it’s so real. You see life and death everyday here. Not like in Europe.’
Yeah right mate, shut and wake the fuck up.
I spoke to my mum yesterday to wish her good luck and to tell her I’ll be thinking of everyone. She was sitting in her kitchen surrounded by the young girls of our family, my niece and my cousin’s eldest daughter, both shouting and running, excited at all the attention. I was in an Internet booth killing mosquitoes. Ironic really, the females only bite so they can give birth to their young.
I won’t be going home for the funeral. Everyone said not to travel but it was my sister and I who made the final decision. I was standing in the doorway of my friend’s café in Kochi, watching the early monsoon rain and shouting into my mobile. My sister’s stronger than me, I feel safe knowing that she’ll be there for mum.
This bus has been going over The Western Ghats for about three hours now, but it’s hard to tell in the heat. The view is beautiful, but all I can see are the steep drops by the side of the road. I’ve been thinking a lot. The significance of family will not leave my mind today.
I come from what the eighties coined a ‘broken home’, a term that’s lost its impact back in the UK. My parents divorced when I was 4 and it was generally understood that it was the right thing to do. I’m glad they did, they needed to separate. By the time they split up ours was not the happiest of homes.
When I was a teenager I didn’t speak to my father for several years. My choice, his fault. We’re friends again now, a good end result, and when he’s strong I value his opinion above most other men’s in the world. He’s a writer too, along with my face I get that from him.
My sister had a daughter 2 ½ years ago with a man she’s been with for another 5. I could never hold down relationships and I’m thankful of these new additions to my life. I love them both very much, although I don’t say it enough.
My Grandma, on my father’s side, raised me and my sister in the absence of her son. She’s a strong woman, pragmatic to the core, and our weekly Wednesday dinners have been one of the most rewarding regularities of my adult life. When I was young and in trouble her doorstep was my default port of call.
Outside of my immediate family I have cousins, uncles and aunts dotted around the UK and abroad, although my mum’s sister died unexpectedly in May last year. They love me and I them, and it is my constant regret that I don’t know them all better. I’m working on this but it takes space, commitment and time. As does everything else that I want.
Through these people and my friends, the brothers and sisters I have chosen for myself, I am surrounded by love. I’m lucky, very lucky, I’ve known those who were less fortunate.
When I was growing up I had a friend and for the sake of anonymity we’ll call him Simon. We got close, into trouble, fucked up on drugs, and eventually not in the good way. I leant then that you should never underestimate the power of familiarity and denial.
Both our minds went to mush before we turned 18 and I dove straight to the bottom of a bottle of Vodka. Simon rested his head on the shoulders of heroin. When it got serious my mum locked me in a room for a month and made all the appropriate calls. I don’t know where Simon is now, he didn’t have the support I did.
And as for my mother, she’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever known. She’s my best friend as well as my parent and role model. I can’t write how much I love her so I won’t even try, besides the one who needs to know this already does. I owe her my life, all the parts that matter anyway, and now she’s an orphan I’ll do whatever I can to make sure she feels loved.
When it comes down to it family is what you make it. In India the old live with the young and those in between take care of them both. England is different, not better or worse, just not like it is here. In the UK families are more fragmented, and you have to work harder to involve yourselves in each other’s lives. It took me a long time to realise that the world didn’t owe me any favours, but now that I do I will fight tooth and nail to keep close those that I love.
The funeral’s taking place in about 7 hours time and my Uncle’s doing the reading, he holds humanist services and is the right man for the job. I’ll be in a new town, looking for a new place to stay and new company to distract me. Strange people and places to help me forget what my lifestyle makes me sacrifice.
Sometimes it’s hard being away but I’m thankful that I went to see my Nan before I left last year. She was on great form, I got a big hug and many words of advice. I think she knew, looking back I think I did too.
A few weeks ago I was in Hampi, Karnataka’s ancient capital of the Vijayanagara Empire, and I overheard a ‘traveller’ from Bristol imparting his knowledge of the East to a couple of young Swedish girls. He had white lips, loose change and an unhealthy attitude to amphetamines.
‘India’s like nowhere else in the world,’ he preached over coffee, ‘it’s so different, it’s so raw, it’s so real. You see life and death everyday here. Not like in Europe.’
Yeah right mate, shut and wake the fuck up.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Not what I ordered
‘Prepared by an authentic Italian cock’ is the proud statement printed on each page of the menu. And at over 200 rupees a pizza, I would expect nothing less.
I’m in what The Lonely Planet calls ‘The best Italian restaurant in Goa’ and I am getting ready to order, hoping to God and Shiva this is another Indian/English mistranslation. If not, I’m skipping dessert. No matter how good the ice cream is.
Sometimes India’s spelling is a joke. The beach town I’m in is Palolem on the signpost, Pollem on the bus stand and Pallollem on the postcards. I’ve forgotten the number of times I’ve been asked to ‘Exist by front door’, ‘Handle with clare’ or ‘Not wank on the grass’. It’s like we’re all speaking in a different language in this country.
To be honest it’s a mess, and as funny as it can be, until its sorted out India will never be the global player she is so hungry to become. Look at history’s other emerging nations, it’s an anthropological fact.
The communication problem stems from having 418 languages, with only 22 of them recognised by the official Indian constitution. Then, depending on who you ask, there are anything up to a further 2,000 regional dialects. Which although unofficially chartered, are the day to day native tongue spoken by communities across the country.
Give the dissemination of this variety to greedy state based politicians, who never miss the chance to kick about another political football, and you find yourself standing on the sidelines watching a game that simply cannot be won.
The Shiv Sena (excuse me whilst I dry wretch into a bucket) are the Maharashtrian masters at this, but other regions can be just as stubborn when it comes to interstate communication. And until somebody somewhere is prepared to compromise on this issue, the wheel will spin around and around keeping India confused and distracted.
The two main languages in India are Hindi and English, with Hindi cited as the post independence national tongue. But try talking Hindi in Tamil Nadu and see how far it gets you, you’ll be sitting on the wrong bus before you can say Nandri.
English still features heavily in the big cities and tourism trails, but when your waiter is a tired 16 year old from Bangladesh, pointing and nodding is often your best bet. I bluff my way through it, relying on gesticulation and a big smile, but I’ve sat in more than one restaurant watching people lose it over ‘POTOATO WEDGES!!!!’
The obvious truth is that India needs to decide upon and enforce a priority language, taught to all children as standard. Underpin this with extended educational programmes, reaching out to the villages as well as the cities, and over time the changes will show. I’m not saying forget about the regional dialects, cultural diversity is an important part of India’s heritage, just accept the fact that arguments over shop signs should take a second row seat to creating a unified population.
Also the caste system needs to be eradicated, properly eradicated, and each child needs to feel that they are a respected Indian National. Pride and ambition should be a birthright to all, not just a few.
Finally, the self-motivated infighting political ‘bag men’ need to forever fuck off and leave India to become all that she can be, one of the most inspirational nations on the planet. Sorry for cursing but its true.
The financial turncoats in positions of power have been squeezing their own country’s throat for over 60 years now, and it’s about time they stepped down and let her breathe again. Congress’ corruption is a major thorn in India’s side, and their inefficiency at rectifying basic domestic problems is an insult to the party’s founder. Sort it Dr Singh, sort it now.
So as I debate the taste of anchovy on my ‘slice of Italy in India’, I watch a young Brit trying to explain the importance of matching wine glasses to her waiter. He’s nodding politely but I can see his brain thinking in Konkani ‘…I don’t understand what she wants, they’ve already got clean glasses?’
She’s losing patience and starts speaking faster and faster, the waiter nodding ferociously to keep up. It’s all seems futile, but I know these two will stick it out and fight their way through the language barrier. She wants what she wants, and he wants to get paid for it.
And although I’m not surrounded by India’s most representational demographic, wealthy INR’s on holiday and ex-pats in exile, I guess its reassuring that at least money talks in this country. Eventually.
I’m in what The Lonely Planet calls ‘The best Italian restaurant in Goa’ and I am getting ready to order, hoping to God and Shiva this is another Indian/English mistranslation. If not, I’m skipping dessert. No matter how good the ice cream is.
Sometimes India’s spelling is a joke. The beach town I’m in is Palolem on the signpost, Pollem on the bus stand and Pallollem on the postcards. I’ve forgotten the number of times I’ve been asked to ‘Exist by front door’, ‘Handle with clare’ or ‘Not wank on the grass’. It’s like we’re all speaking in a different language in this country.
To be honest it’s a mess, and as funny as it can be, until its sorted out India will never be the global player she is so hungry to become. Look at history’s other emerging nations, it’s an anthropological fact.
The communication problem stems from having 418 languages, with only 22 of them recognised by the official Indian constitution. Then, depending on who you ask, there are anything up to a further 2,000 regional dialects. Which although unofficially chartered, are the day to day native tongue spoken by communities across the country.
Give the dissemination of this variety to greedy state based politicians, who never miss the chance to kick about another political football, and you find yourself standing on the sidelines watching a game that simply cannot be won.
The Shiv Sena (excuse me whilst I dry wretch into a bucket) are the Maharashtrian masters at this, but other regions can be just as stubborn when it comes to interstate communication. And until somebody somewhere is prepared to compromise on this issue, the wheel will spin around and around keeping India confused and distracted.
The two main languages in India are Hindi and English, with Hindi cited as the post independence national tongue. But try talking Hindi in Tamil Nadu and see how far it gets you, you’ll be sitting on the wrong bus before you can say Nandri.
English still features heavily in the big cities and tourism trails, but when your waiter is a tired 16 year old from Bangladesh, pointing and nodding is often your best bet. I bluff my way through it, relying on gesticulation and a big smile, but I’ve sat in more than one restaurant watching people lose it over ‘POTOATO WEDGES!!!!’
The obvious truth is that India needs to decide upon and enforce a priority language, taught to all children as standard. Underpin this with extended educational programmes, reaching out to the villages as well as the cities, and over time the changes will show. I’m not saying forget about the regional dialects, cultural diversity is an important part of India’s heritage, just accept the fact that arguments over shop signs should take a second row seat to creating a unified population.
Also the caste system needs to be eradicated, properly eradicated, and each child needs to feel that they are a respected Indian National. Pride and ambition should be a birthright to all, not just a few.
Finally, the self-motivated infighting political ‘bag men’ need to forever fuck off and leave India to become all that she can be, one of the most inspirational nations on the planet. Sorry for cursing but its true.
The financial turncoats in positions of power have been squeezing their own country’s throat for over 60 years now, and it’s about time they stepped down and let her breathe again. Congress’ corruption is a major thorn in India’s side, and their inefficiency at rectifying basic domestic problems is an insult to the party’s founder. Sort it Dr Singh, sort it now.
So as I debate the taste of anchovy on my ‘slice of Italy in India’, I watch a young Brit trying to explain the importance of matching wine glasses to her waiter. He’s nodding politely but I can see his brain thinking in Konkani ‘…I don’t understand what she wants, they’ve already got clean glasses?’
She’s losing patience and starts speaking faster and faster, the waiter nodding ferociously to keep up. It’s all seems futile, but I know these two will stick it out and fight their way through the language barrier. She wants what she wants, and he wants to get paid for it.
And although I’m not surrounded by India’s most representational demographic, wealthy INR’s on holiday and ex-pats in exile, I guess its reassuring that at least money talks in this country. Eventually.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Cold feet in Munnar
I woke up angry today. No wait, scratch that. I woke up cold today. And the cold makes me angry, like a miniature hulk you wouldn’t like me in winter. Don’t believe me? Ask around.
I’m in Munnar, one of the well visited hill stations in South India, and all around me are the landscapes of legends. Its superlative, superlative, swearword-stunning. That jaw-to-the-floor cartoon wolf whistle type of stunning, like Jessica Rabbit, or Daphne from Scooby Doo (although I’ve been told that’s just me).
The writer in me is inspired. I feel like Shelly out at sea, or Lord Byron walking through the mountains of Northern Italy. But in the mornings, which I struggle with at the best of times, I curse the craggy peaks for stealing my sun.
It gets cold here in the evenings too, very cold. My room gets no light and has a ruthless tile floor. Plus, there’s only ice water coming out of the taps whether its morning, noon or night. And I have an obsessive compulsion to shower at least twice a day, no matter what.
So I’m awake and I’m miserable, depressed with a kick, lying in bed wrapped up like a ball of twine in a sock draw. I eventually drag myself out from under the covers, F-and-Blind my way through the torments of washing and shiver up to the first floor, where the sun basks happily on people with a higher monthly budget. I perch on the railings, smoke a beadie and begin to thaw out.
A couple of minutes later I’m greeted by four sour faces, young home counties Brits (not you Amanda and Harriet) who have moved in and are obviously pissed off about sharing ‘their’ porch. They ignore me, but talk loudly about themselves and I feel myself wind up again, like an uncurled paper clip being squeezed around your little finger. I ignore them back but I’m forced to move when I hear that, ‘Chester has gone out to find something normal to eat.’ I kid you not, and his name really was Chester.
I flee to the food stall at the bottom of the street and console myself with an omelet. Eggs for breakfast, my one culinary vice. I’m munching my way through a disproportionate helping of ‘Bread Toast’ and I realise that once again I’ve sat down in bad company. The three Indian lads whose table I’ve gatecrashed are watching me closely and sniggering. I know it’s about me, this is not lonely paranoia, they make absolutely no bones to hide it. Even the guy cooking, a big dark man with huge smiles and hands, comes over and says something to them. They laugh it off, he’s a local. From their wristwatches and number plates I guess a rich Tamil family background.
The sniggering continues and I am reminded of being at school. Ostracised in the playground, outcast over some petty squabble. I eat in silence, finish too quickly, pay up politely and leave. Walking into town I scream muted obscenities at the world.
On the way I walk past the local school and immediately spot the flaw in my plan to remain unnoticed. Its lunchtime and three hundred children are flooding out of the front gates. Right into the road, right into me. Soft targets for the oncoming dangers of belligerent human steering.
Now being white in India you are obviously in the minority, therefore you get noticed. It’s not a race thing, it’s a difference thing (well sometimes it’s a race thing but there are idiots all over the world), like a new shop on a high street or a new ride at a fun fair. People can be interested, curious. And children are the worst for it.
I hear about 15 voices behind me daring each other to say something.
‘Hello sir, hello sir. What is your country?’
I hate being called sir so I always answer back with the same formality, ‘England sir.’
A sea of confused tiny faces stare up at me.
‘And what country are you from?’ I ask.
‘INDIA!!!’ a chorus of proud confirmation explodes on the roadside. Sometimes adults seem offended by this question, but it can bring out the very best in children.
By now I have an entourage of about 25 school uniforms around me, the more daring at the front, with the shier ones, and the girls, watching from a safe distance. We go through the textbook questions and answers, they boast and practice their English, and I forget about the slim chance of being left alone.
Normal conversations dry up quickly so I challenge the boys to a competition to see who’s got the longest stride, knowing I can out stretch them all. They line up, feet and toes touching, and push themselves forward with such conviction that two of them instantly fall over. The tallest is the winner, as I had predicted, and he pesters me about cricket until we reach the bus stop.
As I am waving goodbye to the boys, and exchanging polite smiles with the girls, I notice that my morning’s anger has gone. I feel nothing, no frustration, no resentment. Nothing. Everything today has irritated me, and I’ve loathed everyone, but standing on the roadside exaggerating with my hands I feel strangely calm again.
I find India forces me to deal with people, and sometimes there is physically no escape from a conversation. Strangers here can involve themselves with you in a way that takes years of small talk in England. Its one of the reasons why I love this country so much, and at times its one of the most infuriating parts of being here. But learning to deal with it, to rattle the bars of my selfish cage, has over the years made me a much happier man.
The bus pulls away and I carry on walking into town, knowing I can’t be angry anymore today, not after meeting these children. When someone is so innocently eager to just stand there and look at you, you become acutely aware of your responsibilities to the world.
Hate breeds and anger spills over like a thick syrup, but so does love. And now these children can go home and tell their parents about the funny Englishman they met on their way home from school. And if the next one smiles at them the way I did, I believe the world will become a much warmer place in the mornings.
I’m in Munnar, one of the well visited hill stations in South India, and all around me are the landscapes of legends. Its superlative, superlative, swearword-stunning. That jaw-to-the-floor cartoon wolf whistle type of stunning, like Jessica Rabbit, or Daphne from Scooby Doo (although I’ve been told that’s just me).
The writer in me is inspired. I feel like Shelly out at sea, or Lord Byron walking through the mountains of Northern Italy. But in the mornings, which I struggle with at the best of times, I curse the craggy peaks for stealing my sun.
It gets cold here in the evenings too, very cold. My room gets no light and has a ruthless tile floor. Plus, there’s only ice water coming out of the taps whether its morning, noon or night. And I have an obsessive compulsion to shower at least twice a day, no matter what.
So I’m awake and I’m miserable, depressed with a kick, lying in bed wrapped up like a ball of twine in a sock draw. I eventually drag myself out from under the covers, F-and-Blind my way through the torments of washing and shiver up to the first floor, where the sun basks happily on people with a higher monthly budget. I perch on the railings, smoke a beadie and begin to thaw out.
A couple of minutes later I’m greeted by four sour faces, young home counties Brits (not you Amanda and Harriet) who have moved in and are obviously pissed off about sharing ‘their’ porch. They ignore me, but talk loudly about themselves and I feel myself wind up again, like an uncurled paper clip being squeezed around your little finger. I ignore them back but I’m forced to move when I hear that, ‘Chester has gone out to find something normal to eat.’ I kid you not, and his name really was Chester.
I flee to the food stall at the bottom of the street and console myself with an omelet. Eggs for breakfast, my one culinary vice. I’m munching my way through a disproportionate helping of ‘Bread Toast’ and I realise that once again I’ve sat down in bad company. The three Indian lads whose table I’ve gatecrashed are watching me closely and sniggering. I know it’s about me, this is not lonely paranoia, they make absolutely no bones to hide it. Even the guy cooking, a big dark man with huge smiles and hands, comes over and says something to them. They laugh it off, he’s a local. From their wristwatches and number plates I guess a rich Tamil family background.
The sniggering continues and I am reminded of being at school. Ostracised in the playground, outcast over some petty squabble. I eat in silence, finish too quickly, pay up politely and leave. Walking into town I scream muted obscenities at the world.
On the way I walk past the local school and immediately spot the flaw in my plan to remain unnoticed. Its lunchtime and three hundred children are flooding out of the front gates. Right into the road, right into me. Soft targets for the oncoming dangers of belligerent human steering.
Now being white in India you are obviously in the minority, therefore you get noticed. It’s not a race thing, it’s a difference thing (well sometimes it’s a race thing but there are idiots all over the world), like a new shop on a high street or a new ride at a fun fair. People can be interested, curious. And children are the worst for it.
I hear about 15 voices behind me daring each other to say something.
‘Hello sir, hello sir. What is your country?’
I hate being called sir so I always answer back with the same formality, ‘England sir.’
A sea of confused tiny faces stare up at me.
‘And what country are you from?’ I ask.
‘INDIA!!!’ a chorus of proud confirmation explodes on the roadside. Sometimes adults seem offended by this question, but it can bring out the very best in children.
By now I have an entourage of about 25 school uniforms around me, the more daring at the front, with the shier ones, and the girls, watching from a safe distance. We go through the textbook questions and answers, they boast and practice their English, and I forget about the slim chance of being left alone.
Normal conversations dry up quickly so I challenge the boys to a competition to see who’s got the longest stride, knowing I can out stretch them all. They line up, feet and toes touching, and push themselves forward with such conviction that two of them instantly fall over. The tallest is the winner, as I had predicted, and he pesters me about cricket until we reach the bus stop.
As I am waving goodbye to the boys, and exchanging polite smiles with the girls, I notice that my morning’s anger has gone. I feel nothing, no frustration, no resentment. Nothing. Everything today has irritated me, and I’ve loathed everyone, but standing on the roadside exaggerating with my hands I feel strangely calm again.
I find India forces me to deal with people, and sometimes there is physically no escape from a conversation. Strangers here can involve themselves with you in a way that takes years of small talk in England. Its one of the reasons why I love this country so much, and at times its one of the most infuriating parts of being here. But learning to deal with it, to rattle the bars of my selfish cage, has over the years made me a much happier man.
The bus pulls away and I carry on walking into town, knowing I can’t be angry anymore today, not after meeting these children. When someone is so innocently eager to just stand there and look at you, you become acutely aware of your responsibilities to the world.
Hate breeds and anger spills over like a thick syrup, but so does love. And now these children can go home and tell their parents about the funny Englishman they met on their way home from school. And if the next one smiles at them the way I did, I believe the world will become a much warmer place in the mornings.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Long distance traveller
Its 6am, I’m completely naked and the walls are shaking. There is soap in my eyes, my pants are stuffed behind a pipe and I’m terrified of falling into the squat toilet. It’s the end of a 16hour train journey and I’ve woken up to a wall of hot air making me sweat out a kidney, and I’m in desperate need of a fresh shirt and clean water on my back.
The trick to surviving long distance Indian train travel is comfort and cleanliness. I’ve found you can cope with any journey, even several in succession, if you stick to a few simple principles.
First, always take a pillow. An obvious one but too often overlooked.
Second, pack two blankets, one thick and one thin. I have a Tibetan shawl that is perfect for both hot and cold occasions, but any sensible combination will suffice.
Third, bring your own food and water. Major train stations have great places to eat so get your Tiffin box sorted before hand, otherwise you’re playing Russian roulette with the onboard food whallas.
Forth, bring books, iPods, travel games or anything you can do to pass the time. Kanyakumari to Delhi is a 50 hour non stop trip, I love India, but there’s only so much pre monsoon scrub a man can look at in a day.
Fifth, pack a bar of soap, a thin cloth, a pair of scissors and an empty plastic bottle into your accessible hand luggage. That’s right, an empty plastic bottle. Need an explanation? Go back to the naked, shaking, soap covered gora with his watchful eyes on the hole in the floor and all will be revealed, staying clean is the Valium of mornings.
There is no way that you’re going to wash your entire body with one litre of prepackaged drinking water. If it can be done, it can’t by me, and I doubt very thoroughly by anyone. But by making a simple container you can bucket wash your way next to godliness.
Cut off the top of the plastic bottle so you have a makeshift flask. Fill this up with water from the sink and slowly poor it down your back and front. Don’t go crazy, save that for the soap. Once you’re wet and suitably lathered, repeat the pouring action whilst rinsing your skin with your free hand. Indian train toilets are designed to drain water so don’t worry about flooding the floor. In short, go nuts.
Couple of useful pointers; it should take at least two flask fulls to wash your torso and three more to wash your limbs, swap hands to properly clean your opposing armpits, only use water from the sink tap if you can help it, and never, ever, EVER, put soap on the soles of your feet until the rest of your body is happily air drying. Nobody needs to experience the thrill of sliding around the inside of an Indian toilet at high speed to understand the importance of this maneuver.
Now you’re clean dry yourself with the thin cloth, get dressed and then dry the cloth by hanging it out of the open train door. India has a much more liberal approach to public health and safety and exploiting this can work to your advantage. All that’s left to do now is to get back to points one through to four and enjoy the rest of your journey.
Oh, one more quick tip. When you’re in an Indian toilet, stark bollock naked and covered in soap, lock the fucking door.
The trick to surviving long distance Indian train travel is comfort and cleanliness. I’ve found you can cope with any journey, even several in succession, if you stick to a few simple principles.
First, always take a pillow. An obvious one but too often overlooked.
Second, pack two blankets, one thick and one thin. I have a Tibetan shawl that is perfect for both hot and cold occasions, but any sensible combination will suffice.
Third, bring your own food and water. Major train stations have great places to eat so get your Tiffin box sorted before hand, otherwise you’re playing Russian roulette with the onboard food whallas.
Forth, bring books, iPods, travel games or anything you can do to pass the time. Kanyakumari to Delhi is a 50 hour non stop trip, I love India, but there’s only so much pre monsoon scrub a man can look at in a day.
Fifth, pack a bar of soap, a thin cloth, a pair of scissors and an empty plastic bottle into your accessible hand luggage. That’s right, an empty plastic bottle. Need an explanation? Go back to the naked, shaking, soap covered gora with his watchful eyes on the hole in the floor and all will be revealed, staying clean is the Valium of mornings.
There is no way that you’re going to wash your entire body with one litre of prepackaged drinking water. If it can be done, it can’t by me, and I doubt very thoroughly by anyone. But by making a simple container you can bucket wash your way next to godliness.
Cut off the top of the plastic bottle so you have a makeshift flask. Fill this up with water from the sink and slowly poor it down your back and front. Don’t go crazy, save that for the soap. Once you’re wet and suitably lathered, repeat the pouring action whilst rinsing your skin with your free hand. Indian train toilets are designed to drain water so don’t worry about flooding the floor. In short, go nuts.
Couple of useful pointers; it should take at least two flask fulls to wash your torso and three more to wash your limbs, swap hands to properly clean your opposing armpits, only use water from the sink tap if you can help it, and never, ever, EVER, put soap on the soles of your feet until the rest of your body is happily air drying. Nobody needs to experience the thrill of sliding around the inside of an Indian toilet at high speed to understand the importance of this maneuver.
Now you’re clean dry yourself with the thin cloth, get dressed and then dry the cloth by hanging it out of the open train door. India has a much more liberal approach to public health and safety and exploiting this can work to your advantage. All that’s left to do now is to get back to points one through to four and enjoy the rest of your journey.
Oh, one more quick tip. When you’re in an Indian toilet, stark bollock naked and covered in soap, lock the fucking door.
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